Michail flinched as the heavy oak door slammed shut behind him. Joram stalked past, cutting a menacing silhouette in the dimly lit library that had once belonged to Magister Cornelius. Joram's presence tainted the air with a foul energy, disrupting the sanctity of the room that had provided so much solace to Michail.
“Welcome to my new study, dear boy.” His words dripped with false sweetness, sending a shiver down Michail's spine. “Sorry about the mess – the room needs some… refurnishing. I’m sure you are eager to help me with that.”
Michail's eyes darted around the room, taking in the towering bookshelves laden with ancient tomes, on which the firelight was casting flickering shadows. Oh, how he had missed this haven of knowledge, the scent of old parchment and leather-bound books, the countless studying hours under Magister Cornelius’ guidance. His fingers itched to reach out, to feel the rough texture of the vellum and hear the soft rustle of history beneath his touch. But he knew better than to annoy Joram with such display of sentimentality; his body still ached from the abuse he had endured last night at Joram’s hands.
Michail swallowed his longing and forced himself to respond politely. “What would you have me do, Magister Joram?” he asked, trying to avoid Joram’s insatiable gaze.
Joram’s sudden movement caught Michail's eye, and he instinctively recoiled, his muscles tensing in anticipation of pain – the pain that was etched into his body to be remembered, despite his mind trying to forget. But this time, his new magister was just gesturing towards the fireplace.
“I have a task for you,” Joram purred, his voice low and dangerous. “Those rotting books need to go. Burn them. All of them.”
Michail's eyes widened in horror as realization dawned on him. Magister Cornelius' precious books, the repository of generations of wisdom...reduced to ashes. His stomach churned at the thought. “Burn the books, Joram? But... they're... they're irreplaceable!”
“Irreplaceable, you say? Like your innocence?” Joram laughed coarsely at him. “Cornelius was weak, always holding you back from your full potential. It's time to let go of the past, and to become what you were meant to be.”
“Please, don't do this,” Michail gasped, his voice breaking. “These books are all I have left of him...”
Joram's hand darted forward, gripping Michail's chin with bruising force. “No, little lordling – I am all you have now,” he hissed, his breath hot against Michail's face. “You will do as I say. Or do you need another lesson in obedience?”
The aching memories of the previous night’s “lessons” flooded Michail's mind - the crack of the whip, the searing pain, the humiliating acts. Swallowing hard, he bowed his head in submission. “No, Magister Joram. I will obey.”
With trembling hands, he reached for the first book, its leather cover soft and supple beneath his fingers. He hesitated for a moment, breathing in the scent of aged parchment, before tossing it into the hungry flames.
As the pages curled and blackened, Michail felt a part of himself wither and die. Silent tears streamed down his face, each one a farewell to the man who had been like a father to him.
He felt Joram’s possessive hand running through his curls. “Good boy,” Joram crooned. “You're learning your place.” Michail shuddered at the touch, hating himself for the flicker of twisted pleasure that stirred in his loins. Self-loathing and despair entwined like serpents in Michail’s heart as he mechanically fed book after book to the fire. The crackle of the flames echoed in the hollows of Michail's soul.
A sudden pounding at the door shattered the oppressive silence. Michail startled violently, books tumbling from his hands. Joram cursed under his breath, striding to the door and wrenching it open.
“What?” he snapped.
A battered guard stumbled across the threshold, his breaths ragged. Blood caked his torn uniform and the left arm hung limp at his side. Michail's heart seized at the raw terror in the man's eyes.
“Magister Joram,” the guard gasped out. “Terrible news... an attack on the mountain road, not far from the King’s Pass. Must have been the Black Rogues. The arrows came out of nowhere, like demons in the night. The Mistress's carriage...”
“Spit it out, man!” Joram snarled impatiently.
“It went over the edge, plummeted into the ravine.” the guard choked. “They killed the others - I barely escaped.”
Icy claws gripped Michail's chest, a sickening sense of foreboding coiling in his gut. “Mother,” he whispered, the word scraping his throat raw.
Joram rounded on the guard. “And the Mistress?”
The guard shook his head helplessly. “I... I couldn't see, Magister. It happened so fast. One moment the carriage was there, the next...” He swallowed hard. “It was a long way down those cliffs.”
Joram's eyes narrowed to slits, his voice a menacing hiss. “Her body, you fool. Did you find her body?”
“N-no, my lord,” the guard stammered. “The attackers, they were too many. I had to flee, to bring word—”
Joram turned on the cowering guard, his eyes flashing with cold fury. “You mean to tell me,” he said, each word dripping with venom, “that you did not even attempt to retrieve the Mistress's body? That you fled like a craven dog, leaving her to the mercy of those brigands?”
The guard trembled, his face ashen. “Magister, please... I had no choice. They would have killed me!”
“You abandoned your duty to save your own miserable hide?” Joram's lip curled in disgust. “You are a disgrace, unfit to serve the Varga family!” He advanced on the guard, his wiry frame coiled with menace. The guard stumbled backwards and raised his right hand in supplication. “Mercy, Magister! I beg you!”
Joram's hand shot out, seizing the guard by the throat. The man choked, scrabbling at Joram's fingers. Michail watched numbly, his grief too vast to leave room for pity.
“Mercy?” Joram hissed. “You dare ask for mercy, you sniveling coward?” His grip tightened, the guard's face turning purple. “I ought to snap your worthless neck.”
For a moment, Michail thought Joram would do it. Contrary to Magister Cornelius’ teachings about compassion and temperance, he caught himself hoping to see the guard's suffering, to watch him pay for his failure. But finally, Joram released him with a disgusted shove, sending him sprawling to the floor.
“Get out of my sight,” Joram spat. “Before I change my mind.”
The guard scrambled to his feet, wheezing. He bobbed a terrified bow and hurried away, the door slamming shut behind him.
Joram stood rigid, his back to Michail. The silence stretched, broken only by the crackling of the fire and Michail's ragged breaths.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“She can't be dead,” Michail whispered, his voice cracking. “She can't be.”
He couldn’t maintain his composure anymore. He sank to his knees, the weight of his anguish bearing him down. Tears blurred his vision, slipping hot and bitter over his cheeks. He wanted to scream, to rage, to tear the world apart with his bare hands. But all that emerged was a broken whisper.
“Let me go search for her,” he pleaded, his voice raw with desperation. “Please, Joram. I have to find her. I have to bring her home.”
Joram turned slowly, his eyes glittering menacingly in the firelight. A cruel smile that had played at the edges of his lips was gone. Instead, his face was contorted with anger. He crossed the room with deliberate steps, until he loomed over Michail's hunched form.
“And how would you do it?” Joram asked with a frighteningly silent voice. “Stumble through the mountains, weeping and wailing? You're weak, incompetent, and utterly incapable of doing anything that might bring your dear mother back. Admit it.”
Michail flinched as if struck, the truth of Joram's words lancing through him. He thought of all the times he'd failed, all the moments of cowardice and despair. Shame curdled in his gut, mingling with the acrid taste of grief.
“Yes, Magister,” Michail sobbed, his voice a mere ghost of itself. “I am... incapable.” The words burned his tongue, tasting of betrayal and ash.
“Make no mistake though: I will retrieve your mother's body for you,” Joram uttered, each word laced with venomous determination. “Not to be mourned upon, but to demonstrate the finality of your position. To make you understand that you belong to me now.”
Michail gasped, his heart twisting in his chest. Was there any limit to how low Joram would stoop? To use the death of his mother as a weapon, to drive home a point? Forcing down the bile that rose in his throat, he met the cold gaze of his tormentor.
“Please, take me with you then,” he tried once more. “She is my mother. I can't just abandon her. Not like this. I will do anything. Just let me help you to find her.”
But Joram merely laughed, the sound cold and jagged as a shard of ice. “You will do anything regardless. That's the beauty of it.” He stepped back, his gaze hardening. “Now get up. I have a search party to organize.”
Slowly, painfully, Michail pushed himself to his feet, swaying like a man waking from a nightmare.
“What would you have me do, Magister?” he asked, his voice flat and lifeless.
“While I am gone, carry out the task I gave to you. Do not leave this room until you have disposed of every last book.” Joram gave Michail a cruel glance, his eyes gleaming with malicious satisfaction. “Once you have completed the task, go to your new home and stay there until I return for you.”
Joram turned on his heel and stomped out of the room, slamming the door shut. Unable to move, Michail's heart raced as he listened to the footsteps fade away. It took a moment for the implications of what Joram had said to sink in. The mention of his “new home” gave him the shivers, as he was painfully aware of what Joram had meant by that.
He turned back to the fire, his gaze drawn inexorably to the leaping flames. The heat scorched his face, but he couldn't look away. The flickering flames seemed to be prisoned in the fireplace the same way that he was prisoned in his life. For a moment he considered giving the flames their freedom – and letting them return the favor.
But he didn’t do it, and he wasn’t quite sure why. Maybe he was holding out a faint hope for his mother’s survival. Maybe he respected Alinande too much to throw away her gift of life, even though the goddess had turned her back on him. Or maybe he was just too afraid of death. Joram was right: he was weak, incapable, worthless. He wasn’t man enough to even take his own life.
Joram's orders echoed in his mind, cold and implacable. With a shuddering breath, he forced himself to reach for another book to be fed to the flames.
“I wouldn’t burn that one if I were you.”
The soft yet insistent voice caused Michail nearly to drop the book. Whirling around, he found himself face-to-face with a woman wrapped in a dark red shawl. Although he immediately recognized her golden hair, he couldn’t help but wonder if she was just an illusion painted by the dancing flames.
“Olivia?” he whispered. “From… the crypt?”
Olivia nodded and gave Michail a shy smile, seemingly happy that he remembered her.
“But... what are you doing here?” Michail stammered. “How did you get in here?”
“I made a promise to your uncle,” she replied solemnly, her pale gray eyes searching his face. “I swore to protect you, Michail - even from the flames of your own making.”
Michail shook his head, glancing frantically at the door. “You have to leave. Now. Before he comes back.”
But Olivia didn't move. She fixed her gaze on the book in Michail’s hands, her expression fierce. “That book is irreplaceable, Michail. You must not destroy it.”
“I know it is invaluable,” Michail answered in distress. “They all are. But I have no choice.”
“I meant that the particular book you are holding right now is special,” Olivia explained patiently. “It is the only one protected with a powerful spell.”
“A spell? So, now you can detect magic, in addition to speaking to the dead?”
“No, I can’t detect magic in itself, but I can sense souls,” Olivia corrected. “That’s how I am able to sense the most powerful enchantments – the ones with a fraction of their caster’s soul bound to them.”
For a moment, Michail just stared at her, trying to digest what she had just said. But the fear clouded his thoughts and prevented him from understanding the full significance of it. The risk was too great. If Joram found her here, discovered his disobedience...
“Please, Olivia,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I'm begging you. Go, before it's too late.”
She hesitated, conflict playing across her peculiar features. Then, with a sigh of resignation, she turned to leave.
At the doorway, she paused, looking back at him over her shoulder. “Remember what I said, Michail. That book may hold secrets that could change everything. Don't let it be lost to the flames.”
With that, she slipped away as silently as she’d appeared.
Michail stood frozen, the book heavy in his hands. His mind raced, questions and doubts swirling like leaves in a storm. Could Olivia be right? Had this book really been enchanted with a soul sigil? By Magister Cornelius, perhaps? And if so, what secrets could these pages possibly hold?
His trembling fingers traced the worn leather cover as he gently attempted to open the book. To his surprise, and slight disappointment, it opened effortlessly, like any normal book would. Maybe it wasn’t enchanted after all. He thumbed through the pages, looking for any signs of enchantment or magical script. However, he soon noticed that there wasn’t any trace of magical script, or any script at all, for that matter. Indeed, there was no text whatsoever.
Michail stared at the blank pages, his mind whirling with confusion. He wondered if he had been the victim of some elaborate prank. Could this be the work of Joram, meant to play on his hopes and fears?
But then Michail remembered something from what felt like the distant past: Magister Cornelius’ lesson about protection spells. He had said something significant about invisibility… what was it?
He tried hard to recall the details of the lesson. “Invisibility?” he whispered to himself. “Yes, that’s it!” Magister Cornelius had said that invisibility was just an illusion. And with a soul sigil, it was possible to create even selective illusions.
“The sigil of Alinande’s tear,” Michail murmured. “For your eyes only.”
He suddenly felt a jolt of excitement. He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye with his finger and then pressed it against the first page of the book. As he watched, the pristine white page began to glow with a faint blue light, and slowly, words began to emerge.
“My dearest Michail. This is my personal journal, for your eyes only – protected against unwanted readers by the sigil of Alinande’s tear, which I have told you about. If you are reading this, I am probably dead.”
Michail's heart skipped a beat as he recognized the familiar handwriting of Magister Cornelius. But any joy he might have felt at this recognition was overshadowed by a sense of anxiety upon reading the unsettling words on the page before him – as if the news of his mother's fate wasn't enough to bear, now he had to carry the weight of yet another loss. With a heavy heart, he closed the book and took a moment to compose himself.
Despite his confused state of mind, Michail realized that Olivia’s words were true. The fact that Magister Cornelius had shielded the journal with such a powerful enchantment meant that it held information of great significance. Burning it could destroy any chance of understanding what was behind these horrible events unfolding around him.
But to defy Joram's orders... The mere thought filled him with dread. He could still feel the bruises from last night's punishment, the ache of his battered body.
And yet...
Olivia's words echoed in his mind, a siren's call he couldn't resist. The journal seemed to pulse with an energy of its own, drawing him in.
Almost without realizing it, Michail slipped the book beneath his shirt, the weight of it like an anchor against his skin. He would keep it hidden, for now. Until he could find a way to read it, to unravel its mysteries.
And may the gods help him if Joram ever found out.
With a shaky breath, Michail forced himself to turn back to the hearth. He started to feed the rest of the books to the hungry flames, letting the smoke cloud his eyes to avoid seeing the tomes of invaluable knowledge blacken and curl.
But even as the fire consumed them, he felt a flicker of something new kindling inside him. A spark of rebellion, of defiance.
Of hope.