A hand like a vice squeezed Eli's arm. One of the soldier's yanked him along a corridor. His feet scraped the floor, and his mind lagged behind, still trembling in fear and horror.

The soldier dragged him down a stone stairway. Torchlight flickered, and so did Eli's thoughts.

He couldn't make sense of this. It had happened too fast. Too brutally. His fear made his vision double. This couldn't be happening. He'd come here for--for praise, for a promotion. The Head Clerk couldn't be dead, bludgeoned to death a yard from him.

By the Marquis.

No. Not possible, not possible. It was a terrible dream--

The stairway turned into another corridor.

Darker.

Deeper.

The guard shoved him at someone else. Three men. The gaolers. Two bulky men, with shoulders like blacksmiths, and one skinny man with blue eyes. The skinny one was in charge. Wearing a black robe. No, not black. Stained, a stained robe, a horribly stained robe.

Eli must've fainted because the next thing he knew, his wrists were tied high above his head and a rough wooden post was scraping his face and he was naked. He whimpered at the pain burning in his side and his shoulders.

"Awake, are we?" the skinny man said, stepping into sight.

"Please," Eli whimpered. "Please, I--I'm just a clerk. I'm a junior clerk, I--"

"Shh," the man said. "Shh. I know."

"You--you know?"

"I do," the man assured him. "I've been in this job for too many years, Elishiva. Elishiva, is that right? Or do you prefer Eli?"

"E-either one."

"Then I'll call you Elishiva. I don't dislike a little formality." The skinny man coiled a leather whip as he spoke. "Now, then. What I heard, what I was told, correct me if I'm wrong, is that the Head Clerk hatched some sort of traitorous plot, trying to steal from the Marquis?"

"I--no, I'm not ..." Eli didn't know what to say. "We--we got a letter from Leotide City."

"And you acted on it without consulting your superiors?"

"No--I mean, yes. I mean, the Head Clerk is--was--was my superior."

"That is both true and tragic. So he's the one who assembled the so-called report, correct? With a very little help from you?"

"Y-yes?"

The man stepped from view, and his disappearing sent a new wave of fear through Eli.

"Still," the man's voice came, gentle and quiet, "you knew that the so-called letter was merely an attempt to steal from the Marquis."

"No! No, no. No, the documents, the contracts, they're old, they're genuine. They're forgotten, but--"

With a hiss of air, the whip struck his back. Once, then again. The pain blotted out everything. Eli screamed and writhed against his restrains. At a third lash, snot dripped from his nose and his vision darkened as he edged closer to fainting ...

A metal clang sounded. Footsteps grew fainter.

Then he was alone in a cell, dangling from his wrists, his back throbbing with agony. Surrounded by silence but for the dripping of water and the rasp of his pained breath. He prayed to the Angel. He prayed to the Dreamers. He prayed to the Marquis and even--to his shame--to the skinny man.

He just prayed until his mind slipped away.

Another metal clang woke him. Shivering, crying, feeling blood crusted on his back from the slices the whip had opened in his skin.

"Awake, are we?" the skinny man said.

Eli wanted to beg but he knew it wouldn't help.

"Now, where were we?" the man said, behind him. "The Head Clerk assembled the so-called report with a very little help from you. Correct?"

"Yes," Eli said.

"Even though you knew the documents were wrong. You know he was trying steal from the Marquis using these imaginary historical records."

"But I, I didn't know that, I—"

The whip sang again--and again--and on the third day, when the man asked the same question, Eli confessed.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"Yes! Yes, I knew. We were trying to steal from the Marquis. I knew, we knew, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please--"

"There, there," the man said, and didn't lash him again. "Isn't it a relief, telling the truth?"

Eli gasped for breath. "Y-yes."

"A lesson we all must learn." The skinny man raised a battered tin cup filled to the brim with cold water to Eli's parched lips. "There, have a sip. In the Marquis's house, honesty is always rewarded."

Eli drank greedily, then said, "Th-thank you."

"Of course, of course. You'd do the same for me. Now, then. It's convenient that you're a scribe. Writing your confession will be the easiest thing in the world."

"I'll--I'll say whatever you want."

"No, no, Elishiva! This isn't for me. Whatever you want. Do you want to write your confession? Or shall we continue."

"I want to confess! Let me confess, please. Please."

"Very good. You set your mind to what exactly you'll say, and I'll return in a moment with parchment and quill. Once that's done, we'll set you free."

The door clanged open and closed again. Eli hung in the darkness, hating himself even more than he hated the skinny man and the marquis. He'd confess. He'd say whatever they wanted. But ... but maybe if he worded the confession carefully enough, he could prove his innocence later?

He spent an hour drafting the 'confession' in his mind, but the skinny man didn't return. Not for hours. Not for a full day. Maybe not for two days. Eli didn't know, he'd lost track of time. He'd lost track of everything. What if they'd forgotten him? He'd starve to death in a dungeon, in a stinking cell, chained naked to a roughhewn post against a weeping stone wall.

Then the skinny man returned.

That time, Eli's heart positively sang at the clang of the door, and then at the appearance of the man's kindly blue eyes--and the parchment and a quill. One of the other men, the bulky ones, released Eli from his chains and he collapsed. His legs didn't work anymore. Then his arms didn't work, either. Or his hands.

The skinny man tsked at him, and asked him if he truly wanted to confess, and Eli wept and promised that he did, and begged the man for help.

Eventually, he wrote his confession in a shaky hand, copying word-for-word what the man told him. Attempted theft, rebellion, impudence, conspiracy, traitorous intent to defraud ...

"Now add your signature," the man said. "'Elishiv of Rockbridge, Junior Scribe.'"

Eli signed, his head bowed. "And you--you'll really let me go?"

"Of course." The man gathered the quill and parchment, preparing to leave the cell. "The Marquis is merciful."

"But--but when?"

"Oh, as soon as possible."

"Thanks the Angel ..."

"Perhaps only a matter of weeks. No longer than a few months. The very moment that a group of prisoners is given a chance to seek forgiveness by joining the battle against the trolls."

Eli raised his head. "What?"

"Of course. You didn't think--" The man smiled sadly. "Surely you didn't think you'd simply stroll out of here, back into your previous life? You're guilty of heinous crimes, Elishiv. That's not in question. I have a signed confession after all! But the Marquis allows even admitted traitors to seek redemption through service to--"

"Oh, screw the Marquis," Eli muttered.

The man sighed. "Oh, goodness. Now that was a mistake."

----------------------------------------

The world became hot coals and scorpion stings.

Days passed, and Eli's throat bled from screaming.

Days passed, and needles punctured.

Days passed, and then--

And then--

And then--

Then he flared.

----------------------------------------

His battered body, bowed backward with wooden nubs grinding against his kidneys. The noose around his neck pulled him tauter with every turn of the screw.

Then a thousand sparks exploded around him, filling the cell.

Flecks of light swirled and spun and drifted into strange geometries.

"What the hell?" one of the bulky men blurted.

"Ah!" the skinny man said. "You're not familiar with the phenomenon? This is the sight of a mage being born. 'Flaring' to life."

The bulky man stepped back. "He--the traitor's a mage?"

"He's a newborn. If a new mage is not guided, within a few days of Flaring, onto one of the Paths, their magic gutters. Their magic dies, and is lost to them forever."

"So these sparks ...?" the bulky man waved his hand in front of his face.

"Harmless. They're pure magic. Without intention, without direction or heft. And within three days--five at the outside--they'll fade to nothing."

"You--you've seen this before?" the bulky man said.

"Mm. Every so often. Stress is what transforms ordinary people into mages. Emotional stress, intellectual stress. And in our line of work, we provide ... exquisite physical stress. So expect to see this with some regularity."

"Huh," the bulky man said. "I guess we do give 'em a bit of stress."

"Indeed. Though I should clarify. Stress isn't the only way to Flare. States of extreme joy or inspiration or pleasure can also lead to Flaring. However, in our chosen profession ..."

"Yeah, I guess we won't see much joy or inspiration." The bulky man wiped his bloody hand on his bloody apron. "So what do we do with him now?"

"Carry on, if we wish. Nobody will guide a criminal onto the Path. And without guidance, he has no power--no future. Or we could simply dump him in a hole if you find the sparks disquieting."

"I'm not sure there's much more for me to learn on him, anyway," the bulky man said.

* * *

The hole was twice Eli's height and narrower than his outstretched arms. Not that he was stretching his arms. He curled on the filth on the floor until the thirst overcame him. Then he licked condensation from the stone walls.

Days passed, uncountable in the lightless hole. A hundred sparks faded to ash. Open wounds closed into ugly scars. His eyes couldn't adjust to the darkness, yet after a brief eternity, he noticed shadows. Shadows. Shadows, shadows, shadows--

Shadows weren't possible without light.

The thought flickered in his mind. Without light, there are no shadows.

Days passed. The final sparks died ... yet he still saw the shadows. More than shadows. Shapes. Motions. With his eyes wide, he caught a glimpse of ...

Something in the hole with him.

An animal. A wounded animal lying beside him, a dying animal caught in a trap. He shifted closer to its face. A thick black pelt, a stench of death. Its blind eyes were open wide. Labored breath trickling through its flaring nostrils.

He watched the creature, and the pity he felt surprised him. The pity he felt strengthened him. That poor creature. That poor pathetic mindless thing. Defeated and hopeless.

He had nothing to offer it. Not hope, not help. Nothing except his pity. Still, he pitied that doomed beast, that mangled body, with all his heart. He pitied its grunting huffs and its closing eyelids, and he wondered about the difference between pity and love.

The animal's eyes opened suddenly and saw a single spark, the final spark, floating a handspan from its face and Eli realized--

He was looking at himself though the spark.

He was the broken creature that he pitied and the realization froze him for a moment. That was him now? That twisted beast? He wanted to sob, he wanted to scream, he wanted to swear.

Instead, he started to laugh.