The room crackled with the spell filling another jar. All of the others glowed, their contents resembling pulsating hearts made of radiant light, each one brimming with raw Atua. Baal turned to Nord, their hands still entwined, her thumb tracing soothing circles on his fingers.

"Can I use another spell?" Baal asked, his gaze locked onto Nord's.

She nodded, leaning in closer, her skin brushing against him, sending a delightful shiver down Baal's spine that he didn't realise how much he missed.

"It's here," Baal whispered, his hand sliding under her blouse, his touch poised on her lower back.

"Well, you know the words better than I do," Nord replied.

Baal couldn't be certain if it was the exhaustion from casting the memory spells, the haunting contents of Ursula's remembrances, or the tantalising sensation of Nord's half-dressed form beneath his fingertips that stirred his imagination.

It took him a moment to gather his thoughts and recite the incantation, his voice barely above a murmur, echoed by Nord. It created around them an intimate atmosphere that felt like sharing a secret, a prayer.

"Cast away the Spirits and Men which guard treasures and secrets but give the word for I and any token for your greed. So is decreed, for my words are carved into my being—Baal Berith!"

As the incantation left their lips, their hands didn't touch the ground as they normally would have. Instead, Baal seized Nord's lips in a kiss, their connection deepening as they stood enveloped in their own cocoon of magic.

Time seemed to stand still as they kissed.

Maybe it was just Ursula's memories. The bittersweet taste that the Mesmer knew as happiness or something else, something elusive that he couldn't quite pinpoint. As if they had found something they never lost.

It was Merlin clearing his throat that finally pulled Baal reluctantly away from Nord's lips, leaving them both with an undeniable craving for more.

Merlin stepped toward the bed where Ursula had lain just a moment before. Her body had vanished, leaving behind a heavy sheet of tokens, a shimmering mist of dust and glitter suspended in the air. He inhaled deeply, as if savouring the fumes of herbs and incense, and let the remnants of her essence touch his face.

The corners of his lips stretched into a broad, unnerving smile, exposing the gaping hole where a tooth had been lost long ago.

But Baal wasn't having it. His feet pounded on the wooden floor as he darted toward the bed, stopping only to seize Merlin's collar with a vice-like grip. "Merlin, what have you done?" The orange flames in his eyes roared, fueled by grief, horror and fury. His voice quivered, straining to hold back a scream and a punch.

Nord moved between them, her arm extending to tug at Baal's clenched hand. "Baal, let him go," she whispered, her eyes seeking his, beseeching him to halt before his wrath consumed them all.

Merlin's chuckle bubbled forth, incongruous and childish, shattering the moment's gravity. "I haven't done anything, you see. I am but a humble observer of the unfathomable. Of the extraordinary!"

"Nord, how can you ask me to be calm?" Baal's voice broke, the restraint slipping. "He's taken her!"

Merlin's eyebrows knitted together, a line of irritation brewing on his forehead. "Don't be foolish, young demon! Now, listen. I've never killed anyone in my very long life. And she's not dead; she's transcended."

"Transcended?" Baal's scoff echoed in the chamber. "Since you've appeared, all that's 'transcended' is the body count. You... you... maniac!"

"And have you noticed," Merlin's voice dropped to a murmur, "they always find a way to come back?"

Baal's jaw clenched, a growl forming in his throat. "You can't guarantee that it will happen again!"

Merlin's gaze met Baal's incendiary eyes. "Ah, my boy, you're a feast for the eyes but starved in wisdom. So hungry... What happens once might not happen ever again, but what happens twice... always comes back."

For an instant, the palpable tension loosened, caught off guard by Merlin's audacity.

"You're crazy... you completely, utterly crazy," Baal accused.

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"I might be a fool to believe, but this arcane art is not my doing," he chuckled one or twice and turned his back to the couple, "I'm going to take a nap. I'm exhausted with so much extraordinary."

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

The manor was a whirlpool of ceaseless activity. Adamastor and Perdita dashed in and out of rooms, carrying platters, stoking fires, and attending to the incessant demands of the guests.

Finnea navigated this chaos with the grace of a seasoned warrior. Her eyes scanned the corridors as she deftly wove her way through the crowd of bustling bodies. She fulfilled her duties, lending assistance where it was needed most. Yet Finnea was nobody's doll, nobody's clay to mould.

She had her own yearnings, her own hidden dimensions. And she was bound to something else, someone else—a secret existence that sooner or later would lay its claim upon her. Yet her Master had shown true compassion and let her live.

Today, however, she was still her own person. And she seized this moment of freedom like a thief in the night.

"What's all the rush about?" Perdita eyed her as she slipped into the kitchen, barely noticeable amidst the clash of pots and the sizzle of roasting meat.

"I've some errands to attend to," Finnea said, gathering a loaf of bread, a bowl of hearty soup, and a small pastry into a basket.

"You? Errands? Must be important to pull you away from all this chaos." Perdita wiped her hands on her apron, her eyes narrowing, but her tone more curious than accusatory. "Are you okay?"

"Just hungry," Finnea answered, not entirely lying. "I'll return as swiftly as I can."

"You can eat here."

"I'd rather eat outside, alone."

Perdita shrugged. "Very well. Off you go. Enjoy."

Finnea lifted the basket and made her way out, her heart lightening with each step that took her away from the manor. She meandered through the threshold before finally emerging into the biting chill of the outside world.

The air felt purer here, less stifled by human endeavours. With purposeful strides, she moved away from the grandiosity of the manor, heading straight for an isolated tower that loomed not so far but like a forgotten sentinel.

Finnea's knuckles rapped against the aged wood of the tower door. The sound echoed through the hollow interior but elicited no response. Taking a deep breath to fortify herself, she twisted the knob and stepped inside. The act felt almost sacrilegious, as though she'd violated some primordial law set down by Atua and men alike.

She closed the door gently behind her, plunging the Tower into an even deeper darkness. The luminescent jars that usually dappled the space with flickering light were unlit, their usual glow extinguished. She asked herself, where did the memories go?

She felt the weight of the Tower's silence; it pressed against her like a tangible thing. No memories of happy moments, no laughter from the jars, just emptiness.

Finnea mounted the rickety staircase, each step creaking beneath her weight. When she reached the top floor, her ears finally caught the first audible sign of life—the harsh, grating sound of a brush scraping against stone.

"Tower?" she whispered.

A startled scuffling sound came from beneath the bed. She knew it was Tower, the diminutive demon who'd been a companion of sorts, though one tethered to her through complex, arcane bonds. Tower and Finnea were made from the same being, Baal Berith.

"It's me, Finnea."

"Does Master know you're here?" Tower's voice trembled, tinged with caution.

"I brought you food."

"I have pasta."

"You can't eat only pasta, don't be silly. Come out!"

A rustling came from beneath the bed before Tower's crimson eyes peeked out. Slowly, he crawled from his hiding spot. Finnea could see his thin, grey-skinned body quiver, whether from fear or malnutrition. She wasn't sure.

"I suppose Master won't mind," Tower said, finally revealing himself in full, his tail flicking nervously behind him. "Not if it's you."

Setting the basket on a nearby table, Finnea began unpacking its contents. "I've brought some soup, bread, and a sweet pastry. A more balanced meal."

Tower climbed onto a chair, his eyes widening at the food spread before him.

"Thank you, Finnea," he mumbled, almost in disbelief, as he picked up a piece of bread, his clawed hands delicately pinching the crust.

Finnea pulled up a chair and sat beside Tower, her eyes focused on his ravenous food consumption. It was as if he were a feral creature, starved for sustenance, and her heart clenched at the sight.

"I have a plan," she finally broke the silence, "We can gain time to hide from Master that the memories are gone."

Tower gulped down his mouthful of food and looked up, his eyes alight with mischief. "I think running away with the tower is better. I've thought about that. I could just hijack this place, flee it to the polar lands, and never look back!"

Finnea shook her head, a faint smile curling her lips. "No, a real plan. But it means I'll have to ask for someone's help."

"Who?"

"The old man, Merlin."

"No way!" Tower practically hissed, his tail twitching with agitation. "Him and Master are like flesh and bone, inseparable like peanut butter and jelly. If Master finds out, I've lost the memories... I don't even want to think about what he'll do to me. Maybe cut my horns off, like they did to him! Or my tail! My sweet tail!"

"I saw them fighting today," Finnea said, her voice measured as if each word were a stone placed carefully along a path.

"About what?" Tower was clearly intrigued despite his initial protests.

"Master accused Merlin of killing the bat-lady," she explained.

Tower's eyes widened. "But why would he be mad about that? She tried to kill his wife."

"I'm as confused as you are," Finnea admitted.

"Isn't it the job of the good guy to kill the bad ones?" Tower mused as though pondering some arcane moral quandary.

"In most stories, perhaps. But our Master sees the world through different lenses."

"So why ask the old man for help if Master disagrees with him?" Tower finally asked, circling back to the heart of the matter.

"Because for my plan to work, we need magic," Finnea declared, her eyes locking onto Tower. She said with conviction, "And Merlin, like him or not, has the sort of magic we'll need."

Tower looked at her for a moment, his red eyes searching hers as if sifting for truth or deception. Then, finally, he nodded.

"Alright, let's hear this plan of yours."