Garrett watched his hands, fingers loosely intertwined. He turned them slightly, shifting the light on his silver rings, but they remained dull in the dim cell. There was nothing else to look at in this place, nothing to occupy the time. The packed earth and the stone surrounding him were an oppressive force as he willed his magic to rise to the surface of his skin.

He imagined flickers of green washing across his skin, but nothing made a difference. Nothing he had done over the months of being locked in here made a difference. His magic had now been suppressed for long enough that he was starting to feel it. Normal. Weak. Powerless. If anything would finally put him over the edge and drive him truly insane, that would be it.

His eyes didn't leave his hands, but his attention shifted, and he was no longer really looking. He tilted his head, just slightly toward the sound of approaching footsteps. This entire place — this godforsaken pit — was silent enough that he could hear someone coming long before they arrived.

He could walk to the bars, waiting for whoever it was, but that wasn't his style. Instead, he didn't move an inch. He watched his hands. He listened. He knew it wasn't the guards coming, as he had long since memorized their gaits. He was fairly certain it wasn't Luka either. The footsteps were too heavy, too slow. Luka walked with a sense of urgency, even when he was reluctant to arrive at his destination.

The footsteps finally stopped in front of his cell, and after a moment of silence, the man cleared his throat. Garrett felt an old echo of dread, somehow still too loud. It was ice in his veins and pain in his gut, even though he wasn't afraid. Not anymore. Not ever again. It shouldn't even have been possible to know someone by the way they cleared their throat. Especially someone he had never really known.

He still didn't look up, and the man finally lost his patience.

"Garrett." He seemed to struggle with the name, like he couldn't quite connect it to the man in the cell

Garrett finally looked up, facing his father. The flickering candlelight caught his face in dark shadows, highlighting the sharp angles of his cheekbones.

"Warren." He paused, cocking his head. "Or do you prefer Headmaster?"

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

"I thought I should come see you," he said, ignoring what he no doubt thought was Garrett's insolence.

"What for?" Garrett rose from his cot and sauntered towards the bars. He expected nothing more than disappointment, but he couldn't quite quell his curiosity.

What could his father possibly have to say to him?

Warren sighed. "Everything you have done with your life has been a disgrace to your family and to the community. You have one chance left to do something good with it."

"Of course," Garret said. "That makes more sense." More sense than lingering regret or even affection; of course he might have expected degradation. But this made even more sense.

Warren looked like he was going to say more but paused, so Garrett finished for him. "You want names."

"Yes."

Garrett pushed his arms in between the bars, leaning forward. "You really thought I would tell you?" He shook his head, answering his own question. "No."

"You really are determined to be a disappointment until the end, then." Warren said. "I have been watching you, and despite everything you have done, I have seen your potential. You could have been great."

"I already am," Garrett growled. "That's what you never understood. Just as you don't understand that you are not responsible for my success or failure. You are nothing." He stepped back, gripping the bars in his hands. "You can go now. You're not going to get what you came for."

Warren regarded him for a moment, but whatever he was looking for no longer existed in Garrett. Whether it was remorse or some sense of loyalty to his family. His eyes narrowed. "I supported the decision to have you executed by means of Blood Mage," he said, "but know that if I could be allowed to do it myself, I would."

Garrett's smile spread slowly into a cold, emotionless mask before he turned away from his father.

"They say it's a mercy," Warren said. Garrett had intended to ignore him, to lay back on his cot and pretend he wasn't there, until it became true. Instead, he stopped and waited for him to finish. "It isn't. It looks swift and painless, because you will be paralyzed. The audience will think you're dead long before you draw your last breath. You can't move. You can't scream. You have to endure an unimaginable pain that won't end until your heart gives out." He paused, no doubt for effect. "I genuinely hope you have a strong heart, son."

He listened to the footsteps as his father finally retreated.

Garrett imagined all the things he could have shouted at him, all the words that could tear him apart, but that wasn't how he wanted to ruin him. He wanted to do it with his bare hands.

He looked down at his trembling fingers and curled them into fists. He wasn't supposed to let his father get to him. He wasn't supposed to let anything get to him. Especially not now, hours away from death, when nothing could possibly matter anymore.

He remained like that, thinking about the ways he would kill his father, until another set of footsteps sounded. Guards this time, here to bring him to his execution.