A shiver runs through you as the stone floor presses against your legs. Will they execute you? Will they simply leave you to rot here, forgotten? The questions swirl in your mind, each one a gnawing parasite feeding on your remaining hope.

You hunch forward, burying your face in your hands, your fingers cold and stiff. The fear and frustration well up inside you, and for a moment, you feel the urge to scream, to shout at the unfairness of it all. But no sound escapes your lips. Only silence—and the thick, suffocating darkness of the cell.

Then, like a spark in the void, the Nightmare is upon you once more. It’s grip like an invisible hand closing around your mind.

The cold dampness of the cell begins to fade, replaced by an all-consuming shadow that stretches infinitely in every direction. Am I dreaming? you wonder, your sense of reality slipping away as the oppressive darkness closes in around you.

Fear grips your chest, squeezing like a vice. You open your mouth to scream, but the darkness swallows your voice. You try to move, to run, but your limbs refuse to obey. Panic surges through you, threatening to drown you in its wake. Just as you teeter on the edge of surrender, a blinding light erupts from above, tearing through the darkness and forcing you to shield your eyes.

The shadows recoil, hissing in agony as the light sears their twisted forms. The mist whips into a frenzy, shredded by the light's power. Squinting through the glare, you make out a figure descending toward you—a silhouette floating gracefully down from above. Is this a dream, a memory, or something worse?

The figure lands with a force that shakes the ground. Creatures scatter into the abyss, driven back by his presence. It’s an old man, draped in robes that shimmer faintly, holding a staff crackling with energy. His eyes scan you as if seeing past flesh and bone into the depths of your soul.

"You are not what you seem," he says, his voice both gentle and commanding. "There is power in you—ancient, untapped, waiting to be awakened. But with it comes great responsibility and greater peril."

His words stir something deep inside you, like the faint glow of embers ready to ignite. The mist around you retreats, forming a circle of clarity as reality bends to his will. You manage to find your voice. "Who are you? What is this place? Is this... a memory or the effects of a Nightmare?"

The old man’s gaze softens slightly. "I am Aeolex, protector of this realm," he answers, stepping closer with deliberate purpose. “Those beings you saw are remnants of failed creations, twisted echoes of what once was.”

“Failed creations?” you echo, struggling to comprehend. "Who am I, then? Why am I seeing these visions?"

Aeolex's gaze locks onto yours, piercing and unyielding. "You, Erazon, are the Mistwalker. A being born of magic, drawn from the elements of this realm."

“Mistwalker...” The word feels strange on your tongue, like an echo from a forgotten past. But before you can ask more, the Nightmare recedes, your vision abruptly warps, distorting as the sound of clattering metal jolts you back to the present.

Your eyes snap open, squinting against the dim light of the cell. Heavy boots stomp across the stone floor, and you see guards roughly shoving a prisoner into the cell across from yours. “Is this... the real world?” you wonder aloud, the whirlwind of confusion making it hard to anchor your thoughts.

“Get in there, you filth!” a guard spits, shoving an old man against the wall. The man crumples, groaning as he crawls toward the bars.

“I handed ye all I had!” he cries, his voice raw with desperation. “Ye can’t do this, ye can’t!”

The guards laugh coldly. One of them digs into a sack and pulls out a cabbage. "Eat up! That's your food for the day," he sneers, tossing it at the old man's head.

Groaning, you try to sit up, every muscle screaming in protest. The damp cell presses in, the stench of rot filling your nostrils. As your vision clears, a flicker of light catches your eye—an ethereal blue glow hovering beyond the iron bars. It’s faint but unmistakably there.

Blinking, you focus on the light. It wavers, growing brighter for a moment before dimming again. The guards remain oblivious, absorbed in their cruelty. The glow stirs something within you, a memory—not of specific words but of a feeling. Aeolex... his presence, the power he spoke of... The light pulses, warmth spreading through your chest, driving back the cold and fear. It’s calling to you, urging you to grasp it.

Without thinking, you lift your hand, trembling as you stretch toward the glow. It intensifies, wrapping around your fingers. The light flares, filling the cell with an eerie luminescence.

The guards cry out, stumbling back. One draws his sword, advancing on you, his face twisted in anger. But before he can move, the light erupts again, sending him flying back. He hits the wall with a sickening thud and collapses.

The remaining guards stare, weapons forgotten in their hands. You stare at your own hand, sweat beading on your brow. Did I... do that?

The light fades, leaving only a faint glow above your hand. The guards exchange terrified glances and flee, their footsteps echoing down the corridor. For a brief moment, you're left in stunned silence, the cell darkening once more.

Then, more footsteps—heavier, more deliberate. Your heart sinks. The door creaks open, and two burly guards storm in. They grab you, hauling you to your feet.

“Where are you taking me?” you croak, your voice barely above a whisper.

"You think you can use magic and get away with it?" one sneers. "We've got a special place for devils like you."

The old man cries out from his cell. “Focus on your dreams! It is darkest before dawn! Only darkness before dawn!” The phrase strikes a chord, a haunting echo in your mind, but you have no time to dwell on it.

Panic surges through you as they drag you down a narrow corridor. You think of your friends—their smiles, the kindness they showed you. The memory cuts through the terror, giving you strength.

Finally, they stop before a heavy wooden door. One guard unlocks it, and it swings open to reveal a deep, foul-smelling pit. Without a word, they shove you in. You hit the bottom with a painful thud. As the door slams shut, the darkness closes in around you once more.

For the first time since this nightmare began, a wave of true despair crashes over you. How are you supposed to escape this? The spellbook, still clutched in your hand, seems useless now. What good is magic if it can’t free you from this pit?

In the thick of your anguish, you feel it again—the warmth, the light, a faint pulse of power from within the spellbook. It’s weak, barely noticeable, but it’s there. And it calls to you.

You take a deep, shuddering breath, fighting back tears. You can’t give up—not yet. You have to believe that there’s a way out of this.

Slowly, painfully, you focus on the only thing you have left. The pages of the spellbook are damp and empty, but you sense the words hidden beneath the surface. You cling to the light, the tiny spark of hope that flickers in the darkness. Magic doesn’t respond to brute strength or desperation. It demands something deeper.

Closing your eyes, you allow the shadows to close in, focusing on the faint warmth within the book. You need an escape, a way out of this pit, to survive. More than that, you need to harmonize with the magic—to connect with it.

Time stretches out as you meditate on your desire to escape. You imagine yourself as a mist, a smoke cloud, something that could slip through the cracks. Then, as if in response, you feel it—a word, glowing faintly on the page. It’s different this time, more potent.

You whisper the word, your voice trembling with hope.

The spell resonates within you, filling your body with a strange, tingling sensation. You feel yourself beginning to change, to dissolve into something... But it isn’t enough. The magic falters, draining away. You panic, trying to grasp it, to force it to work. But it slips through your fingers like smoke.

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And then it’s gone.

You gasp, failure closing in around you. You were so close. Despair threatens to overwhelm you again, but you refuse to give in. You slump against the cold stone, the silence pressing down on you. Your body aches, not just from the fall, but from the weight of hopelessness clawing at your mind.

The night passes without rest. Every attempt at sleep is broken by the constant drip of water onto your head. You shiver in the damp cold, feeling the sting of failure gnawing at your heart. Somewhere in the darkness, a tiny ember of resolve remains.

With trembling hands, you open the spellbook again, tracing your fingers over the rough parchment. The memory of that word lingers, teasing you with the power that had slipped away. "Please," you whisper, your voice barely more than a rasp. "I need your help."

For a long moment, there is nothing but silence. Then, faintly, the warmth returns—a pulse of energy, responding to your plea. It’s weak, but it’s there. And that’s enough. Hours blur into uncertainty. The warmth within you grows, the pulse of energy more insistent. It’s as if the magic is reaching out, trying to ignite something within you. Exhaustion overtakes your senses, and you slump to the ground, clutching the book to your chest. The Nightmare slithers it’s way into your cell again, determined to see this through. The feeling of exhaustion presses in, and you can’t fight it any longer. You let your eyes close, falling into a fitful sleep.

At first distant voice echoes in the darkness, pulling you into a trance—a memory resurfacing that feels almost like a dream. "Focus, young one. You’ve much to learn," it says, growing clearer as the darkness recedes. "Being the Mistwalker means you have the power to navigate the mist, to harness the elements that flow through it."

The void around you fades, replaced by the familiar sight of a forest clearing. Aeolex stands before you, his eyes narrowed, face stern. The ground shifts beneath his feet, and a bundle of logs appears at the center. He waves his hand, and the pile bursts into flames that flicker with hues of blue, green, and gold. Their light dances across the clearing, casting a glow that reaches deep into your soul.

“Sit, Mistwalker,” Aeolex commands, and a chair materializes beside the fire.

You move forward, the warmth of the flames washing over you. It’s as if they’re reaching out, steadying the energy inside you. You take a seat, feeling the heat seep into your bones, chasing away the cold despair from the pit.

Aeolex watches you closely, his expression softening as you settle. “First, you must understand what you are.”

“What am I? What is my purpose?” you ask, your voice small in the face of his presence.

Leaning forward, his gaze pierces through you. “You are a wizard in a world of few. Your purpose is to maintain balance. But before you can begin your task, you must make a choice—one that will shape your path ahead.”

His words resonate deep within you, filling the hollow spaces left by your fear and doubt. “Tell me,” he continues, “do you have any memories?”

You hesitate, staring into the flames that swirl with strange colors. "No... the last thing I remember is... falling," you murmur.

He nods, as if expecting your answer. “As it should be. Your essence is strong enough to send forth, but you must be ignited once more.”

Without another word, he rises, stepping to the edge of the fire, reaching into its heart. From the glowing center, he draws forth a piece of coal, radiant with energy. He approaches, extending it toward you.

“Take it,” he instructs, his voice calm yet commanding.

You stand, reaching out with trembling hands. The golden ember floats from his grasp, hovering just above your palms. With a deep breath, you close your fingers around it, feeling a surge of warmth flood through your body. Power and invigoration fill you, weaving through your veins as if mending something broken within.

As the ember melts into your skin, you feel a faint pulse in your chest, a rhythm that syncs with your heartbeat. You look at Aeolex, who watches you with satisfaction.

“You are reforged, Mistwalker,” he says. “This spark is only the beginning. There are greater challenges ahead.”

Gesturing once more, Aeolex raises his hand, and three objects begin to materialize in the air above the shifting flames. They emerge slowly, almost deliberately, solidifying into distinct shapes that hover before you.

The first is a massive spellbook, its cover bound in dragonhide, rough and ancient. The pages appear thick and well-worn, exuding a sense of forbidden knowledge. Arcane runes shimmer and dance across its surface, casting a glow that pulses in time with the flames below, whispering secrets that tickle the edges of your consciousness. It thrums with an energy that feels both familiar and alien, as if it recognizes you.

The second shape coalesces into a sword. Its blade is sleek, intricately etched with symbols of rebirth and new beginnings that catch the firelight. The hilt is wrapped in demon hide, bearing the marks of countless battles—scratches, nicks, and the fading impressions of a grip that has seen both victory and defeat. A faint red aura shimmers around the blade's edge, almost daring you to reach out and claim its power.

The third object is a cloak, woven from the very fabric of the night sky. Stars and shadows seem to swirl and dance across its surface, an ever-shifting tapestry that flows and ripples as if moved by an invisible wind. It radiates an aura of stealth and mystery, promising secrets hidden in darkness, paths obscured from prying eyes.

“Each holds immense power, but also a new possibility,” Aeolex intones, his voice heavy with ancient wisdom. “Choose wisely.”

You hesitate, your gaze drifting from one artifact to another. Each calls to a different part of you—the sword to your yearning for strength, the cloak to your desire for stealth and hidden paths. But it’s the spellbook that holds your attention, its runes glowing faintly as if acknowledging you, as if it’s already chosen you. There is something intoxicating about it, something that feels... right. It promises knowledge, power not given but earned through understanding and mastery.

Your hand twitches toward the sword, drawn by its raw, unbridled energy, but stops short. You glance at the cloak, its ethereal beauty tugging at your curiosity, yet the pull is not as strong. You take a breath, centering your thoughts. The spellbook's glow intensifies, its magic brushing against your senses, and in that moment, you know. It is not a mere tool—it is an extension of who you could become.

“The spellbook,” you declare, your voice steady, a spark of certainty igniting within you.

Aeolex nods, a knowing smile spreading across his face. "A wise choice." With a tap of his staff, the sword and cloak fade back into the mist, leaving only the spellbook hovering before you, its runes flickering in silent approval.

As your hand reaches for the spellbook, you feel a pulse of recognition. The runes resonate with the magic inside you, etching themselves into your skin as faint, intricate lines. Aeolex watches closely, his expression unreadable. "This is not just a tool," he says, his voice taking on a grave tone. "It is a key to your past—and to your future."

His eyes gleam with approval as he raises his staff. “Go forth, Erazon, you must help me. You are going to the city of strife. Some say... the city of murder. This is where you are needed.”

The Nightmare withdraws it’s outstretched claw from your skull. It hovers for a moment and returns to the old man’s cell. “Well done my faithful servant.” He whispers aloud. The old man fades into the mist surrounding him and returns to guard the realm of the mistwalker once more.

You jolt awake, gasping for breath. The darkness of the pit surrounds you, but you feel different. The cold stone beneath you, the damp air, even the endless drip of water—all seem less oppressive now. A memory of warmth lingers in your chest, an ember still glowing within you.

The vision had been more than a dream—it was a reminder. Aeolex's words echo in your mind: "You are reforged, Mistwalker." You clutch the gift to your chest, feeling its pulse of energy resonate with your own heartbeat. This is no ordinary book. The realization steadies you, filling you with a renewed determination. This time, you won’t fail.

With no hesitation, you open the spellbook. The warmth pulses in rhythm with your resolve as you close your eyes, focusing on the word now etched into your soul. Whispering it softly, you pour your will into it, your hope, your very essence.

The magic answers.

A tingling sensation spreads through your body, starting at your fingertips and working its way up your arms, across your chest, and down to your legs. It’s as if your very essence is unraveling, transforming into something lighter, less bound by the natural world.

With a final exhale, you surrender to the magic. Your body dissolves into a swirling cloud of black haze. The darkness of the pit is no longer a prison but an ally, something to blend into, to become one with.

You hover there, suspended in disbelief. You’ve done it. You are free. But there is no time to savor this victory. You must escape before the magic fades or the guards return. Focusing your will, you drift through the cracks in the stone walls like a whisper on the wind.

You float upward, passing through the gaps in the iron bars that had imprisoned you. The air is still, the darkness thick, but fear no longer grips you. You are in control now. Or at least, you hope you are.

As you drift through the corridor, exhilaration swells within you. The pain and hopelessness feel like a distant nightmare. You are free, and the possibilities stretch before you like an endless horizon.

But the feeling is short-lived.

You notice something... wrong. Your form is fading at the edges, the mist beginning to unravel. The strain of maintaining the spell becomes palpable, and a sinking realization hits you: you can’t hold it for much longer.

Panic claws at you as your strength wanes. Where can you go? Just as despair threatens to take hold once more, a memory flashes—a tall tower silhouetted against the night sky, its presence comforting, right.

The Sorcerer’s Guild. You don’t know how you know, but you do. If anyone can help you, it will be the sorcerer within that tower.

With the last of your strength, you will yourself toward the city. Your misty form evaporates and wavers as you slip through Carlin’s narrow streets. The cold night air bites into your essence, draining what little energy you have left. But you push on, driven by the memory of Aeolex's words. You are reforged.

After what feels like an eternity, you see it—the tower, dark against the sky, emanating a beacon of power that urges you onward. You move faster, the pull of the magic guiding you.

Finally, you reach the base of the tower. You float through the open door, feeling the magic slip away. Your form collapses, dissolving into a wisp of smoke.

Terror surges through you as you realize you’re fading. No... not now!

Then, a figure appears—a woman, her eyes glowing with power. “Who dares enter my study?” she demands, her voice cold and sharp.

You try to speak, but you have no voice, no form. Just a shadow, a memory of what you were.

The woman’s eyes narrow, her expression shifting to intrigue. “So,” she murmurs, “you’ve come seeking aid, have you? Very well. Let’s see if there’s anything left of you to save.”