Noah hung from the ceiling, arms stretched above his head, wrists locked in the same magic dampening iron cuffs that bit into his raw skin.
Sometimes, he felt like he was bleeding from his wrists, and other times, he felt like it was just sweat. He knew not which was real and which was an illusion. But would it still remain an illusion if he believed it was real?
What was illusion and what was reality? Were those years he spent in pain under the illusion of the spell real, or were the few seconds in which the spell worked real instead?
Did he suffer for three seconds? Or did he suffer for three years?
He didn't care. All he cared about was that he suffered. That he was in pure agony.
His body swayed slightly with each shallow breath he took, the chains creaking in the silence.
The only thing keeping him conscious, or to be specific, the only thing keeping him alive, was the hatred that burned through his veins.
