His whole body ached. The cellar smelled of mold, rust, and old blood. Every breath scraped his throat, as though the air itself had grown foul from years of suffering.
Chains rattled when he shifted, the noise too loud in the dark. His arms were thin, his wrists ringed with raw scars where the iron fetters bit deep. Blonde hair matted, stiff with grime and grease.
Once, he had been called prince. Now the guards called him heretic, worm, vermin, unfit for the blood.
He thought he had forgotten what dignity felt like. But his body remembered—every bruise a reminder that he had once been untouchable.
Aster sat still, turning a dimly glowing orb between his fingers. Above him a lone stalactite hung like a dagger; moisture beaded on its tip.
Drip.
A drop fell, slow and deliberate.
He watched another form, trembling at the edge.
Drip.
Memory came with the sound.
Earlier that night, in this same cellar, colder then. A boy twisted on the ground, his body convulsing, chains clattering like bones in a tomb. His fingers clawed hopelessly at his head, his eyes rolled back, breath ragged. Can't breathe...
It wasn't until cold, calloused fingers hit him strongly on his feet that a semblance of awareness returned to his mind. His hand loosened its grip under the iron collar—he had been the one suffocating himself—ironically the iron collar keeping him in bondage made strangling himself a bit difficult.
He opened his eyes slowly, vision blurred with tears. A small circle of moonlight glimmered above through overhead iron bars; the murky darkness and putrid stench were familiar. When his sight steadied he almost laughed at the familiarity of it all.
How could he ever forget? He had spent his life as such before dying. Now even purgatory seemed like a shallow imitation.
For a baffling moment his body felt light, though his mind lethargic. A bit hungry...what sort of underworld is this?, parched hell? A strange, almost playful buoyancy rose in him. Dangerous. His mind was teetering.
He lay there for a while, seemingly peaceful, taking in the solemn limbo of his new existence. Although his face didn't seem to know which expression it wanted to keep. Then all of a sudden, a surge of deep-seated hatred, years of betrayal, torture, and disgrace, left to fester and froth:
"ARRGGHH…. HOW DARE YOU!!! AFTER EVERYTHING I'VE BEEN THROUGH—THIS IS WHAT I GET? MY PEACE?
THERE IS NO MERCY, NO EXCUSE… I CURSE THE GODS…!
AND YOU PITIFUL IMITATIONS OF MEN, TAYLOR, ASHWIT, KYRIE, ALL OF YOU!, I WOULD HAVE YOUR HEADS AS THE DEMON I AM!!
IF I DON'T SEE YOU HERE IN HELL WITH ME, I SHALL DRAG YOU DOWN HERE MYSELF!!!"
After his rageful outpouring, there was nothing. The echoes fell flat on jagged stone. His chest heaved; it felt like his throat was ripped to shreds, a slight taste of blood on his tongue. Aster frowned, his voice sounded wrong.
Then, laughter—coming from different cells: some wheezing, some strained, most cautious. Not mockery or elation—something worse. Prisoners laughing even in damnation, because they understood.
Madness recognized madness.
Aster looked up at rocky stalactites above; a drop of water fell from time to time. He remembered falling sick after drinking it. Wait...
The laughter died away in the passageways. The realization arrived like a blow. He removed his hands from behind his head, uncrossed the fetters on his feet and sat up, tense and wary.
To his right, fettered to the wall, sat a middle-aged man. Streaks of grey filled his long unkempt hair. Unlike Aster, the old man's back could barely leave the jagged, cold wall. A tattered tunic barely covered him.
Old blood stained the stone from where his back rubbed against it, every contour of his bones could be seen. "Silly boy," he rasped. "I thought you said your brothers would come get you out?"
Looking at him, Aster could feel the bitter and sarcastic undercurrents of his words, but there was also a knowing…pity, beneath heavy exhaustion. Something he should have never noticed at this point in time.
"They're not my brothers," Aster muttered.
The old man laughed, descending into a hooting fit. Aster's eyes trembled. He remembered this man, remembered the weeks he had cried and the old man's quiet, rough comfort
A surreal feeling overwhelmed him, the stone walls seemed to press in from all sides.
The wish he had in passing before his death had actually become reality. His prepubescent voice, his supple skin, this cellar, the old man. It had been too long since he had felt this healthy, this young. Twenty years of confinement and torture, public disgrace, and harassment had its toll.
The pain of it all coursed through him with goosebumps. Memories returned, things he wished to forget. His whole body trembled again.
After asking the old man more than a few questions, which earned him more than a few weird looks, he crawled back to his side of the cell, where his chains were bound to the wall, and closed his eyes. He had gathered enough information for now. If nothing else, his general place in time.
He needed to think. Returning was one thing; changing his fate another. The situation was beyond convoluted. He could not see a safe way to act. His fingernails dug into his palms. Impulse would mean his death... again. His blood surged. He felt a banging headache. Damn malnutrition… He thought wistfully.
His racing mind was interrupted by a flash of blinding twilight behind his closed eyes. Agony ripped through Aster's skull. His spine arched, chains rattling as his body convulsed. It felt as if indifferent iron hooks had sunk into his soul and torn outward through his brain.
Something opened inside him—not a place of flesh, but of thought. An endless void bloomed behind his eyes: a horizon of shadow and silver light, sharp shards of glass drifting like constellations, pulsing and floating in mesmerizing arrays.
Words he did not recognize, but strangely understood carved into his mind like fire:
[Genesis]
[Awakening]
He woke gasping, clutching his head. sweating profusely and curled on the floor. The pain ebbed. His vision remained. Moonlight. Chains. Filth. Yet if he willed it—if he closed his eyes—he could slip back into that place. That strange inner space where the shard of light glowed faintly.
He had heard of this. Whispers in the royal court. Priests muttering of "blessings." Mages coveting "natural gifts." Rare souls born or broken into power.
If he weren't so exhausted, he might have rejoiced.
Doubt was useless; his family was already aware of—and had accepted—such things.
He would have to, as well.
His gift had awakened.
He focused his vision. A magical projection phased into existence—a sphere, floating in front of him. He reached out, expecting nothing. But his fingers curled around something smooth and cold.
A sphere of impossible light: blue crystal, marbled with silver runes. The silver marbling glimmered across its pellucid surface, veins twisting like constellations.
They reminded him of the murals painted across the castle walls, though the murals were cracked and fading, and these lines shone with a sharpness that felt… new. Or perhaps older. Far older
[Void]
The distorted language scratched at the edge of his mind. Terror, clawed up his throat. Only demons spoke within. Only heretics heard voices. Sermons he had heard a thousand times resurfaced, shaping his fear.
But he was already condemned.
"…What do you want from me?" he whispered.
[Authority] The polyphony of voices said again. Not a whisper or shout. Neither feminine nor masculine.
The orb's glow deepened. Waves of knowledge assaulted his mind— arcane mysteries, most of it nonsense to him
Without any hesitation. He gripped the chains that bound him, the orb clinked as it touched the metal. Cold spread through his fingertips into the chain at his wrist. For a heartbeat, he thought the iron might crumble. But the light died.
Not enough.
He ground his teeth. Even now, the gods mocked him.
No... He had never heard of a useless natural magic. His eyes shone with desperation and fear.
Then—
"Water…" the old man rasped.
Aster glanced at the wooden bowl. Brown sludge. Untouched for days.
A ripple tore through his soul. Not pain. Not pleasure. Something deeper.
The orb in his hand resonated.
No harm trying...
He straightened his fingers carefully concealing it.
After making sure, his hand shook as he lowered it into the bowl. The liquid hissed. The filth bled away like ink in clean water, drawn toward his hand and disappearing. He almost dropped the crystal. A wild expression appeared on both their faces.
Aster hesitated, eyes wide open. Then quickly, he made a fist—retracting his hand from the water—and carried it to his cell mate.
The old man lunged for the basin and drank greedily. Maybe it was only thirst, but the taste—the smell—was like a spring of youth.
Aster took the basin and drank with equal alacrity. The water soothed his throat and steadied his head. He drank again, noting how clean even the inside of the bowl had become. Refreshing...
A familiar ripple tore through Aster's soul again. A little bit stronger this time.
Then a shard of pure light coalesced into existence, hovering, then sank between his brows.
[Fracture]
He pressed the glass orb to the ground beneath him, stunned as the voices spoke again. If he could call it that. It was less a voice than a hovering thought—he could not recall its shape afterward.
He cast a side glance at the old man.
Nothing. Clearly, He hadn't seen a thing.
Above, the door groaned open. Boots clattered on the stairs. Yellow torchlight spilled into the cellar, flickering and harsh against his eyes.
"On your feet, heretics!" a guard barked. "Today's going to be a good one."
Boisterous snickering echoed from somewhere beyond the door.
Another guard stepped forward to undo their locks.
The lout was a centurion—Aster could tell by the design of his armor. A golden, embroidered icon of an eight-legged lion swayed on the heavy crimson of his cape, each step sweeping it across the stone.
Armor clattered.
He flinched. The sound pressed at some place in him he did not wish to test. His breath quickened. His fingers closed tighter on the orb, which now held a cloud of darkness roiling within.
The stalactite above him dripped.
Drip.
Drip.
And then the world tilted.
The cellar blurred. The torchlight flared too bright. The boots became thunder. The laughter became jeers. The chains vanished—replaced by fraying ropes.
His body aged in a single instant—broken and dressed in ceremonial disgrace. A black coat clung to his back, soaked in blood. A black scepter was bound to his hand harshly like a parody of power.
The crowd roared.
"Heretic! Vermin! Prince of demons!"
Stones flew. One struck his temple. Another cracked his ribs. His vision blurred. He saw faces he once called family. The sky wept judgment.
And just before the darkness swallowed him—
So this is the end…
Aster gasped. The cellar returned. Chains. Filth. The guard's torchlight. His body trembled—not just with fear, but with rage.
The younger guard's hand hesitated briefly as he reached for the lock. His eyes flicked to Aster's face. Aster realized he was staring. Breathing deeper.
He remembered how it ended last time. His skull cracked. His body broken. He remembered the face of the guards that fed him well prior to the execution.
He remembered groveling, tear-streaked, as he ate good food and gobbled down the lesser brew that was served him in a goblet, oblivious. Remembering their mocking laughter made his blood run hot. How they splashed water over his face every time he passed out at the stake...
Aster forced himself to rein in the chaos of emotions. This would be his fuel—not his master. His heart raced nonetheless.
The last of the chains fell away, but something else had already broken.
From somewhere above the stone walls came the muffled roar of a griffin, deep and guttural, shaking dust from the ceiling.
This time, he had a fighting chance.
He wiped his face with his sleeve. His lips curled into a grimace, too faint for the guards to notice.
Not this time.