Chapter 6: Shadows From Within
The small victory over the Drakonid left a deep imprint, like an expensive perfume mixed with the smell of sweat. There was satisfaction, of course, a kind of childish glee at having tricked a beast with a magic trick. The Master called it the "test of blood and shadow" in his flat tone, but I could detect a hint of satisfaction behind his words. He was like a swordsmith seeing his apprentice hold a sword for the first time without cutting himself. Heartwarming.
But as usual, victory came with a hidden bill. And that bill's name was Max.
For the three days following the incident, Max changed. Not into the confident hero one with a naive mind might expect. Oh, no. His change was more... irksome. His constant fear, that weary greyish-blue, began to be infected with threads of golden yellow—confidence, yes—but that yellow quickly turned pale, almost white, a kind of euphoria, an inappropriate giddiness. He had touched his power, and like a village boy tasting city wine for the first time, he became intoxicated.
"Did you see its expression?" he whispered one morning as we gathered edible moss near the sanctuary (the Master watched from a distance, silent as a statue). "When your Felswurm hissed? Its eyes bulged! It totally believed!"
"Not my Felswurm," I corrected, tearing moss from a rock with a rough motion. "It was an illusion. And the Drakonid didn't 'believe'; it chose the seemingly lesser threat. That's instinct, not belief."
But Max wasn't listening. He kept mumbling, replaying the moment, retelling it with increasingly ludicrous dramatizations. In his latest version, he had almost "tamed" the beast with the power of his anger. I closed my eyes for a moment, suppressing the urge to explain the fundamental difference between driving away and taming. Let it be. Reality would do it for me, sooner or later.
The Master, of course, noticed. And like a gardener seeing a sprout grow too fast, he decided to prune.
On the third night, after a silent dinner, the Master did not give us the usual theory lesson. Instead, he pointed to the dark passage to the left of the main chamber. It was the passage he had always forbidden us to enter.
"Today, we will visit the Library," he said, his voice flat.
Max immediately beamed. "A library? Here? Are there magic books?"
"There are records," corrected the Master. "And memories. And dangers. Follow me, and do not touch anything."
The passage was narrow, descending, and colder. The greenish light globes that followed the Master illuminated the slick stone walls. I activated my Vars Eyes, and the world shifted. The walls were not plain. They were covered in fading energy traces, like lightning fossils trapped in stone. Some were deep red, remnants of ancient protective rituals. Others were a murky bluish-purple, pulsing weakly with a faint sensation of a headache. This place was steeped in history, and most of it was unpleasant.
We entered a smaller, circular room. Around it, niches in the walls were filled not with books, but with brittle papyrus scrolls, engraved stone tablets, and most strangely—cloudy quartz crystals with slowly pulsing cores of light. In the center of the room, there was a short stone pillar with a depression on top, like an altar bowl.
"This is the Hermit's Archive," said the Master. "Not a library for reading, but for experiencing. Here, knowledge is not written in ink, but carved in residual energy patterns, stored in memory crystals."
Max approached one of the crystals, his face full of awe. "How does it work?"
"Touch with the intent to learn, and it will give you an impression—images, emotions, fragments of knowledge. But a warning: an unprotected mind can drown. Or become contaminated." The Master looked at me. "For you, Apprentice, this is an advanced lesson in illusion. The best illusions do not create what is not there, but manipulate existing memories and expectations. Here, you will learn to sense those patterns."
He then turned to Max. "And for you, Empath, this is a test of control. Every object here radiates a 'feeling'. You must learn to touch without being swept away, to feel without drowning. Start with this one." He took a small, milky-blue crystal from a niche and placed it in Max's palm. "This is merely a weather record. Feel its essence, but do not let the images overwhelm you."
Max closed his eyes, concentrating. The aura around him vibrated, shifting from white-yellow euphoria to blue concentration. Then, he smiled. "I... I see the sky. Purple clouds. And there's a smell... like rain, but metallic."
"Good. Now pull back," ordered the Master.
Max nodded, opening his eyes. He looked a bit dizzy, but excited. "That was amazing!"
The Master offered no comment. He turned his attention to me. "Now you. Choose an object. Use your Vars Eyes to see its energy pattern, then try to 'read' its surface without actually touching it with your mind. Like feeling the heat from a fire without burning yourself."
I looked around the room. My eyes were drawn to a black stone tablet in the highest niche. It radiated a dark orange color, like embers almost gone cold. I focused on it, extending my perceptual energy, trying to sense the shape of its information. At first, there was only an impression of heat and dryness. Then, like a radio slowly tuning to a frequency, vague images appeared—a desert, a cruel sun, the shadow of a tall tower... and thirst, a torturous thirst.
Then, suddenly, a voice—not in my ears, but directly in my mind as if hissing: "...water...they hide the water...in an illusion of the sky..."
I pulled back, severing the contact. My head throbbed.
"You heard something?" asked the Master, observing.
"A directive about illusion," I answered shortly. "About hiding an oasis in the desert."
The Master nodded. "That tablet belonged to an escapee from the Eastern Fire Desert. He used illusions to create false springs, luring his enemies to death by dehydration. Useful knowledge, albeit somewhat... direct."
We practiced like that for maybe an hour. I explored a few other objects—a silver ring that held the fear of betrayal, a feather that carried the sensation of free flight. Max, growing more confident, tried a larger crystal, projecting its fragmented images into the air with the enthusiasm of a village storyteller.
"Look! A feast! They're dancing with light in their hands!" he exclaimed, pointing to vague silhouettes of figures moving around us.
But then, he made a mistake. He spotted an object in the darkest corner of the room. A small, simply carved, unadorned wooden box. It radiated nothing—to my Vars Eyes, it looked empty, like a hole in the fabric of reality. But for Max, with his sharp feelings, it probably felt like a silence that called.
"What's that?" he asked, walking closer.
"Do not!" commanded the Master, his voice sharp and firm for the first time.
But it was too late. Max had already reached out and touched the box's lid.
The world stopped.
Or rather, sound stopped. The green light globes went out instantly. But it wasn't darkness that enveloped us—instead, the room was lit by a dull, flat grey light, like the light under an endless overcast sky. And it was cold. A cold that didn't attack the skin, but went straight to the soul.
I looked around. The Master was still standing in his place, but his expression was rigid, alert. Max was frozen, his hand still on the box, his eyes wide with terror.
Then, shadows began to creep from the walls.
They were not solid creatures. They were like thick smoke that shaped itself, taking human forms—or the remnants of humans. No facial details, just blurred silhouettes. And they did not radiate auras in the normal sense. Instead, they were like emotional vacuums, sucking all color and warmth from the room. Where they passed, the orange and blue traces from the crystals faded to grey.
"Remembrancers," whispered the Master, his voice sounding flat and distant in the deadly silence. "Memories of the lost. Souls stuck between layers, trapped in that box by the Hermit for... study."
One of the shadows approached Max. Max tried to pull his hand from the box, but it seemed stuck. He screamed, but no sound came out. I saw the blue aura of his fear being sucked out of him, drawn like smoke into the shadow's form. The shadow became slightly more solid, slightly more... satisfied.
"Is this an illusion?" I asked the Master, trying to keep my voice steady despite my pounding heart.
"More than that," answered the Master. He wasn't panicking, just observing intently. "This is a psychometric resonance. The box projects the collective traumatic memories it stores, creating a psychic environment around it. It is real to our perception, and can wound our souls if we let it. Max has triggered it."
"Then stop it!"
"He who triggered it must control it. Or he will be consumed." The Master looked at me. "This is his test. Your illusions are useless here. This is a pre-existing psychic reality. But his empathy... if he can reverse the process, project not fear, but rejection... or better yet, an acceptance that empties them..."
I understood. This wasn't about fighting. It was about self-assertion.
Max was already swaying. His face was pale, his eyes losing focus. Other shadows began to gather around him, sucking at his emotional color.
"Max!" I shouted, trying to pierce the silence. "Hear me! They're feeding on your fear! Stop feeding them!"
But Max looked like he was drowning. He had opened his own Pandora's box, and now couldn't close it.
Then, the Master did something unexpected. He raised his hand, not towards the shadows, but towards me. A beam of silver energy, sharp and cold, touched my forehead. "Help him. Connect yourself. Use your Vars Eyes not to see, but as a bridge. Allow him to feel your steadfastness. Your cold disdain for this nonsense. That is better than fear."
It felt like an ice knife entering my mind. But I understood. I focused on Max, on his shrinking pale blue aura. I extended my awareness, not with vital energy, but with the essence of who I was—the cynical, cold view that the world was full of deceptions and things that wanted to eat you, and the only way to survive was to refuse to give them satisfaction.
I didn't send words. I sent a feeling. A feeling of disgust at this drama. Boredom with the overly dramatic threat. The conviction that these shadows were just parasitic ghosts, and they only had power if you believed in them.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, Max lifted his head. His eyes, which had been empty, found focus. He looked at me. And through that strange bridge, I felt him feel it—my cold attitude, my refusal to be afraid. It was like a fresh wind in the stifling room.
He frowned. The blue aura of his fear stopped flowing out. Instead, he began to pull it back. He took a deep breath (though there was no air in the silent room, it was a symbolic gesture), and I saw the golden yellow of his confidence—the real kind, not euphoria—begin to shine again, small but steady.
He then turned to the shadows surrounding him. Instead of fear, he examined them. I felt the odd sensation he projected: not anger, not love, but... acknowledgement. A simple acknowledgment that they existed. That they suffered. And then, a release. A feeling of, "I see you. But you are not mine. I will not carry you."
It was like a mantra. The shadows halted, wavered. Those that had sucked his fear began to fade, returning the pale blue to Max. The others just stood there, as if confused.
Max finally managed to wrench his hand from the box. As his fingers broke contact, there was a faint click, and the room shifted instantly.
The grey light vanished. The green globes reignited. Sound returned—the hiss of air in the vents, the drip of water from the pool in the main chamber. The shadows vanished, sucked back into the wooden box that now looked ordinary and harmless.
Max collapsed to the floor, panting, drenched in cold sweat. But his eyes were clear. The aura around him was now a mix of tired blue, solid golden yellow, and uniquely—thin silver streaks, like traces from my touch.
The Master walked over, picked up the wooden box, and closed its lid firmly. "The Box of Forgotten Memories," he murmured. "Where the Hermit stored the pain-memories of his prisoners. You were very lucky. Most who open it become catatonic, their souls drained."
Max looked at him, then at me. "I... I felt you," he said, his voice hoarse. "Like... a cold stone in the middle of a storm. It was... calming."
"That wasn't my intention," I replied, deactivating my Vars Eyes. My head was dizzy. "But fine."
The Master stored the box back in its niche, this time with a quick, silvery energy seal he created. "Today's lesson is over. Max, you have learned that sensitivity is a double-edged sword. It can save you, and it can strip you bare. You must learn not only to project, but to protect. To build shields in your mind."
He then looked at me. "And you, Apprentice. You learned that illusions can also be bridges. Sometimes, the best truth you can give someone is not a pretty picture, but a mirror showing your disinterest in their fear. That is a powerful form of affirmation."
He regarded us both. "Today, you faced not just a threat from without. You faced shadows from within—unchecked fear, careless euphoria. And you endured. Together. In a messy and inelegant way, but you endured."
He turned, leaving the room. "Rest. Tomorrow, we begin training in mind-probing and building mental defenses. Because if the Order of Thymol finds us, Inquisitors like Hadrian will not come with swords. They will come with sweet voices inside your head."
That night, in the main chamber, the earlier tension had given way to deep fatigue. Max sat by the pool, staring at the water.
"Thank you," he said, suddenly.
I raised an eyebrow. "For being a cold, unsympathetic stone?"
"For not pitying me," he answered. "Everyone always pities me. Because I'm an orphan, because I'm 'sensitive'. It makes me feel weaker. What you sent... it was like you trusted me to be strong, even if you don't trust in anything yourself."
I snorted. "Don't read too much into it. I just hate to see waste."
But inwardly, I knew he was right. In this pathetic strangeness, we had found a dynamic that worked. My cold cynicism was a counterbalance to his overflowing emotion. And his odd sincerity, though annoying, was a reminder that not everything we did was about manipulation and survival—sometimes, it was just about not letting someone else drown.
The Master, from the dark corner where he sat meditating, seemed to observe. I couldn't see his expression, but his normally dense, unreadable silver aura now showed small ripples—something almost like... deep satisfaction?
The next day, training began with new intensity. The Master taught Max how to "adjust his volume"—learning to raise or lower his sensitivity, to put mental "stoppers" against overwhelming emotional waves. For me, illusion practice evolved into subtler directions: creating illusions not visible to the eye, but affecting mood—making a room feel safer, or a corridor feel threatening, by manipulating the subtle energy flows around it.
Weeks passed in a hard, yet regular rhythm. The Drakonid threat and the terror of the Memory Box had taught us an expensive lesson: in this world, the greatest danger doesn't always come with a roar and claws. Sometimes, it comes in silence, seeping through the cracks in our own minds and hearts.
And as we trained, endured, and learned—I knew, with a deep, cynical certainty—that the real test had not yet come. The Order of Thymol was out there, and Inquisitor Hadrian would not forget the face of the one who escaped him. They were far larger, hungrier shadows that would one day find us.
But until that day came, we would keep honing our skills. I would keep refining my illusions, turning them from mere eye-tricks into psychic weapons. Max would learn to be a fortress, not a victim. And the Master... he would continue to be the cruel, mysterious teacher pushing us to the edge of the cliff, just to see if we could fly or learn to climb down.
In this Hermit's sanctuary, underground, surrounded by the ghosts of ancient knowledge, we were no longer just a group of fugitives. We were becoming something more dangerous: students learning.
And the world above, with its rigid rules and Orders, would not be ready for what we were preparing—shadows from within, ready to come out.