The meadow melted away like mist, the vivid cruelty of the children’s words lingering in Jack’s mind long after the scene had dissolved. It was as if their taunts had left a scar, etched deep within the marrow of Celia’s being.

  The next memory began to take shape, not as a single moment, but as a series of flashes and vignettes, stitched together by the relentless passage of time. They unraveled before Jack and Elyra’s eyes like fragments of a shattered mirror, each piece reflecting Celia’s growing power—and her deepening obsession with proving herself worthy.

  Celia was older now, perhaps fourteen or fifteen. Her figure had grown leaner, her features sharper, and the timid gaze that once faltered under the weight of others’ scorn now held a new intensity. That childish frailty had been burned away, replaced by something fierce and unyielding. She stood alone in a wide, barren field under a darkened sky, her fingers clenched into fists, her breathing harsh and uneven.

  Before her hovered a row of training dummies, crudely made of wood and straw, their rough forms a mockery of real opponents. A cold wind swept across the field, ruffling her dark hair, but she did not shiver. The air around her was thick with heat, a feverish warmth that seemed to bleed from her very skin.

  “Again!” a stern voice barked from somewhere beyond Jack and Elyra’s view. It carried the weight of authority, unforgiving and relentless. A man’s voice, stripped of sympathy and filled only with the expectation of perfection.

  Celia gritted her teeth, her eyes narrowing to slits of molten gold. Her fists trembled as she fought against the urge to snap back, to protest the impossibility of what was being asked of her. Instead, she sucked in a deep breath, her chest heaving, and then thrust her hand forward, palm open.

  Flame erupted from her fingers, a wild, uncontrolled blast of red-orange fire that tore through the air with a feral roar. It slammed into the nearest dummy and turned it to ash, the wood and straw reduced to nothing but blackened cinders drifting on the wind. But the flame sputtered, guttered, and faded before it could reach the others. The remaining targets stood untouched, silent witnesses to her failure.

  “Pathetic,” the voice snapped, disdain lacing every syllable. “You won’t prove anything if that’s all you can muster.”

  Celia flinched, her shoulders tensing. But even as her body sagged with the weight of his scorn, the anger in her gaze only burned hotter. It was a smoldering rage, a defiant hunger that refused to be snuffed out.

  The scene shifted, blurred, then cleared again. Now, she was older. Sixteen, perhaps. Her frame was taller, shoulders straighter, her expression hardened by the relentless pursuit of mastery. She stood in the same field, but this time the air around her shimmered with heat like the distorted air above sun-scorched sand. Her hand clenched around a polished staff inscribed with runes that glowed faintly beneath her touch.

  Her concentration was sharper, more focused. She moved with a precision that had been absent before. When she released the spell, the fire was no longer an undisciplined burst, but a concentrated spear of flame that tore through the air with deadly accuracy. It cut through three dummies at once, leaving a trail of blackened earth and ash in its wake.

  The voice returned, this time tinged with approval. “Better. But not enough.”

  Jack watched the progression unfold, the years flitting past like pages torn from a book. Celia trained relentlessly, her failures driving her to push herself further. Nights spent in isolation, her hands blistered and raw from the force of her own magic. Days where her spells were so powerful they scorched the very ground she stood upon. Her sleep was plagued by nightmares of inadequacy, visions of her mother’s disapproving gaze, of her grandfather’s cold indifference.

  But there were more than just moments of struggle. There were victories. Moments where her fire blazed brighter than the midday sun. Where her control over her magic surpassed even her father’s expectations. Where her name was whispered with something other than disdain. It was never enough, but it was progress.

  She was powerful now, formidable even. The fires she conjured obeyed her will like loyal hounds. And yet, in every flicker of her flame, Jack could see it: a desperation that never faded. The endless chase for validation. A hunger to be seen not as a failure, but as someone worthy of her mother’s legacy.

  The scene shifted again, now revealing an opulent chamber of stone and flame. Banners bearing a sigil of golden tower on a red background adorned the walls, their fabric shimmering like freshly spilled blood. Celia stood before an imposing elf seated upon a throne of blackened steel and gold.

  The man’s gaze was cold and calculating, his features sculpted into a mask of aristocratic detachment. His voice was iron, each word delivered with a weight that could crush lesser souls. “You have shown promise, Celia. True strength. But strength alone is not enough.”

  “I will prove myself,” Celia replied, her tone fierce and unwavering. “Whatever it takes.”

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  “Good. Then I have a task for you.” His eyes gleamed with predatory cunning. “The Dungeon. The one recently uncovered in the eastern reaches. House Hightower must control it. Its secrets and resources belong to us, not to the fickle alliances of lesser Houses.”

  Celia’s brows knitted. “But Grandfather, the expedition is meant to be a joint effort. The other Houses—”

  “Are opportunists. Parasites clinging to our ambitions. If they succeed, they will claim their share of the prize and grow in power. If they fail…” The elf’s lips twisted into a thin, cruel smile. “Then House Hightower will stand alone, triumphant. And you, Celia, shall stand with it.”

  “Are you saying…?”

  “I am saying that if the other representatives should meet with misfortune during the expedition, it would be most unfortunate… but not unexpected.” His gaze bore into her, demanding understanding. “Do this, and you will have earned your place. A place of prominence. Prove to me that you are worthy of our blood.”

  Celia’s fists clenched, the fire in her eyes burning brighter than ever. “I will not fail.”

  Jack’s throat tightened. The hunger for validation that had driven Celia was now being twisted into something far more dangerous.

  “Enough,” Jack said, his voice emerging as a strained growl, thickened by the torrent of emotions that churned within him. The intensity of what he had seen clung to him like ash from a firestorm, smudging his thoughts with a darkness that refused to fade. “End it.”

  Vishura’s presence tightened around him, a sinister caress that seemed to wrap itself around his very being, coiling like a serpent eager to constrict. Her laughter slid through the air, honeyed and malevolent, her voice a shadowy whisper that seemed to dance against his ear.

  “As you wish,” she purred with a relish that sent a chill through him. “But remember our agreement. I have shown you what you wished to see, Jack.”

  The memory of Celia’s desperate, unwavering hunger for approval and power still clung to him like a phantom wound, but the scene was already melting away, the bleak echo of her grandfather’s demands fading into a dreadful quiet.

  The library came into focus once more, its towering shelves and endless rows of tomes imposing and unnatural in their immensity. The air held a stagnant chill, tinged with a faint, sickly sweetness like rotting petals. Jack’s gaze flitted around, struggling to reorient himself as the heavy silence settled like dust. Vishura stood in front of him, a faint smirk on her lips as Elyra beside home struggled to regain her bearings as well.

  Then, something else wormed its way into his awareness. A sensation, crawling and insidious, unfurling through his thoughts like liquid fire. It was not pain, not exactly. More like a smoldering warmth, coiling and winding deeper into his mind with a possessive deliberateness. The more he tried to focus, the harder it became to distinguish his own thoughts from the invasive presence threading itself into his consciousness.

  Jack tensed, his fists clenching at his sides. His muscles ached, his skin felt prickly, as if the air itself had turned hostile. His breathing quickened, and his eyes narrowed at Vishura with suspicion and anger.

  “What are you doing?” The words came out jagged, strained, his throat dry and tight. There was a harshness in his voice that spoke of desperation. His body refused to respond properly, as if he’d been bound by invisible chains.

  Vishura’s laughter spilled forth like dark silk, her voice carrying a smug delight. “Relax,” she murmured, her tone dripping with a sickeningly smooth assurance. “This is nothing you cannot handle. Just a small spell. A seed of power, planted within your mind. As I said, a gesture of good faith.”

  Jack tried to fight against the sensation, his will surging forward like a battering ram. But the warmth only intensified, radiating through him with a heat that bordered on discomfort. His vision blurred, swallowed by feverish lights that danced in hues of violet and crimson, twisting and writhing like serpents made of fire.

  The pressure in his skull grew, a throbbing pulse that thudded in time with his heartbeat. He could feel the spell taking root, threading itself into the very fabric of his consciousness. Its presence was both foreign and familiar, like a scent he couldn’t quite place yet felt he had known all his life.

  “What… what kind of spell?” he managed to gasp, his breathing ragged as he tried to force words past the tightness in his chest. His gaze snapped toward Vishura, eyes blazing with a fury borne of both fear and defiance.

  “Ah, but where would be the fun in telling you?” Vishura chuckled, her amusement dancing like poisoned honey on her tongue. “You will know when you awaken. Consider it a surprise, if you will.”

  Before he could muster the strength to demand answers , Vishura simply vanished. Without so much as puff of smoke she was just…gone. Her departure left a chill in the air, a lingering sense of violation that prickled along his skin. At least, the pain has gone with her and he could move once again.

  Jack released a shaky breath, his shoulders slumping as he tried to steady himself. Whatever she had done, it was buried deep, its essence lingering at the back of his mind like a smoldering coal waiting to burst into flame. And the worst part was, he couldn’t even tell if it was truly a gift or a knife pressed to his throat.

  “We might as well leave now,” Elyra’s voice cut through the silence, cold and dismissive. She had watched the entire exchange with a calm detachment, though there was a slight tension in her shoulders. “You won’t get anything more out of her.”

  Jack turned to face her, still reeling from the sensation twisting through his thoughts. His voice came out quieter than he intended. “Should I be worried?”

  Elyra’s sharp gaze met his, her expression briefly softening into something akin to sympathy before it hardened once more. “No. Vishura needs you, Jack. And she won’t jeopardize her own plans by harming you. Whatever she’s done… it’s likely something she thinks will help you. Or at least keep you on your feet long enough to continue being useful to her.”

  Jack’s jaw clenched. The idea of being a tool—no, a pawn—in someone else’s grand design left a bitter taste in his mouth. “Comforting.”

  “I’m not saying you should trust her,” Elyra continued, her tone more serious than usual. “Just… be aware of her motives. As long as you have something she wants, she’ll play nice. But the moment you cease to be valuable to her…”

  “Then she’ll devour me without hesitation.” Jack finished her thought, his voice hardening with each word. The truth of it struck deep, a blade driven straight into his chest. And yet, there was a grim acceptance there. “Great. Guess I’d better stay useful then.”

  Elyra’s lips quirked into a wry, almost resigned smile. “That would be advisable.”