He scanned the arena, his dark eyes narrowing as they adjusted to the harsh light of the torches and the midday sun. His gaze swept over the expanse of sand, taking in every detail, the patches of darkened ground where blood had soaked into the earth, the twisted remnants of broken weapons scattered like forgotten relics of violence. Every inch of this place bore the weight of death, the echoes of screams that had long since faded into silence.
The crowd’s roar surged again, louder this time, and Seeker felt it vibrate through his very bones. They were calling for blood, for spectacle, for death. And as he stood there, a lone figure in a sea of chaos, he knew they would have it, one way or another.
Across the pit, another gate groaned open, its iron bars scraping against the ancient mechanisms with a deliberate, agonizing slowness. The sound, low and grating, drew the crowd’s anticipation to a fever pitch. Their roars grew frenzied, echoing across the bloodstained stone as if they could will the gate to move faster. The light of the torches stretched long shadows across the opening, revealing the hulking silhouette of something massive, waiting in the darkness. Then, with the heavy, deliberate gait of a predator, it stepped into the arena.
A Bikovac.
The air shifted with its arrival, a ripple of tension that spread through the crowd and reached even the highest tiers of nobility. The cheers rose to a deafening crescendo as the creature fully emerged, its immense frame illuminated by the harsh glare of the arena’s light. It was a sight to behold, terrifying and magnificent in equal measure.
Seeker stared at the Bikovac, his breath catching in his throat. This was no ordinary opponent. This wasn’t just a beast. It was a warrior, a soldier of the northern Bikovac tribes, whose name alone inspired fear on battlefields where strength and brutality ruled. A defender of the icy north, born from a land where only the strongest survived.
The Bikovac towered over him, its immense, bull-like frame casting a long, ominous shadow that seemed to swallow the blood-soaked sand. Its leathery hide was a tapestry of battle, marked by jagged scars that crisscrossed its body like a map of violence. Some wounds were faded, ghosts of conflicts long past, while others were fresh, their edges raw and glistening. Each mark was a story, a testament to the countless battles it had endured.
Glyphs carved deep into its hide glowed faintly, their intricate patterns pulsating in time with the creature’s heavy breaths. These were no mere decorations, they were remnants of earthshaper magic, a power the Bikovac tribes once used to reshape mountains and command the frozen tundra itself. The faint glow was a bitter reminder of what this creature had been: a force of nature, now reduced to a spectacle for the bloodthirsty whims of the arena.
Steam curled from its flared nostrils as it snorted, the sound a guttural rumble that resonated through the arena. Its glowing yellow eyes scanned the battlefield, sharp and predatory, as if weighing the sands beneath its hooves and finding them wanting. In its massive hands, it gripped a war hammer so impossibly large it seemed it should have been an ornamental piece, yet the Bikovac wielded it as though it were an extension of itself. Each step it took sent tremors through the ground, its hooves leaving deep imprints in the coarse sand.
The crowd’s fervor grew as it turned its gaze toward Seeker, the full weight of its predatory focus settling on him. The intensity of those eyes froze him for a moment, not in fear, but in the crushing awareness of what stood before him. This wasn’t an animal driven by instinct; it was a sentient force, honed by war and hardened by survival. Its gaze spoke of violence and inevitability, and in that moment, Seeker felt the fragility of his own existence.
Above, in the opulent boxes, the nobles leaned forward, their expressions ranging from mild amusement to avid curiosity. To them, the Bikovac was a trophy, its savage grandeur a tool for their entertainment. It was a captured enemy, stripped of its dignity and forced to fight for the amusement of those who viewed its pain as nothing more than a temporary diversion.
But to Seeker, it was far more than that. It was a reminder.
The Bikovac was a living emblem of humanity’s precarious position in the world. They had not been the aggressors in the war that now consumed them. Humanity had been the desperate survivors, clinging to their dwindling territory while facing the onslaught of two relentless enemies. The Elves, with their mastery of magic and strategy, had waged a methodical war of eradication, seeking to purge the "blight" of humanity from their lands. And then there were the Zoomorph tribes, whose savagery was matched only by their contempt. To them, humanity was prey, a weaker species, meant to be dominated, consumed, or eradicated.
The Bikovac tribes, juggernauts of the northern battlefield, were the embodiment of that threat. Their raw strength and earthshaper magic made them unstoppable on the frozen tundras and jagged mountains of their homeland. They had smashed fortified lines, torn through humanity’s defenses, and left ruin in their wake. Alongside them were the Fenri wolf clans, who struck with the precision of assassins, and the Serpanti, masters of venomcraft and illusions who turned battlefields into nightmares.
The northern kingdoms of humanity were crumbling, their fortresses falling one by one to the relentless onslaught of the Zoomorphs. For every stronghold lost, there were survivors driven further south, where resources and shelter grew scarcer. The soldiers of the Imperium were stretched too thin, waging battles on multiple fronts while facing the unforgiving cold and starvation. The Elves, meanwhile, continued their surgical campaigns in the East, striking where humanity was weakest, ensuring no respite.
And yet, in this blood-soaked arena, none of that mattered. To the crowd, the Bikovac was a beast to be slain, its defeat a fleeting triumph. But to Seeker, its presence carried the weight of the war itself, a conflict that had already taken so much and showed no signs of relenting.
This Bikovac was no mere fighter, no mindless creature conjured by magic. It was a warrior, one who had fought and bled for its people, now torn from its homeland and reduced to a pawn. Every scar on its body spoke of humanity’s desperation and the Bikovac’s unyielding resistance. Its people were still out there, breaking human strongholds, driving survivors further south.
The Bikovac let out a roar that seemed to come from the depths of the earth itself, a sound so deep and primal that it reverberated in Seeker’s chest. It wasn’t just a cry of rage, it was a declaration of dominance, a challenge issued to all who dared to face it. The arena trembled beneath its fury as it raised its war hammer, the iron head dark with the stains of countless battles. The crowd responded in kind, their screams for blood melding into a single, deafening cacophony that seemed to demand violence, carnage, and nothing less.
Seeker’s grip tightened on the hilt of the sword he had been given. The blade was a sorry excuse for a weapon, its edge dulled to the point of uselessness, its nicks and dings catching the faint light of the arena. The leather wrapping on the hilt was worn thin, the fibers rough against his calloused palms. It wasn’t a weapon meant to kill, it was a mockery, designed to extend the bloodletting, to entertain the masses.
He couldn’t meet the Bikovac’s strength head-on. That much was obvious. The hammer it carried was no ordinary weapon. It was an executioner’s tool, capable of crushing bone and shattering stone with a single swing. Against the raw power of the Bikovac, Seeker knew that even a moment’s hesitation could mean his end. No, brute strength wasn’t an option. His only hope was speed, precision, and exploiting the creature’s vulnerabilities, if it even had any.
The Bikovac charged, its massive hooves pounding against the sand like drumbeats of war. Each step sent tremors through the ground, the vibrations crawling up Seeker’s legs and threatening to unsteady him. The beast moved with the force of an avalanche, unstoppable and terrifying.
Seeker threw himself to the side as the war hammer descended with devastating force. It struck the ground where he had stood a heartbeat before, the impact sending a shockwave rippling outward. Sand and gravel erupted into the air, sharp fragments cutting into Seeker’s exposed skin. The air itself seemed to shudder from the sheer power of the blow, and for a fleeting moment, he felt a pang of grim respect for the creature’s raw strength.
The Bikovac wasted no time. It turned with an agility that belied its massive frame, its glowing yellow eyes locking onto Seeker with chilling precision. There was no hesitation, no wild fury in its movements. This wasn’t some mindless beast lashing out in blind rage. This was a soldier, a warrior whose every step, every swing of its hammer, was deliberate and calculated. It fought with the precision of someone who had survived countless battles, its every motion an echo of hard-won experience.
Seeker darted forward, his sword raised. He aimed for the creature’s flank, hoping to exploit a momentary gap in its defense. His blade struck true, carving a shallow wound along its leathery hide. The cut oozed dark blood, a stark contrast against the beast’s glowing glyphs. But the Bikovac barely flinched. Its thick hide and unyielding will rendered the attack little more than an annoyance. It responded with a bellow that shook the very air, a sound that carried equal parts pain and fury.
The war hammer swung in a wide arc, its head cleaving through the air with a deadly whoosh. Seeker scrambled back, narrowly avoiding the blow. The sheer force of the swing disrupted the air around him, throwing him slightly off balance. He stumbled, his footing unsteady on the uneven sand, but recovered quickly, his movements instinctual and fluid. His heart pounded in his chest, the rhythm almost drowning out the roars of the crowd.
The Bikovac adjusted its stance, its eyes never leaving him. Its gaze was sharp, calculating, almost unnervingly intelligent. It wasn’t just reacting to his movements, it was analyzing them, learning with every exchange.
The crowd’s screams rose to a fever pitch, their collective bloodlust feeding off the tension in the arena. Each clash, each narrowly avoided strike, only heightened their fervor. They didn’t care about the precision of the fight, the deadly dance unfolding before them. All they wanted was blood, and they didn’t care whose it was.
But Seeker barely heard them. His focus was entirely on the Bikovac, on the slight shifts in its stance, the way it gripped its hammer, the subtle twitch of its muscles before each strike. Every movement was a clue, a piece of a puzzle that might save his life. And yet, as he locked eyes with the towering beast, he couldn’t shake the thought that he was the one being hunted, not by a mindless predator, but by something far more dangerous.
And then it happened.
It began as a faint hum, so low it could have been mistaken for a trick of the mind. Yet, it wasn’t the crowd, nor the rhythmic thud of the Bikovac’s hammer striking the ground. No, this was something else, something intimate and profound, as if it had always been there, waiting. The vibration seeped into Seeker’s core, resonating with his heartbeat, a subtle rhythm that grew louder, stronger, with every passing second. The dormant power within him stirred, stretching as though waking from a long slumber.
At first, it was a flicker, no more than a spark igniting deep in his chest. A gentle warmth spread through his veins, unfamiliar yet welcome, like stepping into sunlight after an eternity of shadow. But then it surged, sharp, demanding, and utterly consuming. The warmth turned to fire, flooding every part of him with a searing intensity that left no room for weakness. His body felt weightless, as if freed from the burdens of the chains, the arena, the very earth beneath him. His senses sharpened, peeling back layers of haze until the world around him stood in razor-edged clarity.
The Bikovac swung its hammer, the massive weapon slicing through the air with deadly precision. Yet, to Seeker, the movement seemed impossibly slow, as though the beast was caught in the grip of a dream. Each arc of its hammer, each shift of its hulking frame, unfolded with languid inevitability, like a play he had already seen. He stepped aside with grace born not of thought, but instinct. The beast roared its frustration, its fury blazing in its glowing yellow eyes, but Seeker was already in motion, his sword raised in anticipation.
The power was awake now, fully alive, coursing through him with a ferocity that left no room for hesitation. This wasn’t just strength, it was something greater. Control, unyielding and absolute. It filled him, sharpening every movement, amplifying every strike, until even the simplest motion became an act of deliberate precision. It wasn’t Seeker alone who fought, it was the power, wild and boundless, guiding him as much as he wielded it.
The world blurred at the edges, the cacophony of the crowd fading into a dull, meaningless hum. Only the Bikovac remained. Only the rhythm of the fight. He could see everything now, the subtle twitch of the creature’s muscles, the shifting grip of its massive hands on the hammer’s haft, the faint adjustment of its hooves as it prepared to charge again. Each detail was a thread in the tapestry of battle, and Seeker was the weaver.
Time itself seemed to slow. Each heartbeat stretched into an eternity, each breath filled his lungs with air that felt dense, almost electric. The power heightened his awareness to the point of agony. He could hear the labored breaths of the Bikovac, the faint groan of its armor under the strain of its movements, the scrape of its hooves against the sand. The metallic tang of blood mingled with the acrid scent of sweat, a potent reminder of the stakes. Even the dust kicked up by their clash seemed to hang in the air, suspended in defiance of gravity.
The power urged him forward. It didn’t whisper; it roared, a wordless command to strike, to dominate, to end. It was intoxicating, relentless, a primal rhythm that demanded everything.
Seeker’s grip tightened on his sword, and for the first time, the weapon felt as though it belonged to him. No longer a crude tool, but an extension of his will. He moved with a fluidity that bordered on inhuman, each strike faster and more precise than the last. His blade carved through the Bikovac’s hide, leaving dark, oozing wounds in its wake. The beast howled, swinging its hammer in a desperate arc, but Seeker was no longer evading—he was predicting. Anticipating the movement before it even began. He ducked under the swing, his blade biting into the exposed flesh of the Bikovac’s ribs. Rolling to the side, he narrowly avoided the beast’s lunging horns, his movements impossibly quick, each step deliberate.
The crowd’s bloodthirsty roars echoed distantly, irrelevant noise compared to the rhythm thrumming in his veins. The power consumed his focus, narrowing the world to this singular moment. To the fight. To the Bikovac.
But the power was wild, unruly. It surged through him with an intensity that bordered on unbearable, threatening to overwhelm him entirely. For every ounce of strength it granted, it demanded something in return. It gnawed at his resolve, whispering promises of absolute dominance if he would only surrender, if he would only let it take more.
For a fleeting moment, the edges of his vision darkened. The world wavered, the sharpness blurring as though he teetered on the edge of a precipice. Seeker clenched his teeth, forcing the power back, refusing to give in. He couldn’t let it take over, not here, not now. To surrender would be to lose not just the fight, but himself.
The Bikovac lunged again, its massive frame crashing into the sand as it swung its hammer in a final, desperate arc. Seeker leapt back, his movements impossibly swift. The power surged through his legs like a second heartbeat, propelling him to safety. He spun, his sword flashing in the torchlight as he struck. The blade sank deep into the Bikovac’s shoulder, the force of the blow staggering the creature.
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For a moment, the power within him roared in triumph, its energy peaking to a fever pitch. But Seeker felt the toll it was exacting. His muscles burned with exertion, his chest heaved with every breath, and his mind felt frayed, as though the power was not just using him, but consuming him.
The Bikovac staggered, its massive frame trembling as its strength ebbed away. Its glowing eyes, once fierce and unyielding, now flickered with the dim light of desperation, like dying embers struggling against the encroaching dark. Seeker saw the opening. A narrow window, fleeting but enough.
The moment stretched, each heartbeat pounding in his ears like a war drum. He didn’t think, there was no time for thought. The power guided him, his body moving with a speed and precision that felt foreign, like a marionette pulled by unseen strings. His blade thrust upward, driving deep into the Bikovac’s chest, finding the vital point he hadn’t consciously aimed for.
The creature let out one final, guttural roar, a sound that reverberated through the arena and seemed to shake the very ground beneath their feet. Its massive body shuddered, the weight of its own collapse imminent. Time seemed to freeze as the Bikovac’s war hammer slipped from its grasp, landing with a heavy, resonant thud in the blood-soaked sand. And then the beast fell, its bulk crashing down in a lifeless heap.
Seeker stood over the fallen Bikovac, his chest heaving as he struggled to steady his breath. His fingers remained clenched around the hilt of his sword, though it felt more like a foreign object now, unwieldy and wrong in his grasp. Slowly, the tide of power within him began to retreat, receding like the ebb of a furious storm. Its absence was deafening, leaving behind a hollow ache in its wake—a void that gnawed at him with the intensity of a wound left untended.
The strength that had filled him moments ago was gone, draining from his limbs and leaving him fragile, exposed. He felt as though he might shatter if struck again, his knees trembling beneath the weight of exhaustion. The sharp clarity that had guided him through the fight dulled, his vision swimming as the strain caught up to him.
The arena erupted in chaos. The crowd’s cheers surged to a fever pitch, their voices merging into a cacophony of screams, jeers, and frantic applause. But Seeker barely registered the sound. It washed over him like the roar of distant waves, far removed from the quiet storm raging inside him.
He dropped the sword. The weapon fell from his grip and hit the ground with a hollow thud, the act more reflex than intent. The weight of it had become unbearable. His arms hung limply at his sides, and for a moment, he stared down at the blood-soaked sand as if it held answers to questions he couldn’t articulate.
“What are you?” he whispered, his voice barely audible, the words a fragile breath that carried his confusion and fear. He didn’t know if he was asking the power that had overtaken him or himself. Both answers felt equally elusive.
The Bikovac’s lifeless body sprawled before him, massive and still, its final breaths long since spent. Its blood, dark and viscous, seeped into the sand, pooling around its form and mingling with the countless stains of past battles. The metallic tang of it hung heavy in the air, an acrid counterpoint to the stench of sweat and fear that clung to everything in the arena.
Seeker’s body ached, each bruise and cut a reminder of the battle. He couldn’t tell where the Bikovac’s blood ended and his own began, the pain too diffuse to pinpoint. His legs threatened to buckle beneath him, and his chest burned with each ragged breath. But he remained standing. Weakness, even now, was a luxury he couldn’t afford.
Above him, in the higher tiers of the amphitheater, the nobles lounged in luxury, their opulence clashing starkly with the brutal spectacle below. Silk cushions cradled their bodies, while golden goblets caught the flickering light of the arena’s torches. They wore finery that spoke of their unearned abundance, robes spun with enchanted thread, jewels that pulsed faintly with magical light, and masks adorned with the feathers of creatures hunted to extinction for nothing more than sport. It was a display designed to remind all who looked up that they were untouchable.
Their laughter and murmurs carried like a discordant melody, rising above the roar of the crowd. Hands adorned with jeweled rings gestured animatedly as they placed wagers, their voices lilting with condescension as they discussed the match. To them, Seeker and the Bikovac were not warriors or even individuals. They were entertainment, disposable figures in a narrative of blood and victory played out for their amusement. Their whispers held faint echoes of disdain, not just for the Bikovac but for all creatures deemed "lesser."
To the nobles, the fight was fleeting, inconsequential. But to Seeker, it was survival. To the Bikovac, it had been a cruel mockery of its defiance.
In the central balcony, where the atmosphere grew colder and more deliberate, the duke leaned forward in his carved chair. The wood of the throne was blackened and etched with arcane sigils, subtle yet menacing in their elegance. His sharp eyes tracked Seeker’s movements with a quiet intensity, the faintest curve of a smile playing on his lips. It was not a smile of joy but one of intrigue, of calculation. His hand cradled a goblet of wine, the crimson liquid swirling within as though stirred by the weight of his thoughts. The light of the arena’s torches refracted in the glass, painting faint streaks of fire across his face.
“Interesting,” the duke murmured, his voice low, steady, but weighted with authority. “He’s no ordinary slave.”
The nobles nearest to him turned their attention briefly but remained silent. They knew better than to interrupt the duke’s musings. His reputation for ambition and ruthlessness was well known; he was a man who held both power and the cunning to wield it effectively. Even here, amid the revelry, his mind was at work. For the duke, the arena was not just a stage for bloodshed but a testing ground, a laboratory where he could observe strength, cunning, and the will to survive.
His realm sat on the borderlands of the eastern kingdoms, a volatile region constantly clashing with the advancing Elven armies. While other nobles basked in decadence, the duke balanced his luxuries with meticulous preparation for the inevitable wars. Every decision was a step in an intricate game of survival, where each piece, be it soldier, slave, or strategy, was maneuvered with precision. This fight, like all things in his domain, was a calculated experiment.
Beside him, the magus stood shrouded in silence. His robes hung loose over his gaunt frame, the dark fabric shifting subtly, as if alive with latent energy. Wards woven into every thread emitted a faint hum, a barely perceptible reminder of the power he carried. Unlike the duke, the magus did not demand attention with his presence. He exuded an insidious authority, the kind that made even seasoned courtiers hesitate before speaking in his vicinity.
His face was sharp and angular, the lines of age carved deeply into his features, though not with weakness. His eyes were sunken yet bright, gleaming with a disturbing intensity that spoke of knowledge acquired at great cost. Those eyes never wavered from Seeker, dissecting him as if he were a puzzle to be solved.
Seeker could feel that gaze even from the arena floor. It burned through the haze of his exhaustion, stirring an anger that dulled the ache in his limbs. That face was etched into Seeker’s memory, as vivid and painful as the girl’s laugh or the fire that had consumed her. It was the face of a man who brought ruin and left nothing but ash in his wake. Even at this distance, Seeker could see the faint smirk curling the magus’s lips—a subtle expression that spoke of disdain and complete control. He wasn’t observing. He was relishing.
The duke turned to the magus, raising a brow in measured curiosity. “You’re unusually silent tonight,” he remarked, his tone casual but laced with an edge of command. “What do you make of him?”
The magus’s gaze didn’t falter. “There’s potential,” he said at last, his voice quiet but firm, resonating with an authority that made his words weigh heavier than the duke’s question. “More than you realize.”
The duke’s smile deepened, sharp as a blade. “And yet you’ve barely touched the surface of it. If I recall correctly, it was your miscalculation that brought him here.”
The magus’s jaw tightened, though his expression remained unreadable. “A momentary… oversight,” he replied, his tone clipped. “The artifact in the cave, its power masked his nature.”
“An oversight that cost a valuable mana spring,” the duke said, swirling his wine lazily. His voice was mild, but the edge in his words hinted at a quiet reprimand. “And yet, here he stands, alive and fighting.” He gestured toward Seeker, who now stood over the lifeless Bikovac, his sword discarded in the bloodied sand. “Perhaps your error has given us an unexpected boon.”
The magus inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the point but offering no further defense. He would not admit failure—not here, not before the other nobles. The duke, content with the exchange, leaned back in his chair and shifted his gaze to the Bikovac’s corpse.
“It’s a shame,” he mused, his tone almost absent. “The northern tribes produce such formidable warriors. It’s a pity their kind would rather see us wiped from existence.”
“The Bikovac is an anomaly,” the magus countered, his voice devoid of emotion. “Their brute strength is impressive, but they lack discipline. The Fenri and Serpanti are the real threat.”
“And yet,” the duke said, his smile returning, “it’s brute strength that breaks walls and shatters lines. Imagine a dozen Bikovac, properly trained and under my command. Imagine what they could do to an Elven battalion.”
The magus’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he said nothing. The duke’s ambitions were clear. He was not merely a leader fighting to protect his realm; he was a tactician, playing a long game that extended beyond survival. For men like the duke, war was not just about defending what was his. It was about reshaping the world to reflect his vision.
Seeker, the Bikovac, even the magus, they were all tools in that vision. Pieces on a board he intended to control. The magus saw it, and perhaps that was why he held his tongue. Here, in this cold calculation of strength and strategy, the duke’s world was made clear: power wasn’t just wielded. It was sculpted, bent to his will.
After sighting the magus, a storm of memory surged within Seeker, raw and vivid, like the splintering of a dam that had held too much for too long.
The farm had been small and unassuming, nestled against the edge of a quiet wood where the trees whispered with the wind. It was a place that exuded peace, not grandeur. For months, it had been Seeker’s sanctuary, a world defined by the simplicity of shared meals, the rhythm of chores, and the warmth of laughter. The girl and her family had taken him in without hesitation, their kindness as unpretentious as the worn wooden beams of their home. They had not questioned the strangeness of his arrival or the aura of otherworldliness that clung to him like dew to the grass. They had simply offered him a place to stay, food to eat, and the fragile gift of trust.
Her laugh. It rang in his mind now, a cruel echo, soft and teasing. It had been the first thing that made him feel alive after waking in the Shard’s cold light. The girl had been curious about him, her questions persistent but never intrusive, her eyes sparkling with a joy he hadn’t understood but had come to cherish. Her parents had been quieter, watchful, but their acceptance of him had been unquestioning.
And then the magus had come.
He had not come alone. The retinue of soldiers that marched with him bore the duke’s sigil, their presence as unyielding and cold as the iron they wore. The magus himself was a figure wreathed in menace, his robes flowing like dark smoke, his every step deliberate, cutting through the peace of the farm with an invisible blade. His arrival felt like the weight of thunderclouds before a storm.
Seeker didn’t know why they had come. Perhaps it was the Shard, still thrumming faintly with residual magic, calling out in ways he couldn’t comprehend. Or perhaps it was something else, a whim of power, a flicker of curiosity from a man who saw the world as his to dissect. It didn’t matter. The result had been the same: the fragile peace of Seeker’s life, shattered in an instant.
The girl had been the first to approach them. He remembered how she had bounded forward, her wide-eyed curiosity as bright and fearless as ever. She had not seen the cold precision in the magus’s eyes, the disdain that twisted his thin-lipped smile. To her, he was just another traveler, someone in need. But Seeker had seen it. He had been hauling water from the well when the first crackling roar split the air, a sound like the sky itself ripping apart.
He had turned to see the blinding flash of light, felt the scorching heat as it rolled over him and knocked him to the ground. By the time he stumbled to his feet, disoriented and breathless, the farm was ablaze. Flames licked greedily at the walls of the house, consuming it faster than seemed natural. The girl’s lifeless body lay crumpled in the dirt, her once-lively face now frozen in shock. Her parents, there was no trace of them. Only ash and smoke.
The magus stood amidst the destruction, unmoved by the ruin he had wrought. His expression was one of detached curiosity, as though he were cataloging the scene for later reflection. Behind him, the soldiers stood in silent formation, their faces blank, waiting for orders.
Seeker had lunged at him then, grief and rage igniting a reckless fire in his chest. But his fury had not carried him far. The soldiers subdued him with brutal efficiency, their fists and boots striking with cold precision until the world blurred into darkness.
When he awoke, his body throbbed with pain, his wrists chafed raw by the iron shackles that bound him. The magus had stood over him, his tone calm, almost clinical. “You saw too much,” he had said, his voice devoid of empathy. “This is for your own good.”
And then they had taken him, away from the farm, the girl, and the only semblance of life he had known. Away from the Shard, with its haunting glow and unanswered questions. They had left him with nothing but chains and silence, a living reminder of the secrets he was now forced to carry.
That day marked the end of everything good in Seeker’s life. It was also the day he first felt the power stir within him, a faint flicker of strength buried deep in the wreckage of his mind. It was not enough to fight back, not then. But it had kept him alive.
And now, the same man who had razed the only light in Seeker’s world sat in the duke’s balcony, watching him as though he were nothing more than an animal. The magus’s presence cut through the haze of exhaustion, igniting a rage that coiled like a serpent in Seeker’s gut. His hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms. The sharp pain was grounding, a lifeline against the storm of his emotions.
Above him, the magus leaned closer to the duke, his skeletal fingers gesturing toward the arena floor. Seeker couldn’t hear their words, but he didn’t need to. The way the duke nodded, the faint smirk curling his lips, it was clear they were speaking about him.
Seeker’s chest heaved as he fought to steady his breathing. The roar of the crowd grew louder, the weight of his exhaustion pressing heavily on his shoulders. Yet his anger burned brighter, a spark that refused to be extinguished.
Before he could fully regain his bearings, two guards strode onto the arena floor. Their boots kicked up small clouds of sand as they approached, their faces grim and devoid of sympathy. “Back to your hole, slave,” one of them barked, his voice harsh and clipped.
Seeker didn’t resist as they grabbed him, one on each arm. His feet shuffled weakly across the sand, the coarse texture grating against his raw skin. Their grips were iron clamps, bruising and unyielding. But he barely noticed. The fight was over.
Back in his cell, Seeker sat motionless, his breath shallow, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular. His body was a map of pain, each bruise and cut marking a place where survival had been demanded of him. His muscles throbbed with a relentless ache, and his raw hands stung from the splintered hilt of the crude sword he’d gripped so desperately. The air here was colder, its dampness seeping into the marrow of his bones. Yet the physical discomfort barely registered. The power that had surged within him during the fight was now a faint ember, its once-consuming presence now reduced to a hollow ache that gnawed at his core like a phantom limb.
He let his head fall back against the wall, closing his eyes as the oppressive silence of the dungeon enveloped him. It was the kind of silence that wasn’t empty but filled with the echoes of screams, the clinking of chains, the whispers of despair. He let the noise fade into the background, his focus shifting inward to the place he had visited so many times before—the ocean.
It was always there, waiting for him. Vast and untamed. In his mind’s eye, the waves shimmered with an otherworldly luminescence, dark and deep yet glistening with faint traces of light, as if stars had dissolved into the water. It stretched endlessly, its surface alive with ripples and currents that seemed to move with a will of their own. It was closer now than ever before, its pull stronger, almost tangible. He could nearly feel the spray of saltwater on his skin, the cool caress of the ocean breeze against his face.
But no matter how far he reached, no matter how desperately he stretched his thoughts toward it, the ocean remained just beyond his grasp. A barrier, invisible but impenetrable, separated him from it. It was a cruel reminder of his limitations, of the power that tantalized him but refused to yield fully.
“What are you?” he whispered into the darkness, his voice rasping, more a plea than a question. His words lingered in the air, unanswered, swallowed by the cold stone walls.
The ocean didn’t respond. It never did.
Yet, something shifted. The surface churned, subtle at first, then growing restless, its waves breaking with hidden energy. For a moment, a fleeting instant, he saw something beneath the waters. A shadow moved with deliberate grace, neither beast nor man, its form indistinct yet undeniably alive. It radiated presence, a quiet but undeniable authority that sent a shiver racing down his spine.
It felt familiar, like the whisper of a forgotten name, like the shape of a melody he could almost recall. And yet, it was alien, otherworldly, as though it belonged to a realm he had never known but had always been a part of. He strained to hold onto the vision, to understand it, but it slipped away, fading back into the depths of the ocean until the water was eerily still once more.
A pang of loss struck him, sharp and immediate, as if something vital had been taken from him. The stillness of the ocean felt like a dismissal, an unspoken rejection that left him hollow.
But beneath the loss, there was something else. Something sharper, more defined. A purpose. A name.
The magus.
Seeker opened his eyes, the memory of the girl’s broken body cutting through the fog of his thoughts with cruel precision. He could see her face so clearly, the light that had once filled her eyes now extinguished. His hands twitched at his sides, his nails scraping against the rough stone floor as his anger coiled tightly within him, simmering just beneath the surface.
He had no name, no past, no future. But he had the magus.
And one day, that would be enough.
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