DARK WAR REBORN; From Magicless Boy to World's Hidden Hope

Chapter 8: Bonds in the Dark

In the frozen heart of Alnor, where the fortress walls wept ice and the wind howled like damned souls, the black riders returned. Their horses steamed in the bitter cold, flanks lathered from the punishing ride north. Snow swirled around them as they passed through the great iron gates, which groaned shut with a finality that echoed across the barren courtyard.

At the center of the group rode the leader, his shadowed helm concealing all but the gleam of crimson eyes. Slung across his saddle like a sack of grain was Calley bound in chains of inky darkness that pulsed with malevolent life. She stirred weakly as they dismounted, her broken wrist throbbing and her temple bruised from the blow that had silenced her screams.

Ramona awaited them in the throne hall, a vast chamber carved from black granite, lit by torches that burned with unnatural blue flames. She sat upon her obsidian seat, Kaleb a silent sentinel at her right. When the riders entered, dragging Calley forward and forcing her to her knees, Ramona rose slowly, her violet robes whispering against the stone.

The girl lifted her head, gray eyes defiant despite the pain. She looked thinner than when captured, dirt-streaked and shivering, but there was a fire in her gaze that made Ramona pause.

“Leave us,” Ramona commanded the riders. They bowed and retreated, leaving only Kaleb and the captive.

Ramona circled Calley slowly, like a predator assessing its prey. The air hummed with latent power of Calley’s gift, raw and untamed, radiating from her like heat from a forge. Ramona extended a hand, fingers brushing the girl’s cheek. A spark jumped from Calley, golden and pure, stinging Ramona’s skin like holy water on a demon.

Dread coiled into Ramona’s gut, cold and unfamiliar. This child was only fourteen, untrained, from a line thought barren yet possessed with a gift that bent fire and mended flesh with mere will. If she was not the prophesied one, if her power was but a shadow of what the true savior held… what cataclysmic force awaited in the boy the oracles had promised? Ramona’s thoughts raced with armies shattered by a glance, the Veil itself torn asunder. She suppressed a shiver. No. She would not fear. She would possess.

“Tell me your name,” Ramona said softly as though she didn’t know what name bore already while weaving a thread of dark compulsion into the girl’s voice, a spell that slithered into minds like smoke, loosening tongues and forcing words, honest words.

Calley’s lips parted against her will. “Calley. Daughter of Alard.”

Ramona nodded. “And your companion, the boy. Who is he?”

“Wayne. My cousin. Son of Wade.”

The answers came haltingly, pulled like teeth, but true. Ramona delved deeper with questions of Norwick, of the spark’s first awakening, of their flight. Calley tried to fight the spell, sweat beading on her brow, but the spell twisted her words free, forcing honest response to every question asked.

Finally, Ramona leaned closer, her eyes locking onto Calley’s. “The child of prophecy, the one born to end me. Who is he? Where does he hide?”

Calley’s mouth opened, strained… but no words came. Her eyes widened in confusion. The spell pressed harder, a vice on her mind, but still nothing because she knew not the answer to that query.

Ramona frowned, withdrawing the compulsion. The girl gasped, slumping forward.

“She does not know,” Kaleb murmured. “Truly.”

Ramona’s lips thinned. “Then we must seek answers elsewhere.”

She left Calley in chains, guarded by shadow-wraiths, and descended once more to the hidden chamber beneath the throne. The blue brazier flickered to life as she entered, illuminating the black crystal shard suspended in its chains.

“My lord,” she whispered while bending to her knees. “The girl is here. Her power is great, yet she claims ignorance of the prophesied child. How is she key? Why not turn her now? bend her gift to our will? She could raze cities and heal our legions.”

The shadows in the crystal swirled, and Dyrk’s voice filled her skull so vast as ever, amused, laced with infinite patience.

The girl’s light is a beacon, my beloved. Pure and untainted. The bond between her and the child of prophecy is woven in fate’s own thread, and unbreakable while she walks in light. Turn her to shadow now, and that thread snaps. The boy will sense it, recoil and hide deeper in the world’s folds.

Ramona’s hands clenched. “So we wait? Risking her escaping, or the Conclave claiming her?”

Wait until the boy is in our grasp. Her power is not mere fire or healing, it is affinity. She draws the lost, compels loyalty without spell or force. Irresistible to one like him, burdened by prophecy’s weight.

Dyrk’s voice deepened, painting visions in her mind.

See the paths he shall come in: As a rescuer, storming our gates in foolish heroism, drawn by her cries across the weave. Or as seeker, tracing whispers of her capture, his own power awakening in desperation. Perhaps even as supplicant, bargaining his light for her freedom. In every thread, she pulls him to us. But mark this Keep her ignorant of her uncle’s presence here. Wade’s torment is our secret. If she learns he suffers in these halls, her affinity may twist, rallying not only the boy, but others also. Allies we cannot foresee. Silence on that front, or all unravels.

Ramona bowed her head. “As you command, my lord.”

The brazier dimmed. She rose with resolve hardened. The girl would live as bait in a gilded cage until the true prize arrived.

Far to the south, in the gleaming towers of Hidden Plague, Wayne plotted his escape.

The archmages had confined him to a warded chamber high in the acolytes’ wing of white walls etched with runes that hummed softly, suppressing any latent power. Meals came through a slot in the door; guards patrolled the halls. The trials continued daily with brutal tests of will and flesh, designed to crack open whatever hidden gift Elyra sensed in him. They submerged him in pools of liquid fire that burned without consuming, forced him to hold glowing orbs that seared his palms, whispered incantations to summon visions that clawed at his sanity.

Yet nothing. No spark. Only pain, and the mocking laughter of the other protégés echoing in the corridors.

Wayne tried to slip away three times in the first week.

The first attempt was feigned illness during a trial, collapsing in a heap. When the mage overseeing him leaned close, Wayne struck fist to throat, grabbing the man’s staff. He made it to the outer courtyard before wards flared, binding him in invisible chains. His punishment was isolation in a lightless cell for two days without food.

The second was at night, he pried a loose stone from the wall, using it to bash the door runes. Alarms wailed. Guards dragged him back. Harsher trials followed by lashes of ethereal whip that left no marks but seared the soul.

The third time, he befriended a servant boy, coaxing him to leave a window unlatched. Wayne climbed down the tower face, fingers numb on icy stone. He reached the ground and walked into a patrol. This time, Elyra herself oversaw the consequence herself, a ritual that plunged him into illusions of his worst fears where Calley repeated died in flames, his father broken on a rack, Alard’s ashes scattering in the wind. He screamed until his voice gave out.

Still, the alien strength in his veins, the remnant of the pendant’s glow kept him whole. And still, no gift awakened.

Through it all, he noticed her, Liliana, a fifteen-year-old acolyte with hair like spun moonlight and eyes the color of storm clouds. She watched him from the edges of the training halls, during meals in the refectory, even as he endured trials. Not with mockery, like the others did, but with quiet intensity. Once, after a particularly grueling session, she slipped him a vial of soothing balm through the door slot. No words said, just a fleeting glance.

On the fourteenth night, as Wayne lay bruised and plotting his fourth attempt, a soft knock came at the door.

He tensed. “Who’s there?”

Then came a whisper, “Liliana. Open the slot.”

He did bid. Her face appeared pale and determined. “I’ve seen your trials. They’re wrong about you. The gift isn’t in you… it’s something else. Something older.”

Wayne’s heart raced. “Why help me?”

“Because I scryed your cousin. In dreams. She’s alive, in Alnor. And your father too. The archmages won’t act because they fear open war. But you… you won’t stop. I admire that.”

He stared for a moment. “You’ll help me escape?”

She nodded. “Tonight. The wards weaken at moonset. I’ve prepared a distraction, a false alarm in the scrying tower. Meet me at the servants’ gate. Bring nothing but your sword.”

“Why risk it?” he pressed.

Her eyes softened. “My brother was taken by black riders last year. The Conclave did nothing. I won’t watch another family shatter.”

Moonset came with alarms blaring from the far side of the city all Liliana’s work. Guards rushed away. Wayne slipped from his chamber, the door runes flickering under a charm she had whispered to him earlier.

They met in the shadows of the servants’ gate. Liliana wore a dark cloak over her acolyte robes, a satchel slung across her shoulder. She pressed a finger to her lips and traced a glyph on the gate. It shimmered and swung open silently.

They fled into the night, snow crunching underfoot, the white towers of Hidden Plague receding behind them.

They ran northward toward Alnor, toward chains and shadows, toward a reunion forged in fire.