The Magician's Revenge

Chapter Seventeen

The cell was cold. Not the kind of cold that faded with a breath or a flicker of flame.

It was ancient cold. Deep. The kind that settled in bones and made time feel slower. The walls whispered, faint voices of those who’d come before. Prisoners. Traitors. Monsters.

Or, in Mason's case, something not yet defined.

Across the cell, Edgar sat quietly, cross-legged on a faded patch of straw. A soft hum pulsed from the chains binding his ankles, anti-casting runes, old and flickering, but still potent.

Mason had tested his own shackles earlier. He’d tried channeling a simple spark, just enough to warm his fingers.

Nothing. The glyphs had held. And the suit was silent. No hum. No whisper. No help.

Just him, the cold, and the cursed warlock watching from across the bars.

“So,” Edgar finally said, scratching at his beard. “How much do you think they know?”

Mason looked up. “Too much.”

“And how much did you tell them?”

“I didn’t have to. I… panicked. Broke the orb.”

Edgar barked a sharp laugh.