Sorcerer's Shadow

Rising from her chair, a gleam of blue caught my eye. It was a gem embedded in the hilt of a dagger at her side. A chill ran down my spine as I felt the potency of her weapon, matching, if not surpassing, Drevolan's sword. As she stood, the dagger was concealed in the swirl of her cloak, leaving only the ghostly pallor of her face and her wolf-like, glinting eyes visible to me.

Evidently attempting to create a familiar setting for me, she allowed the room to grow brighter. It was then that I saw the lifeless body of Ignar on the floor before me. His throat had been slit, the red of his blood barely discernible against the dark carpet.

"Welcome," she greeted me, her voice like smooth glass and soft satin, "I am Alyssra."

Well, that was a given.

* * * *

There are certain customs unique to the Terrans, one of which involves commemorating the anniversary of one's birth. To Terrans, it is a day for the individual to celebrate, rather than show gratitude towards those responsible for bringing them into existence.

On my tenth birthday, I spent the day with my grandfather, observing him work and deriving joy from it. When his shop was free of customers, I bombarded him with questions, learning about the three forms of love potions, which herbs a Sorcerer should grow rather than purchase, the right incense for specific spells, why mirrors or reflective surfaces should be avoided during magic, how to ensure a smooth childbirth, remedies for cramps and headaches, infection prevention, and how to distinguish worthwhile spells from nonsense in spell books.

After closing the shop, he beckoned, "Come back here, Viktor. Have a seat." I followed him into his living quarters and sank into a cozy chair. He pulled another chair close, facing me. His cat, Alarus, leaped onto his shoulder, purring contently.

"Look at me, Viktor," he instructed. Puzzled, I obliged. "Now, recline into the chair. Imagine you're growing heavier. Feel your weight merging with the chair. Can you do this? Keep looking at me, Viktor. Picture me. Close your eyes. Try to visualize me even though your eyes are shut. Can you do this? Do you feel warm now? Don't speak yet. Feel as though you're floating in water, and you're warm. Focus on my voice, notice how it occupies your mind? Listen to the resonance of my voice in your head. Ignore everything else. My voice is all that matters, all you comprehend. Now, answer me this: How old are you?" contemporary romance

Confused, I thought he might have mistaken my relaxation for sleep. Speaking took more effort than I expected, but I managed to utter, "Ten," and my eyes sprung open. A smile spread across my grandfather's face. He didn't need to say anything; it was clear to me that the word "ten" had been the first spoken aloud in the room for quite some time.

* * * *

I carefully navigated around the lifeless body, aware that any stumble would be awkward. Alyssra, the Dark Mistress of Pardus Mountain, gestured to a chair for me. Contrarily, and for the sake of a quick exit, I selected a different one that offered less cushioning. If it wasn't evident before, let me clarify, I was petrified.

An unexpected emotion washed over me – regret for Ignar's death. Yes, I had planned to eliminate him once I got a hold of him, but seeing him lifeless, well... I found myself recalling the days when he earnestly pleaded for employment, his cessation of gambling, and somehow, his betrayal by taking off with my money seemed less significant. Perhaps, Drevolan's role in his downfall softened my judgement.

But let's be clear, alongside my fear, I was seething, akin to a Pardus caught in a Fenxera trap.

Lord Drevolan sat opposite me, stroking his chin and jaw. When I display such a gesture, it signals my anxiety. I suspected it meant something different for Drevolan, but I couldn't pinpoint what. A servant entered, clad in a black uniform bearing a dragon's emblem on his left chest. I pondered the type of individual who would serve Alyssra Volade. The man's round eyes and plump face suggested a Thurigorn lineage. He shuffled in, eyes downcast and peeking out from under bushy eyebrows. An older man, with an odd habit of flicking his tongue out repeatedly, and I questioned his mental stability. A slight stoop adorned his posture, his steps a mere shuffle.

In his hand were aperitif glasses filled halfway with a liquid reminiscent of maple floors in color. He adeptly avoided the corpse on the floor, presenting the drinks without acknowledging it. He served me first, then Drevolan, followed by Alyssra. His aged, whitened hands trembled as he placed the glasses. Once he finished serving, he retreated behind Alyssra, glancing around nervously. His posture was hunched, permanent it seemed. I considered the correlation between his twitching tongue and darting eyes but dismissed the thought. The liqueur in the glasses was sweet, with a faint hint of mint.

Avoiding direct gazes at Alyssra and Drevolan, my attention inevitably fell on Ignar's corpse. I'm not accustomed to a tranquil drink with a dead body in the room and I was unsure how to act. Thankfully, Alyssra stepped in, whispering instructions to the servant and placing a pouch on his tray. The servant moved towards me, avoiding eye contact, and handed over the pouch.

Alyssra Volade said, "We found it necessary to use some of your funds."

How considerate of her.

Suppressing my growing rage to avoid an untimely demise, I weighed the pouch handed over by the servant. As he retreated to his position behind Alyssra, I noticed his shoulders hunched as if prepared for a dash. I beckoned him over. He hesitated, checked with Alyssra, blinked profusely, and approached me again.

"Extend the tray," I instructed. He obeyed, keeping his gaze averted, and I carefully counted fifteen hundred gold imperials in denominations of fifties and tens. "Give this to the Lady," I ordered. He seemed to ponder momentarily, revealing a few missing teeth. Complying, he served the money to Alyssra. The whole exchange felt like an awkwardly orchestrated performance.

done.co