3 Scio Me

Rare Luck rolled onto her hooves the very second she woke up. A fire-like energy burned within her heart, and she felt far more refreshed than she ever had. It took her a second to realize just how good she felt. A wide grin parted her lips so much the freckles on her cheeks rippled. I feel alive! she mentally exclaimed, her grin only fading after noticing she had forgotten to hide her spellbook before going to sleep.

Her good humor didn’t fade at all at her mistake. She simply hopped over the barrels, idly sliding the book under her mattress with a spell as she went. The golden glow of her magic was accompanied by a few black arcing threads. Not noticing the change in her magic’s aura, Rare trotted down the steps, humming a happy tune all the way to the kitchen. That was a bit careless of me. I’ll just be sure to hide it from now on.

The empty kitchen seemed like an opportunity rather than a dire misfortune for once. Sure there was work to be done, but there were also a few good ways to build up her magic. If I am to get anything from that book, I will need to spend every moment I am alone studying or practicing. Looking at the three ovens, Rare took a deep breath, moved one hoof slightly forwards, leveled her horn, and willed the soot and ash to move. The grey dusty remains of countless fires coalesced into a head-sized lump with a flash of gold-and-black energy.

“Cleaned,” Rare stated with a happy grin, levitating the soot ball into the kitchen’s waste bin.

Next she looked at the firewood box, nodding in satisfaction at its half-filled state. A second quick pulse of gold and black gathered enough wood for the morning’s fire, which Rare then telekinetically loaded into the oven. A few quick nudges with her magic arranged the firewood into a proper shape, which would burn down into a nice bed of coals.

“Fueled,” she noted even as she closed her eyes to focus on the next step. Rare focused, calling to mind the mantra that Patchcoat had taught her for conjuring fire. Fire… hot, bright, and hungry. Burning in an orderly fury. She opened her eyes, keeping her memories of fire at the forefront of her mind, and willed the wood to ignite. With a sharp crack, the wood erupted in black-and-gold flames. The fire flared brightly, growing in size until the entire pile of wood was awash in Rare’s fire, then slowly faded down into normal, gently crackling orange flames.

“And lit.” Rare smiled proudly to herself. Confidence and willpower were certainly key to casting a spell. Too bad I only know the two… Well one down two to go! Excited to work for the first time in her entire life, Rare went to light the other two fires and see what else she could do to exercise her will.

~~

That night once her duties were completed, Rare had returned to her nook as quickly as her hooves could carry her, for her spellbook called to her. The day had flown by at first but slowed down into an agonizing crawl the second Miss had entered the kitchen. She couldn’t practice while being observed—people would know! Sliding the book out from its hiding place, Rare gently ran a hoof over its rough leather cover. Somewhere in your pages… she eagerly thought as she opened the book, found where she had left off, and began to read.

“The most basic of spells comes naturally to all unicorns in the form of remote manipulation. One’s own will is more than sufficient to allow a unicorn to move objects around himself. The majority of all unicorns may only lift and move objects they could otherwise move with hoof or mouth. This is not a limitation imposed upon them by a lack of will, but by a lack of proper focus. Conventional spellcasting calls for a sorcerer to create a specific focus for each spell they learn. This is an inferior method of spellcasting that a warlock overcomes by adhering to one of several Schools of Focus.

A School of Focus is simply a set of moral values designed to allow an individual to serve as a superior conduit for magic. This is similar to a technique used by light-magic users, which has several spellcasters, who embody a single virtue, cast a spell in unison. However, a warlock needs no others to accomplish the same level of will amplification. Amongst warlocks, the three most prevalent schools are Harmony, Dominance, and Malevolence. Due to their conflicting nature, a warlock can only choose one school in which to focus. Each school has its advantages and disadvantages.

This grimoire has been enchanted to guide a warlock along his chosen path. Once your personal decision has been reached, speak your school of choice aloud, and the knowledge within these pages will change to suit your school’s particular needs.”

Rare blinked. The book itself is magical? I guess that makes sense. She turned the page, eager to learn and, more importantly, eager to take her life into her own hooves for the first time.

“The School of Harmony is the second least popular Focus School amongst warlocks. Followers of the School of Harmony seek to strike a balance between one’s self and the elements of the world. It is a passive School that opens one’s self to magic but is far more adept at redirecting magic instead of binding it to ones will. It provides you with the greatest amount of raw power, but many warlocks in the School have great difficulty with complex magic, especially combative spells and any spell that has not simply been copied from nature. It is also the same technique used by light-agic users and carries something of a social stigma.

The School of Dominance is the least popular Focus School amongst warlocks. Followers of the School of Dominance seek to build their own force of will until they can command the world and have it obey. It is an active School that allows a warlock to accomplish many things with even the smallest power base, but it is said to be the most difficult to master. It provides you with the framework needed to become very powerful but requires you to become assertive and brazen enough to make magic itself listen to your voice, a feat few can hope to achieve. This is the School the greatest warlocks of ages past have followed. Its members are few, but most find their place in history.

The School of Malevolence is the most popular Focus School amongst warlocks. Followers of the School of Malevolence use powerful emotions such as rage, terror, and lust to create an emotional furnace that fuels their magic. It is an active School that provides a small pool of potent focused power, easy to master, simple to use, but quick to be spent. It provides you with the ability to cast most any spell, but it is not suited for any magic that is meant to function over a long period; it works in short intense bursts much like the emotions which fuel it. The easy path to power is tempting for many a warlock, and few see the difficulties of this School as true downsides. Many fine warlocks have come from this School, but few are remembered for long.”

Rare mulled over her options for a long while. Apparently, there was a very important decision to make, and she didn’t quite understand each option as well as she would have liked. What would having more raw power mean? What sorts of spells are meant to function over a long time, and would they be more useful to me? What do they mean by “hard to learn?” Rare sighed as she thought, wishing she had any real education. Certainly a more learned person would be able to understand what the book meant.

Rare reread each School’s description carefully. Maybe if I just keep reading it, I’ll finally understand it. If I can only use one, I don’t want to pick the wrong one. I’m trying to make my future better. Rare blinked, the realization hitting her like a ton of bricks. “I am building my future! Me!” She laughed gleefully at the notion of having even that tiny amount of control over herself.

Control… That’s it! I want control. Being in control of myself feels amazing, being in control of my magic has to be even better. Rare stood up on her hooves and levitated the spell book in front of her. She placed her left hoof on the book, and in as firm and commanding tone as she could manage, Rare declared, “I choose the School of Dominance.”

Nothing happened for a moment. Rare was about to try again when the book snapped shut. She jumped back in shock, the golden glow of her magic vanishing as her concentration was broken. She stare in awe as the book continued to float, a dull-red glow engulfing the book. Timidly, Rare poked the book with a hoof, pulling it back quickly as the book flipped open. The first page stared at her blankly until several red sparks trailed across the page, burning words into the page.

Well chosen.

In life I was called Alhazred.

This is a record of my knowledge, penned by my hand.

It will serve you well as a guide on the path to true power.

Your road to mastery will be long and hard.

But when finished, none shall stand in your way.

The words faded after a while, but the red sparks of magic returned and once again flew across the page. This time, the sparks seemed to be filling the entire page up with black, but after a few seconds, Rare realized that her spellbook was being written by forming white text and illustrations on a slate-black background. Oddly, she found it much easier to read, and she didn’t have to sound each word out. It’s like the words are telling me what they mean… she mused.

The title page featured an elaborate magic sigil, the same as that on the book’s cover, a circle containing a five-pointed star with other angled lines crossing over it and ending in circles or arcs. However, unlike the cover image, a series of runes ran around the edge of the sigil, contained within a larger circle. Around the border of each page ran similar runes within a decorative, thorny vine that wrapped around four smaller circular sigils on the corner of each page. The title and author was written in a flourishing script that Rare swore she should not have been able to read.

Dominatio magia:

via ad veram potentiam.

High Warlock Alhazred

“The Mad Mage”

The book’s magic must let me read it. That will help me a lot! Rare turned the page and began to read. She read until midnight. Each page had the same border decoration as the title page and was written in white on black. By the time she was too exhausted to continue and hid her spellbook under her mattress to sleep, Rare had learned all of the basics for her School. The elements were simple and were to be mastered in order, each one having an entire chapter in the book that would also teach her spells that fit the nature of that element.

While each element had a name, the book was intelligent enough to define each word as the author intended them. Rare meditated on them as she drifted off to sleep. Confidence, absolute belief in your own power, that with it you can accomplish anything you desire. Steadfastness, being firm and unyielding in your methods and beliefs. Somberness, going about your goals with a serious attitude. Craftiness, careful calculation and appraisal of each move before, during, and after you make them. Fidelity, holding everyone and everything to their word and oaths including yourself. Sorcery, control over all magic.

I like the sound of those, Rare thought to herself as she drifted off to sleep.

~~

Two days passed in which Rare spent each and every moment practicing her magic, reading from her spellbook, and mentally reviewing its contents while working on her assigned tasks. She had learned a great deal about her spellbook—until she had mastered the concept of one chapter, the rest of the pages would remain blank. Likewise, until a particular bit of knowledge within the chapter was fully understood, the text would shift and rearrange to find a better way to convey the information. It was perfect for Rare, since she never learned anything easily. Having a teacher that would put in the effort to make her understand was already paying off.

Rare knew that she had yet to gain a mastery over her confidence, but even the work she had done so far was amazing to her. This morning, she had simultaenously lit all three of the fires after splitting firewood at once. Miss had noticed Rare’s performance moving along far more quickly than normal and commended her at working to improve herself, though the mare knew nothing about Rare’s illicit studying.

Using her magic to speed through any fire-or-cleaning related task meant that most of the two days could be spent washing dishes and scrubbing floors. It was exactly what Rare wanted. She could take her time at those tasks and contemplate one of the spells her book had been trying to teach her since she had begun reading it. It was a more complex version of the telekinesis every unicorn knew. Alhazred called it “psychokinesis” and defined it as “the manipulation of distant objects in full or in part. Moving an entire chair, just its seat, or separating each and every part from the others. In essence, the ability to manipulate even the fine details of objects without touching them.”

Rare wasn’t quite able to use it as described yet. She was still wrapping her head around treating objects as groups of objects. But on the bright side, the better understanding of how to manipulate things had taught her how to split a log. She was scrubbing idly at the bottom of a large cauldron when a new set of hoofsteps echoed through the kitchen. Looking up curiously, Rare flinched as Prince Bluesteel’s Captain of the Guard, Commissar Ironhide, entered the kitchen.

The large and muscular stallion walked in a perfect military trot, his dull-black fur shone as brightly as the brass fittings on his high-collared crimson uniform, and his bright red eyes were far more terrifying than the iron skull ornament on the front of his cap. His ironshod hooves clicked against the floor as he walked right up to Rare, stopping mere feet from her. “Slave girl,” he called in the stiff tone of a seasoned military commander.

Rare gulped nervously. “Yes, sir?” Oh gods have I been found out? I can’t fight anyone yet!

The Commissar looked Rare dead in her eyes. “You are a brave individual. Far braver than your station would normally allow. We talked briefly after you met the Emperor at the gate.”

“Oh, that was you,” Rare said feebly.

“Do not interrupt me.” His eyes narrowed. “You have earned a measure of my respect. Do not lose it. Our Emperor’s standing orders are to conscript all outstanding individuals into his legion, so I made a point to learn more about you.”

Rare nodded nervously.

“Sadly, you are too feeble and magically impotent to be worth training as a soldier, but I must still respect anypony who can stand in front of our Emperor and not flinch. Though it is beneath my station to speak to a slave such as you, I am delivering you a warning. The Emperor’s son’s sentence expires in three hours, and he has spent his entire stay in his cell doing little else than deciding how best to punish you. After all if it were not for you, he would not have slain his warlock.”

Rare’s eyes widened in fear. Oh no…

The Commissar continued, “He plans to have you flogged heavily then locked in the top of the tower you enjoy sleeping in for a full fortnight with no food or water. It is a shame to serve one who would punish the insignificant for his own faults, but as our Emperor wishes, so I obey.” He gritted his teeth and growled. “So I have decided to show you mercy. A legionary will deliver you a small amount of food and water every other day. As for your flogging, the prince has decided to employ a cat o’ nine tails instead of his favorite whip. All I can recommend is for you to be like General Bastion of yore, bulletproof and free of fear.”

With an angry swoosh of his cape, the Commissar turned and began to trot from the kitchen. He paused at the door and looked over his shoulder, a sympathetic look on his face as he declared, “Take heart, slave. You serve the Emperor as do I. There is glory in our pain.”

The cauldron dropped back into the sink with a crash as Rare dropped to the floor, doing her best not to completely fall into despair.

~~

The hours had ticked by ever so slowly. Miss had done her best to help Rare accept what was about to happen and had even made a large salad for her so she could at least start on a full stomach. While her gestures were appreciated, Rare took no comfort in them and had been unable to eat. She had simply trotted out to the courtyard and stood by the stocks for the last hour. Why delay his torment?

As two legionaries came and locked her in the stocks, however, something deep within Rare snapped. Who is he to punish me for his crime? She gritted her teeth, rage slowly building.

The courtyard slowly began to fill up with soldiers and household staff as the time approached. Public punishments were something everyone was forced to attend unless they were occupied by something of extreme importance. This time however, it looked like the prince had ordered everyone to come regardless of how busy they were.

Suddenly, the gathered ponies grew silent; Rare could hear the click of several ponies’ hoofsteps behind her. You won’t even look me in the face will you? You don’t deserve power over anypony. Rare growled lowly in anger, rage still building.

Bluesteel’s voice suddenly addressed the gathered crowd, “Everypony amongst you belongs to me. What you do reflects on me. You exist to serve me. Not my father, not yourself, not your families or your loved ones, me! You are simply extensions of me. If you don’t make me look good, especially to my father, even by the slightest margin, this is what is in store for you!”

There was a sharp crack and nines lines of fire slashed across Rare’s right flank. She screamed in agony the moment the multithreaded whip made contact with her skin, then a second time as it left, taking skin with it. You bastard, that’s covered in powdered glass, isn’t it?! Rare mentally shouted, anger swelling even more though not nearly enough to dull the pain.

The second lash was even worse, and so was the third and the fourth, each crack bringing nine more agonizing wounds. Rare lost count of how many times she had been flogged after the ninth strike. The agony was so great that Rare couldn’t even remember what it felt like to not be in pain. Over the crippling throbbing and burning of the whip, she couldn’t feel the tears running down her face.

Rare’s pain was like an endless, heavy blanket, smothering all of her senses with its endless bulk. A blanket which was suddenly punctured by a whisper. “Are you going to allow him to do this to you? For shame.” No… I am not!

Rare roared in rage as her horn glowed brightly, its golden aura awash with black flecks and red sparks as a wave of energy blasted outwards, shattering the wooden stocks and slicing through the whip where its tails joined the handle. Spinning around to face her tormenter, Rare screamed, “You are done hitting me!”

Bluesteel was quickly pulled back by a legionary, and another stepped between her and the prince, horns glowing as they formed a protective shield. “legionary, kill her!” Bluesteel ordered in a panicked voice.

Rare snorted, taking a half step forwards before the burning rage suddenly left her, the magic aura winked out of existence, and she collapsed, muscles unable to respond as the pain overwhelmed them. The closest legionary stepped forwards, levitating his gladius up from his flank to strike, face awash with fear.

The blade plunged down, only to be knocked aside with a loud clang. “legionary, stand down!” the Commissar bellowed, returning his left forehoof to the ground.

“Traitor!” Bluesteel shrieked, “Arrest him, and kill her!”

The Commissar shook his head sadly. “Your Highness, I do not work for you. I work for the Emperor, who ordered me to manage your legion. While that includes taking the occasional military order from you, you do not hold the authority to command me to go against the Emperor’s own orders.”

“What are you talking about?” the prince demanded, his fear turning to anger.

“Imperial Order 37: Any individuals who demonstrate significant magical power, be they freeponies or slaves, are property of the Imperial Legion and the Emperor. This slave has done just that and is now your father’s property. You do not have the right to kill her. However, for your safety, Your Highness, I suggest you move to the next phase of her punishment, as you still hold the right to punish her for crimes within your service.”

“That isn’t the law.” Bluesteel growled glaring at the Commissar.

“It is our Emperor’s will, the law of the land, and standing orders of the Legion. Not even you are immune to your father’s law. I believed you recently learned this for yourself. I advise you study imperial law more, Your Highness. Shall I have my men confine this recruit to the tower, sir?”

There was a long tense moment as Bluesteel glared at Ironhide. A few golden sparks danced across the prince’s horn before he exhaled with a sound of disgust. “Take her… but her sentence is now doubled.”

“As you command,” the Commissar mocked. “Legionaries, carry her to the north tower and lock her on the top landing.”

Rare lost consciousness as the two legionaries began dragging her away.

~~

Rare groaned as her eyes slowly peeled open. Why am I on fire? she wondered, moving with a hiss of pain and a wince. Her right foreleg came into view, almost completely filled in with scabbed-over welts. “Ow…” Rare groaned having meant to say “oh.” Looking around, she found herself on the landing she normally slept on, but most of her barrels had been moved, and a thick set of iron bars had been riveted to the stone work, turning the tiny spot into a cell.

Rare’s eyes shot open widely. “My book!” she moaned, starting to dig through the pile of hay her bed had been raked into. Her hooves scraped against the granite floor, and hay flew about the cell as she moved in a panic. A tinge of pain, which was quickly lost amongst the blaze of her lash marks, rippled across her body as she chipped a hoof on one poorly laid floor slab. “No, no, no no, no-no-no.” She began wailing in desperation.

Then suddenly, there it was, sigil, cover, and all, sitting atop one of the barrels. How in all of Tartarus did they miss that? Oh gods, what if they found it? What if it has been ruined? Rare snatched her spellbook up in her hooves, opened the cover and… everything was fine. Even the piece of straw she had placed into the book as a marker was undisturbed. It’s like no one touched it. But how did it get onto the barrel? Where was it when they raked the bed up?

Confused, Rare pondered for a few minutes before, with a shrug, opening the book to where she had left off and resumed reading. After all, there was nothing else to do, and just maybe there would be some sort of healing spell to stop the pain.

~~

The sun rose and set before Rare even smelled another pony. She had just begun to read a new section of her spellbook when she heard the creak of one of the tower’s wood doors and the click of hooves on steps. Thinking quickly, Rare levitated her book upwards and hid it on a rafter. She smiled at how bright her golden aura had gotten. The odd dark streaks were still there, but by now, Rare simply assumed them to be a natural mark of a trained spellcaster.

Seconds later, a legionary made his way up to the bars, a small plate of food held in his light-blue magic. He looked pale despite his white coat, and his light-blue eyes were fixed on Rare. As he slowly pushed the plate through the bars, Rare asked, “What’s wrong? Are you sick?”

He flinched, shaking his head and nearly tossing the salad to the floor. “N-no! I… just don’t hurt me.”

“Hurt you?” Rare asked incredulously. What have I ever done that… screw it I’ll ask. “Why do you think I would hurt you?”

“B-Because.” The legionary gulped, setting the salad down. “You n-nearly killed Prince…”

As he trailed off Rare blinked. “I don’t know any fighting magic. Though if I did…” Rare frowned. “I have nothing against you.” She picked up the salad with her magic, deciding to play with it, separating each and every piece of the salad from each other and moving them about like leaves in the wind before returning the lettuce leaves and single wedge of tomato to the bowl and setting it atop a barrel.

This caught the soldier’s attention. “Your aura is different.” He noted in a concerned tone.

“No it’s not; it’s the same it’s always been. Gold with black flecks,” Rare replied.

He unhooked a flask of water from his right flank and carefully slid it between the bars. “When you attacked the prince, there were red sparks in there as well.”

Rare’s ears twitched as the words hit her. “Hold on… I attacked the prince? How? I don’t remember any of it!”

“I-uh… Really?” the legionary asked in surprise.

“Yes! I don’t know any battle magic! If I did, I would have showed off to a guard to get out of here years ago.”

“I guess you could have forgotten… I’ve never seen a pony whipped that long.”

“I have. Please tell me what I did!”

He took a breath, clearly wondering if he should even be talking to her. “You were flogged for a full minute then went berserk. You turned that oak stockade into woodchips and severed the whip with one pulse of magic. You were glowing gold, black, and red the whole time. The prince’s guards were about to kill you…” he trailed off before correcting himself, “I was about to kill you… But the Commissar stopped me. When your punishment here is over, you will be joining us in the legion. It is how he got the prince to spare you.”

That was a lot to sink in. Rare sat down slowly, and for a long while, the two sat in an awkward silence. Rare finally spoke after the legionary started to turn to leave. “It’s okay. You were just doing your job. And I’m still around, right?”

He nodded, starting to climb down the stairs before asking, “Do you need help with your wounds?”

Rare nodded then realized that he wasn’t looking at her answered, “Please.”

“My shield brother is a healer. I will see if I cannot get him to help you,” he said as he slowly walked out of sight.

“What’s your name?” Rare called.

“Spartacus.”

“No really, what’s your name?”

The sigh Spartacus produced was of such length and volume that Rare could only imagine how often he’d apparently had to explain that his name was indeed what he claimed. “It actually is Spartacus. Please don’t joke. My centri pulls that old joke almost every drill.”

Rare laughed a little as she retrieved her book amid Spartacus’s retreating hoofsteps. She resumed her studies as she idly floated the salad bowl near her head, moving the lettuce into her mouth one piece at a time. Now then, back to learning how to create light.

~~

The first week of her captivity was almost a blessing. Rare had the occasional meal and the hunger kept her focused on learning as practicing her magic became so consuming that half the time, she forgot she was hungry until Spartacus brought her a meal. Unfortunately, his friend had never shown up to mend her wounds, though a week later, they were almost completely healed, and her fur was starting to grow back over where the whip had torn it off. With luck, she would not have any scars.

Rare’s spellcraft had also progressed nicely. She had mastered psychokinesis, brushed her fire conjuring up to her book’s standards, learned how to create light of several colors, and learned how to merge the three spells together in different combinations. Her favorite so far was using all three to create a ball of pink-and-green fire that floated wherever she pleased. Her only concern was that she had not yet learned any spells that might aid her in an escape.

Despite Rare’s repeated speech to Spartacus that she would happily join the legion once released, Rare had no intentions to do so. She knew full well that they could confiscate her spellbook, and fighting for the Emperor or his spawn was the last thing in the world Rare wanted to do. Rare was confident that the first chapter would give her what she needed once she’d finished reading it and mastering its spells. They were simple enough to learn, and with a day or so of constant practice, casting them became second nature. It was only spell combinations that required her active focus.

I am sure that later spells will be harder. Rare mused, After all, if I were writing a spellbook and I wanted to give a student confidence in her abilities, I would put all the easy spells first.

She yawned and stretched her forelegs, then got up to pace her cell. The space seemed smaller than it had even an hour ago, but that couldn’t have been right could it? After a few minutes of relieving a pent-up need to move, Rare sighed and sent her book to its hiding spot amongst the rafters by reflex. Plopping down on her bed, she muttered, “I need at least one attack and one defense spell… I wish the book would fill in pages ahead of my progress.”

A few moments after her first few snores echoed through the tower, a small flickering orange flame winked into existence in the air above her bed. The flame spiraled downwards, casting no shadows and spreading almost no light as it moved to settle over Rare’s spellbook. The flame danced in synch to an old, tired-sounding voice as it said, “Alhazred.”

The dull-red glow flared into existence around the spellbook. “Grandson,” the raspy hissing voice answered, sounding rather smug.

“Your display of power made it easy for me to find you. I take it you are going to use this mortal to slay me and free yourself,” the elderly voice stated.

“Of course. You are the last of my descendants.”

“Yes,” the flame agreed, “but that will no longer break the seal my father placed upon you. You can let her go.”

“So you reworked the spell. Good for you. As I recall, you preferred to tinker at a forge than perform any real work. But why should I free her from my influence? I enjoy having a window outside of my cell, and she is benefiting from our agreement. This… animal would never learn any magic on her own.”

The flame sighed. “I suppose explaining good to you is pointless.”

“Good is subjective. For me, good is escaping this prison and reclaiming my throne as this world’s ruler. For you, I suppose it would be letting the mortals be free,” Alhazred said “It is nice to have a conversation after all these eons, but why don’t you tell me why you come here practically on your deathbed?”

“I am going to die soon. The humans of this realm are all dead, and I never learned how to travel to others. It’s a slow starvation. Originally, I began the construction of a machine to alter the source of my immortality to the mortals who replaced humans. I failed miserably. So I spent a very long time trying to snatch humans from other worlds and bring them here. I succeeded at it once, but there are new gods now, and one of them turned the girl into a unicorn.” The flame chuckled. “It’s pretty funny in hindsight“

“Get to your point before Charon has to ferry you home.”

“Let an old man ramble a bit. I realized that when I died, you would be unleashed. So I transferred the curse seal from my families’ blood to a sigil stone within a temple deep within a land called Equestria. As long as that temple’s altar stands, your prison will remain sealed.”

Alhazred asked. “Why tell me this? Now after I know you are dead, I will simply have my servant find and destroy this temple you have built.”

“Because you are safe where you are imprisoned, and you will find your own way out eventually. For this world to remain in harmony, you have to die.”

Alhazred laughed long and hard, hard enough for Rare to roll nervously in her sleep, groaning uncomfortably. When his laughter subsided, he asked, “What makes you think mortals, let alone mere animals could stop me, let alone kill me?”

“Just a hunch. Regardless of you dying or not, I believe it’s time to let the cat out of the bag lest it become a rabid tiger.”

Alhazred’s glow brightened for a moment, the aura looking almost joyous, “You are a senile fool… but I will make you a wager. It just so happens that I have arranged for a human to come here to serve as a mana battery for my servant. I will guide them to you when the time is right, and you may tell or give them anything you so desire. Upon my release, I will allow them to fight me. Should they be able to defeat my avatar, I shall leave this world and rule another in its stead. I will even keep you alive so you can witness our wager play out. What say you?”

The flame was silent for a time before dipping slightly. “That is agreeable, but you must swear to the Allfather you will keep your word.”

Alhazred chuckled. “Very well. I, Alhazred, swear upon the Father of All Things to allow my servant and any of her friends to face my avatar in mortal combat should they so choose to fight me. If I am defeated. I will leave this world to conquer another. This I swear under the condition that my grandson has not lied to me about the nature of my imprisonment changing at his hands. There, are you satisfied?” Thunder boomed in the distance as if to punctuate his words.

“I am. I accept your wager. Grandfather. When the time is right, send your servant and her friends to me. I am here, within my old forge.”

“Yes, I see. I should have known you would never move away from that playpen. I tire of talking with you. I will enjoy watching you die as I retake my world.” The glow vanished as Alhazred stopped talking.

The flame, however, remained. It bobbed up and down for a few moments before drifting down towards Rare’s ear, its voice whispering, “Mortal, a very wicked being has his claws within your mind. But do not worry, he can’t harm you. If he does, he will harm himself. He needs you healthy and whole. He whispers in your ear, opens your senses to learning magic. He is making you into his sword.

“Fear not, the path he leads you down is not an evil one. If you can remain pure of heart, you can remain good despite his influence. Obey him, do as he says, and when the time is right, I will do what I can to help you. Call it the last, kind act of a dying old man… as well as a desperate last grasp at life for a dying immortal. Remain golden, Rare, and we both can live happily.”

The flame vanished as if it were snuffed out, and Rare spent the night tossing and turning, her sleep plagued by nightmares of voices whispering within her head.

Author's Note

Sorry for the longer weight for this chapter, I had a slight bout of depression for a few days and couldn't manage to write. Additionally I took care to fix my usual grammar problems. Sorry for the delay!