"After the fall of the Five Cities," Roderic began, his voice hushed but heavy with memory.

  The crackle of the fire in the hearth was the only other sound in the tavern. Even the mugs were still.

  "Valtara was almost cleaved in two. The sea trade routes were lost. Our resistance crippled. Those damned metal demons..." His voice faltered, and he swallowed hard. "We were on our last legs. Arkanthar was marching—unstoppable—toward the Sun Spire, our capital."

  A young man leaned forward at the edge of his bench, knuckles white around his cup. Even the tavern staff had stilled, ears drawn by the weight of Roderic’s words.

  "The last stand," Roderic continued. "They rallied every able-bodied fighter to the Sun Spire. Sylvaren even sent their druids. I was just a lad then. Barely out of training. Lightning mage. I got stationed on the walls. Metal and lightning... not the best mix."

  His hands, weathered by time and loss, trembled slightly.

  "I’d heard the stories of the metal constructs," he whispered. "But stories... they didn’t prepare me. Not for what I saw."

  His eyes, once dulled by age, sparked as he looked into the past.

  "Huge metallic rams, large as hills, rolling toward us. Not drawn by beasts. Pushed. By the metal mages. Thousands of dark-armored figures in perfect formation, silent, their eyes dead. And then... they came."

  He set his cup down, the ceramic clicking softly.

  "Metal balls. Hundreds of them, hurled across the battlefield. At first, we thought they were weapons. But no. They weren’t there to kill us. They were raw material. For the metal mages. They twisted and reshaped them mid-battle into walls, spikes, golems. The battlefield became a forge."

  Gasps rippled around the room.

  "We were forced to abandon our steel," Roderic added, bitterness thick in his voice. "Blades, shields, armor. All of it. The Arkanthar metal mages could turn them against us. So we fought with what we could. Bone weapons. Stone. Wood. Primitive. Ineffective. Against enchanted steel, it was like striking thunder with straw. But it was all we had."

  He paused.

  "The number of mages on our side? Pitiful. A handful from each province. Even with Sylvaren’s help, we were barely a flicker against a storm."

  He shook his head slowly.

  "And then... he appeared."

  Roderic’s voice dropped lower.

  "The Elemental Touched. A man, tall, broad-shouldered. Silver hair, green eyes that glowed faintly even in daylight. He walked through our fire like mist. We couldn’t stop him."

  The tavern was dead silent.

  Roderic clenched his fist.

  "I saw friends—brothers—torn apart. Turned into minced meat by storms of sharp metal shaped like daggers. One mage’s fireball rebounded off a forged wall and cooked his own company. It was a slaughter."

  Cale, at his own table, had stopped chewing. He sat still, a slice of bread half-raised to his lips, his blue eyes locked on the storyteller, haunted.

  "Then," Roderic exhaled, eyes distant, "we were ordered to retreat. No reason given. Just fall back to the south side of the city. It felt like betrayal. We didn’t understand."

  He paused to sip his tea, but his hand shook so violently, some spilled.

  "Then came the explosion."

  He looked up, his voice nearly a whisper.

  "Dozens of fire mages. All linked. All chanting the same spell."

  Someone in the room gasped.

  "It was like a star had fallen. Sand turned to glass. Entire districts flattened. The Arkanthar front line vaporized. Their Elemental Touched incinerated in his armor."

  His voice cracked.

  "And half of Sun Spire... gone."

  The room had gone still as a grave. One of the younger men had tears in his eyes. Another muttered a quiet curse under his breath.

  Cale felt his chest tighten, his knuckles whitening under the table.

  "We survived," Roderic said, voice thin, "but at what cost?"

  The fire crackled again. And no one spoke for a long, long time.

  The young men bowed their heads to Roderic, murmuring quiet thanks. Some looked pale as they left the tavern, like they'd aged years from hearing his tale. The fire still crackled, casting long shadows along the walls, but the warmth it offered felt distant now.

  Cale turned to Tiana. She was still eating, her gaze calmly fixed on her plate. It was as if she hadn't heard a word of what the old man had said. Not a single flicker of emotion crossed her features.

  Cale leaned in slightly, curious. He remembered—Tiana, despite her youthful beauty, was old. Very old. She was over two hundred years old.

  "Don’t ask me about the war," Tiana said before he could speak, her voice as calm as her expression.

  Cale’s mouth, half-open, closed with a soft click. He nodded.

  They finished their meal in silence. When they returned to their room, Cale sat on his side of the bed, still lost in thought. Roderic's story gnawed at him. If he hadn't escaped the black castle... if he'd stayed obedient, trained harder, proven himself—would he have become just another weapon? Just another tool to be thrown at the enemy?

  Tiana sat across from him, reclining on her bed, her back resting against the wooden headboard. She held a book in her hands, its pages worn and yellowed with time. Her eyes darted left and right, completely absorbed in whatever ancient knowledge it held.

  Cale turned toward the window.

  Outside, the city was alive. People of every kind and color walked the cobbled streets below—traders, travelers, beggars, merchants, children weaving between legs. He watched them for a long time, wondering what kind of lives they lived. Wondering what his own was turning into.

  A soft glow shimmered into existence beside him.

  "What are you doing?" came Xentar’s voice, smooth and casual.

  Cale didn’t glance at him right away. "Just observing."

  "Aren’t you curious where I’ve been?" the wisp asked, circling lazily beside his head.

  Cale shrugged. "A little bit."

  There was a short pause.

  "There’s something different about you," Xentar murmured, drifting slightly closer. "The faint smile on your lips... the way you’re watching the world. Something good must’ve happened."

  Cale’s gaze flicked briefly toward Tiana. The memory of last night rushed back—warm, strange, and still unreal.

  Xentar followed his gaze. His green glow pulsed slightly brighter. His tone turned sly.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  "Did you mate with her?"

  Cale turned and gave him a deadpan stare.

  Tiana, without even looking up from her book, raised one hand and made a lazy flick through the air.

  Xentar flickered violently. He let out a garbled sound—half a grunt, half a yelp—and shivered as if chilled to the core. His form distorted for a moment, a ripple passing through his light.

  "Fine! Fine!" he grumbled, zipping backward. "I get it! Spirits aren’t allowed to be curious anymore."

  He floated in the corner.

  Cale imagined Xentar sitting there with a pouty expression.

  He exhaled a faint chuckle.

  Tiana finally glanced up from her book, her lips curling into the faintest of smirks.

  Cale didn’t speak for a long while. He just stood there, watching the city breathe.

  But something caught his attention, something out of place.

  There, in the narrow alley between two buildings, a figure stood motionless. Half-shrouded in shadow, it didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

  His eyes narrowed.

  It looked like a person—but barely.

  Its body was gaunt, stretched unnaturally tall. Skinless in places, its flesh hung in slick tatters, like wet cloth draped over brittle bone. What remained of its face was twisted into a permanent, silent scream—its jaw torn open wider than natural, broken in places, revealing teeth filed to jagged nubs. One eye socket was empty; the other glowed faintly red, flickering like a dying coal.

  Its limbs were elongated, too thin, too long. Fingers like iron nails twitched at its sides. Around its neck, a length of rusted chain still clung, embedded into the flesh as if it had grown there.

  And yet, despite its grotesque form, the spirit stood still.

  Watching.

  A pulse of cold dread tightened in Cale’s chest.

  "Tiana?" he called, his voice quieter than he intended.

  She looked up from her book, blinking. "What is it?"

  He pointed. "Between those two buildings. There's a... spirit, I think. Why does it look like that?"

  Tiana stood without a word and crossed the room. She peered through the window, eyes scanning until they settled on the same spot.

  "That," she said, her voice flat but heavy with meaning, "is a cursed spirit."

  Cale stared at her.

  "They’re remnants of those who died in agony. Victims of betrayal, torture... or those whose own hearts were so blackened by their actions, they couldn't pass on."

  She turned from the window, her face now cast in shadows.

  "Humans, elves, dwarves—it doesn’t matter the race. Smart species always find new ways to destroy each other."

  She turned around and headed to the door, but she paused as her hand touched the handle.

  "Let’s go."

  Cale blinked. "Go? Outside? Now?"

  "Yes," Tiana said simply, grabbing her robe.

  Cale grabbed his robe and fell into step beside her. As they descended the stairs and stepped out into the warm air of the day, the tavern door closed behind them with a quiet thud.

  They stopped at the corner of a building, just across the street from where the cursed spirit lingered like a torn shadow.

  Tiana green eyes were sharp and focused. "This," she whispered, her voice low and steady, "is a perfect occasion to learn how to deal with these kinds of spirits."

  Cale nodded silently, his face drawn tight with nerves. His gaze flickered to the spirit, which stood unmoving across the street, a smear of pain given shape.

  "Do not look at it directly," Tiana warned, her voice suddenly harder. "These are not like the spirits you’ve seen before. These ones can hurt you. Their touch can weaken your body, sicken your soul and body, and if you’re not strong enough... it will kill you."

  She waited a moment, watching to make sure he understood.

  "There are two ways to deal with a cursed spirit," she said. "First, the gentle path: you offer them closure. You find the pain that binds them here and help them let go. It could be compassion, revenge, or forgiveness—whatever they need to release their grip on this world."

  "And the second?" Cale asked, though the tightness in his throat told her he already knew.

  "You banish them," she said, her voice barely more than a breath. "You sever them from the world by force. It’s brutal. And dangerous."

  He looked at her, his brow furrowed. "How does that work?"

  Tiana drew a long, slow breath. "You use Spirit Bending to impose your will onto theirs. You carve a seal from your soul’s essence, forcing the spirit back into the Veil. But doing so drains you. It can leave you broken, exhausted... or worse. If your resolve wavers, if you’re not stronger than the spirit’s pain, they may pull you into their nightmare."

  Cale swallowed, hard.

  "So we try the gentle approach first," Tiana said, nodding. She placed a hand on his arm. "Start by reading their resonance. It’s not seeing, not hearing—it’s feeling. The air around them will whisper what they suffered. Let it guide you, but not consume you. Their madness is like a storm—open too wide, and you’ll drown in it."

  Cale nodded. His fingers curled unconsciously.

  "Now, the containment," she said. "If the spirit tries to flee, we must keep it grounded."

  She reached into her cloak and pulled out a narrow talisman—bone-white, carved with intricate, ancient runes.

  "If you can’t weave the prison with your spirit, use this," she said. "Channel your mana into it and speak the words: Serratum Animae Vinculum. That will form a barrier, long enough for you to try and reach the spirit’s heart."

  He took it.

  The talisman felt cool and heavy in his hand.

  They circled around the alley, moving carefully, keeping their distance from the cursed spirit. Now, from the opposite side, they had a clear view.

  The spirit stood a few dozen meters ahead, its back turned, limbs limp but twitching. It did not move. Not yet.

  Tiana stopped, crouched low. "Now," she whispered. "Start by reading its resonance."

  Cale closed his eyes.

  "It’s not seeing," she said gently. "Not hearing. It’s feeling. The air around them will whisper what they suffered. Let it guide you, but do not let it consume you. Their madness is like a storm—open too wide, and you’ll drown."

  He inhaled slowly.

  And then—he felt it.

  Cold. Wet. Chains.

  The taste of iron on his tongue. Screams that never reached air.

  His knees buckled slightly, but he stayed upright. His breath trembled.

  The cursed spirit turned.

  It didn’t walk. It didn’t float. It just… shifted. Its head craned toward him, one hollow socket empty, the other burning with a flickering red light. Its twisted limbs hung like broken marionette strings, and it did not move any closer.

  It simply waited.

  Tiana didn’t blink. Her expression was neutral. Cold, calm.

  "Now is the moment," she said. "Create the prison."

  Cale stared down at the talisman. He hadn’t been shown the full method—not really.

  But something stirred in him.

  Something that had always been there.

  He knelt. Closed his eyes, he reached inward, into the thrum of his essence. It responded. Gentle at first, like water rippling outward from a drop.

  Then it ignited.

  Lines of blue flame etched themselves in a perfect circle around the cursed spirit. The air crackled, the ring thrummed like a pulse. The spirit's flickering eye narrowed. But it did not move.

  Tiana nodded, a whisper of pride in her voice. "That will hold it."

  Then her expression darkened.

  "Now comes the most dangerous part."

  She placed both hands on his shoulders.

  "Every cursed spirit is trapped in a memory. A moment so terrible, so defining, it fractured their soul. They relive it again and again, a wound that never closes."

  Cale listened, gaze steady.

  "You must step into that echo. Touch it. Let it show you what they see, feel what they felt. They may appear human. They may cry, plead, weep for forgiveness. Or they may become the monster that ended them."

  She tightened her grip.

  "You must endure. You must listen. You must find the root of its agony."

  Cale swallowed hard. His heart pounded in his chest.

  "You cannot lie to it," Tiana said, her voice now low, fierce. "Spirits don’t hear words, they hear what is behind them. They feel the truth in your soul. If you fake compassion, if you try to trick it—it will know. And it will devour you."

  He nodded, jaw tight.

  "But," she said gently, brushing a strand of hair from his eyes, "if you speak with truth, with heart, it may let go. It may pass on."

  Her hands dropped.

  "And if it does not... if you cannot reach it... you will need to choose. Banish it. Or die with it."

  The spirit stood inside the burning circle, unmoving. Waiting. Watching.

  Its breath came in jagged rasps.

  Cale stepped forward.

  The talisman pulsed once more in his palm, a heartbeat in bone.

  He closed his eyes.

  Reached out.

  And touched the edge of the memory.

  Pain surged through him.

  And the nightmare opened wide.

  The memory opened like a wound.

  And Cale was no longer himself.

  He was Erel Vann.

  The moment took him whole—body, mind, and soul—and he found himself shackled in a narrow cell. The stone was damp and cold against his back, iron chains biting into his wrists. The air stank of mildew, blood, and rot. He tried to breathe, but his chest ached with each rise and fall.

  Pain pulsed in his fingers—twisted, broken things barely hanging from his hands. His jaw throbbed, fractured in several places. Every breath whistled through gaps where his teeth had once been.

  But worse than the pain was the silence.

  It had been days since they came.

  Days since the last lash, the last cruel demand to sing for their amusement. His voice had become nothing but a hoarse rasp, a broken thing that gurgled and choked on blood. Still, they had made him sing.

  He remembered why they brought him here.

  A song. A single song.

  It had spoken the truth—veiled in poetry, yes, but no less damning. A nobleman who hoarded wealth while his people starved. A coward who sent boys to die in rivalry wars while he built palaces from their taxes. Erel had sung the ballad in a hall full of laughter.

  And now, he was here.

  Cale—Erel—tried to lift his hands, but the chains pulled him back. His shoulders ached from the strain. His throat burned with thirst. Hunger gnawed at his insides like wild dogs.

  And still, the memory did not end.

  Cale felt it all. Not just the pain—but the loneliness, the confusion. The bitter, unanswered question: Why?

  Why would people do this to someone who only tried to speak truth?

  Tears streamed down his face, mixing with blood.

  The cell faded into darkness.

  He was lying on the floor now, unable to sit up. Cold seeped into his bones. His lips cracked as he tried, once more, to sing—a single note, broken and trembling. A farewell.

  Cale’s sanity strained inside the memory, on the verge of shattering. The horror wasn’t just seen—it was lived. And yet, deep inside, something held.

  A flicker of light.

  A heartbeat.

  “I’m sorry,” Cale said—his voice not Erel’s now, but his own.

  The world shifted.

  It pulsed and breathed around him like a living nightmare.

  He could hear it—the soft, broken hum of a voice.

  Music. Shattered and hollow.

  It echoed through the stone halls like a ghost chasing its own name.

  Cale stepped forward, each bootfall ringing like a drumbeat in a tomb. He passed broken cells. Inside, he saw flickers—half-formed images of emaciated prisoners, mouths open in silent screams. Some clutched their chests. Others wept. But none were truly there.

  He was being drawn to one cell.

  The door hung ajar. Inside was the source of the song.

  A man.

  Barely human.

  "Erel Vann." Cale whispered.