The world swam back into focus, the violent ringing in my ears fading to a dull, persistent throb. But it was the ache in my chest, deep and insistent, that truly anchored me to the gritty coolness of the stone floor. That voice… the one that had sliced through the chaos to call my name right before darkness swallowed me. A dream? A hallucination conjured by the pain?

I forced my heavy eyelids open. My cheek was pressed to the stone, the damp chill seeping into my skin. Slowly, with a groan, I turned my head. The wall inches from my face was unrelenting, solid stone, its surface rough and uneven.

Then, the whisper breathed again, clearer this time, so close it felt like a breath against my ear. “Thalia… can you hear me?”

I blinked, trying to clear the fog from my vision and my mind.

“You’ve passed the worst of it,” the voice continued, a low murmur that seemed to emanate from the very air beside me. “For now.”

My own voice was a dry, shaky rasp, the words catching in my throat. “Who… who are you?”

“There’s no time for that,” he replied, a new urgency sharpening his tone. “You need to come to me.”

Moving myself up to a sitting position, my gaze swept the oppressive confines of the small cell. It was barely large enough to lie down in. “How?” I managed, the question laced with disbelief. “This is a sealed cell. I can’t just leave.”

“Listen carefully,” he insisted, his voice gaining a subtle strength, a quiet command. “You can come through the wall.”

“The wall?” I echoed, running a hand over its cold, unyielding surface. It was impossible.

“Yes. Move closer to it. Feel along the base, near the lower corner on your right.”

Hesitantly, I shifted, my fingers brushing against the jagged edges of the stone, tracing the line where wall met floor. Dust and grime caked my fingertips.

“Now, you should feel some loose bricks,” he instructed. “Push them. Inward. It’ll be a small opening, but large enough.”

My hands found them – three stones that felt subtly different, less mortared than the others. With a surge of adrenaline mixed with apprehension, I pushed. They scraped inward with a shower of dust, revealing not blackness, but a soft, pearlescent glow that seeped through the newly formed gap. What is that? I wondered, my heart beginning to hammer. I cast a nervous glance towards the cell door, a thick slab of wood bound with iron. No guards should be making rounds until dawn. But a knot of pure, undiluted worry tightened in my chest. Who was this man? And why, despite every instinct screaming caution, did I feel a curiosity pulling me toward that light?

His voice, sharper now, snapped my attention back. “Hurry! You must come. Now.”

Shoving aside the swirl of questions, I dropped to my hands and knees. The opening was tight. My dress snagged, and the rough-hewn edges of the stone scraped at my hands and knees as I squeezed through.

I emerged into a chamber larger than my cell, though still confined. I stood, brushing at the dust and grime on my clothes. The entire space was illuminated by a soft, yet pervasive golden light. Its source became immediately apparent: at the center of the room knelt a figure, crumpled over, head bowed. Long, black hair, like a fall of midnight silk, draped down his back, obscuring his face as he stared at the stone floor. He was bound – not by ropes, but by massive, heavy chains that snaked from thick iron cuffs on his wrists and ankles, anchoring him to the far wall. Each link, thick as my own wrist, was etched with intricate, glowing runes that pulsed with that same golden light, casting dancing, elongated shadows.

What crime could he have committed to warrant such restraints? Is this truly a wise decision? The thoughts raced through my head, a frantic counterpoint to the heavy silence, broken only by the faint, almost melodic hum of the glowing chains. I had to duck to avoid hitting my head on one of the low-hanging chains that crisscrossed the space above him. Against every shred of my better judgment, an invisible current pulled me forward.

As I drew closer, a detail pricked my awareness – the elegant, sharp points of ears peeking out from beneath the curtain of his hair. A sharp intake of breath escaped me. An elf! Here? In this prison?

My thought was interrupted by the metallic clink-clank of the chains as he shifted, sensing my approach. Suddenly, I was standing only a few feet from him, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs. It was then I noticed a second, more disturbing luminescence – a hard, fiery orange radiance. It wasn’t external, but internal, emanating from his left arm, beginning at his hand. It looked like incandescent veins of molten rock snaking their way up to his shoulder, throbbing with a sickly light beneath his pale skin. A wrongness emanated from it, deeply unsettling and unnatural.

He looked up, slowly, as if the movement cost him immense effort. His dark hair parted, revealing his face. My breath caught. Though his eyes were sunken, shadowed by exhaustion and pain, they were the most brilliant, piercing blue I had ever seen, reflecting the golden glow of the chains, yet holding an ancient sorrow. His skin was pale, the result of long confinement away from the sun. His features were fine, aristocratic, sculpted with a stark, tragic beauty that even his grim situation couldn’t entirely mar.

The words left his mouth, a low rasp, yet resonant. “Hello, Thalia.”

A shiver traced its way down my spine. “How… how do you know my name?” My voice was barely a whisper, lost in the golden chamber.

“I heard the woman call your name earlier,” he replied, his gaze steady and unwavering, holding mine captive.

“Ah,” I managed, a small, shaky exhalation. “That makes sense.” My mind was still reeling from the sight of him, the chains, the eerie light in his arm.

“Why don’t you sit?” he suggested, his voice still low but gaining a fraction more strength. He gestured subtly with his head. “You’re going to be here for a while. We have time. The guards won’t return until sunrise.”

Numbly, I sank to the cold stone floor in front of him, the golden light from his chains painting shifting patterns on the walls around us, on his face, on my own trembling hands.

“My name is Cassius,” he said, and the ghost of a smile touched his lips, though it didn’t quite reach his pain-filled eyes. “It’s… a relief to meet you, Thalia.”

“And you, Cassius,” I replied, the words automatic. At least, I think so, a treacherous inner voice whispered, a sliver of apprehension a cold counterpoint to the warmth of the light. I shifted slightly. “So,” I ventured, my voice still hushed, “why are you… why are you down here?”

His extraordinary eyes seemed to glaze over for a moment, a shadow flickering within their depths, as if he were looking at something far beyond the confines of the cell, something steeped in immense, ancient sadness. “I chose to trust the wrong person.” The simplicity of his statement carried a universe of regret.

“I see,” I said, nodding slowly, though I understood nothing. “I’m sorry.”

“It is not your fault,” Cassius replied, his gaze returning to me, sharpening with an unnerving intensity. “And that isn’t why I risked contacting you. Through the wall, I could sense it – your soul and body are at odds.”

My breath hitched. Amelia had assured me the lingering disorientation and pain would pass. She said I’d be fine, I thought, an icy dread coiling in my stomach. She had never been wrong.

A profound sadness, so potent it was almost tangible, now filled his gaze. “I am sorry for whatever you endured in your first life.”

My mouth fell open. “Wait…” I stammered, my mind reeling, “are you… are you some kind of seer?”

“I am not ‘like’ a seer,” he corrected gently, a hint of weariness in his tone. “I can see your soul, Thalia. And yours… it is different. There’s a flame encasing it, a protective layer, yet also… another presence altogether. I can also see the damage – a significant crack, a wound that this new flame is attempting to shield. You were forced to absorb an immense surge of mana, far, far more than your physical vessel was ever meant to contain.”

He can see all that? Just by… looking? The thought was terrifying, exposing.

“Though,” he continued, a thoughtful expression momentarily chasing the pain from his face, “it has unintentionally created an opportunity. A dangerous one, but an opportunity nonetheless. It has violently awakened your dormant powers. You are half-elf, are you not?”

The air left my lungs in a silent rush. My most carefully guarded secret, the truth that had shaped my entire existence, spoken aloud by this chained stranger. “No one… no one knows I’m half-elf,” I finally managed, the words a fragile exhalation.

A small, knowing smirk touched his lips, a flicker of something other than sorrow. “I can see the question in your eyes. Your soul tells me things, Thalia. It resonates with your lineage. No ordinary mage, could ever perceive it so clearly.”

“Can all elves… see what you see?” I asked, my mind a chaotic whirl of his revelations, a desperate bid to grasp onto something solid.

“No,” he replied, his expression turning grave once more. “They cannot. But that is a conversation for another time. We have a far more important matter at hand. Your life, is in imminent danger.”

His words struck me like a physical blow. My eyes widened, and my hands clenched convulsively in the fabric of my dress. “Why?” I pressed, my voice tight with sudden, sharp fear. “Because my soul and body are at odds?”

“Precisely,” Cassius affirmed, his gaze unwavering, compelling. “If we do not act, the mana you absorbed will overwhelm you. We need to open your core, to allow it to properly receive and begin to integrate this power. Elves,” he explained, a faint smile touching his lips despite the gravity of the situation, “are different from humans in this regard. We are born with the potential, but our cores must be awakened. We call upon nature, on the ambient energies of the world around us, to receive mana, slowly filling our cores, often through years of deep meditation and communion with the elements.” He paused, then added, “Humans are simply born with an active core, able to wield mana if they possess the gift, or they are not. We elves,” he finished, a profound weariness lacing his voice, “are slightly more… complicated.”

“How much time?” I asked, the urgency in his voice coiling in my stomach. “How much time do I have to open my core?”

“Perhaps a week,” he estimated, his gaze flickering to my chest with an unnerving accuracy. “The discomfort you feel there… the pressure… it seems significant already. We should not delay.”

My fingers instinctively flew to the spot on my chest where the dull ache so often radiated. The thought of it worsening, of what Cassius implied could happen if it wasn’t addressed – of my own body tearing itself apart – was terrifying. “Okay,” I said, the word barely a breath, yet tinged with a sliver of determination that pierced through the terror. “What do I need to do?”