Chapter 2: The Thorn

Esharah looked down at the prisoners of the Hellfrost as they toiled in the quarry below.

Their faces were gaunt and haunted, and their eyes dull. Of the few who had enough energy to lift their heads and gaze up at her, none held any fire. Only resignation. And that was the best case. Most had eyes that were entirely hollow, empty, devoid of any emotion or will. The chthonian woman suppressed a twist of revulsion, hiding disgust behind the mask of iron she had forged from decades of work under the Octarnis Empire. Head Warden Yvris had ways of watching the guards just as closely and surreptitiously as he did the prisoners. Here, the Warden’s Eyes’ fell light did not reach, but that was no reason to become complacent.

Tearing herself from such thoughts, Esharah kept her gaze upon the prisoners as they toiled. Prisoners outnumbered the guards five to one, and though the cursed manacles sealed away any magical powers, sheer numbers had been sufficient for numerous riots to take a grave toll on the guards and the security of the prison. Even though the power of the Warden’s Book of Sins was enough to quell every rebellion, that did nothing to bring back the lives of the guards lost in such violence. Esharah’s role was to watch for any sign of sedition or defiance and punish it. However, when she reached into the well of power within and expanded her mind to touch those of the prisoners, all she found was despair, any feelings of rage buried in the mire of hopelessness.

Today, that duty was interrupted by a message from the Head Warden.

The pain reached before words, the Thorn in her back sending a pulse of agony rushing through her. Even prepared as always, Esharah had to bite her lip to stifle a gasp.

“Warden Esharah,” the voice spoke into her mind, Yvris’ voice crawling in her skin. A reminder that the power he held reached inside her own skull, “Escort the new prisoner in cell Zav-Six to the confessional.”

The voice faded, followed an instant later by the Thorn’s pain, letting Esharah relax. Mostly relax. On its own, such a message would have been merely routine. All that gave Esharah pause was the single letter acting as prefix to the prisoner’s designation. Zav-level prisoners occupied the very lowest level in the prison - the most dangerous. Rather than labor, such entities provided only value as torture, experimentation, or whatever information the Head Warden could extract.

“I obey, Father Yvris,” Esharah responded aloud, feeling a revoltingly smug satisfaction in response, though she dutifully repressed the foul aftertaste that the rancid flavor of his ego left upon her mind.

With a last glance at the prisoners toiling (out of diligence, not pity - never pity, for pitying prisoners was death), Esharah returned to the Hellfrost interior, the chill of the outside air soon replaced by the heat of one of the Warden’s Eyes above the gate, the crimson sphere following Esharah as she passed.

The descent to the lower levels of the prison left light behind. Except for the rays of crimson-tinged light of the Eye sweeping over the area, only Esharah’s eyes of chthonian heritage allowed her to see in the gloom. Even so, she still called up a spell of light. Most direct use of vis power was forbidden in the Hellfrost, even to Wardens like Esharah, but simple illumination spells were an exception. A simple effort of will shaped the spell, turning power of the soul to light, then binding it in a form that could persist as a glowing sphere above her palm. Familiar as a dance practiced a thousand times, the spell formed, casting light that danced and flickered around her fingers like a ghostly wisp.

At the sight, a prisoner in the nearest cell crashed against the bars, a sudden explosion of sound that would have been startling had Esharah not awaited it.

“Light,” the black-scaled reptilian prisoner hissed while clawing uselessly at the arcsteel bars, “Warmth! Light!”

Esharah only gave the drakkari a glance of pity (quickly masked with disgust). The last time she’d been to this level, that one had been far more coherent. More signs of losing its mind to the isolation and darkness of the Hellfrost. After the injury kept his prisoner off of work duty, they’d had nothing to do except slowly descend into the madness of isolation.

“Warmth,” the prisoner whimpered, “Please!”

Esharah moved on, ignoring the creature’s pleas. Other prisoners reacted to her presence in their own ways, some shrinking back in fear, others lunging at the bars in a futile effort to reach her. A few of the saner and more lucid actually shot bawdy comments her way, the sort that she had been far more used to when serving as a spy and attendant than a warden. Dezar like her were targets of lust as often as fear and hatred. None of them were worth her time.

On down to the lowest level, Zav. Where only the most dangerous prisoners were kept. Most of the prisoners there were eventually executed, or else died on the voidspawn hunts. With the new prisoner, two of the six cells now held occupants.

Only when she almost reached her destination did a true threat come. A scent of sulfur alerted Esharah just before the burning metal splinter shot from the cell. A whipping strike of her arcsteel baton deflected the splinter just before it struck, sending it spinning past her, over the railing and falling into the pit below. Heat and light flashed at the contact between the enchanted metal baton and the hellfire-imbued splinter.

“Vile daemoness,” a female voice croaked from within the cell. “Come, let us see how your flesh burns! The blood of the infernal realms will not protect you. Even enchanted steel cannot hold back the vengeance of hellfire!”

Esharah smiled and turned such that the light of her illumination spell could cast its glow over the occupant of the cell, “Janaya, I’m happy to see you doing so well. What was it you threw at me?”

Eyes that shimmered blue as the summer sky over Lake Agenthus burned back at her, the red tinge of sleepless wrath staining what would have been a beautiful visage with dreadful color. In the months since Esharah had seen the woman dragged screeching and swearing vengeance into the prison, her snow-white hair had grown long and ragged. Even then, horrific burn scars already marked her right side. Now, fresh and raw scars lined more of her once fair skin, many of them self-inflicted in attempts to break through the bars. The woman was probably younger than Esharah, but none would have guessed it from how she looked now.

“A spoon,” Janaya said.

“Really? I thought we stopped giving you metal utensils weeks ago,” Esharah said. “Have you been saving that all for me? I’m touched.”

“Your tongue is forked and full of lies, daemoness,” Jana’s rasping voice was a mix of exhaustion and hate, and a hint of madness lingered on the edges. “You will find no forgiveness in my eyes.”

“I’m afraid your forgiveness means little to me,” Esharah said, though in truth, the words were not quite honest. If Janaya had forgiven her, it would have meant the woman had given up on escaping the Hellfrost and accepted her fate. That would be a disappointment. “Nor would anything short of a true god be able to grant it to someone such as me.”

Janaya laughed in her signature deathly cackle, the sound more haunting than humorous, “If the gods forgave you, then they would be all the more worthy of condemnation.” She gripped the bars and bared her teeth, “Saints suffer far too much for a demon such as you to earn salvation.”

Esharah nodded, “Well, as pleasant as our chats are, dear Janaya, I’m afraid I’m not here for you today.”

With that, she moved on to the next cell. Zav-Six. This occupant must be new; last Esharah had heard, the previous inhabitant had been condemned to the Pit after starving herself to death in despair. Compared to all the past inhabitants of the Zav level, all the most dangerous and uncontrollable, this new occupant struck Esharah as...rather out of place.

Average height for a human male, physically fit but not notably muscular, clothes of finer make and fabric than those of a commoner yet without ostentation - and only decorated by old bloodstains. Brown curly hair, dark eyes, a handsome face but not one particularly memorable. Features a bit wilder than the classical Tarnis ideals; common ones among the Genthi humans predominate in the Empire’s northwestern regions. All that was notable was not the man’s appearance, but rather his reaction to her. Or rather, lack of reaction.

Esharah was accustomed to a few common reactions from humans who saw her true appearance. Fear. Hatred. Visceral repulsion to the dark blue skin, the twisted horns, the black sclera that marked her as a creature some called “daemon”. Chthonians were legally allowed to be citizens of the empire just like many of the other races, yet that often did not extend to acceptance, much less welcome. Yet this man showed none of that. His expression showed only polite interest.

“My name is Warden Esharah,” the dezar said, giving the introduction that she had been required to give hundreds of times in the past. “I will be escorting you to an interrogation chamber. Any attempt to escape or resist will be met with punishment. If you cooperate, you may escape this experience unscathed.”

The man blinked slowly, the movement lacking the fear or desperation she had seen in the eyes of countless prisoners. He gave no indication that her presence frightened or impressed him. Instead, a slow, lopsided smile spread across his face.

“I would never turn down a lady’s invitation,” the man inclined his head, rising to his feet. The accent was an odd mix of rural Genthi with a cadence and pride far more common among Tarnis. His hands did not shake, his voice was steady, and his gaze did not waver. “Lead the way, madame.”

Esharah’s eyebrows rose slightly. The man was either foolish beyond measure or possessed nerves of arcsteel to be so nonchalant about the situation. Perhaps even both. Regardless, the man must be among the others of this level for a reason. Keeping her empathic senses carefully noting the man’s actions even as her eyes left him, she turned and led the way, the illumination magic hovering around her casting enough light to see the path before her. Behind, she heard the footsteps of the prisoner follow at a respectful distance, making no attempt to deviate from the path she led, nor showing any hesitance in following. Where her eyes had seen a generic picture of a nobleman fallen upon hard times, her Empathy painted another picture - yet not one she could define. To her senses, the man was...blank. Empty. No emotions, no sense of will or identity. Simply a blank page.

Perhaps not entirely blank. Not erased, and certainly not new and unmarred. Impressions existed. Like a story written in invisible ink. Poor man. The Warden’s fire could reveal much that was better off hidden.

They ascended the winding staircase together in silence, Esharah keeping a careful watch on her ward through her senses. The only change was a sense of discomfort and fatigue as they reached the top. Nothing deeper.

The interrogation chamber was not far from the lower levels, thankfully. Rather than the chapel, the “penance chamber” as the Head Warden called it was more convenient to access from the lowest floor, prisoners there being its most frequent visitors. It was a large room with stone floors stained red and black by old blood, with chains and manacles attached to the wall and floor, and an array of sharp implements lined up along the far wall. All that, however, was largely for show. Physical torture was but the crudest (and frankly least effective) method of interrogation possible within such chambers.

The Head Warden waited inside the interrogation chamber, traditional robes of priest of Piety exchanged for a black robe of a devotee of Discipline.

“Warden Esharah, thank you for bringing the prisoner,” the Head Warden’s condescending smile widened, and he extended a hand towards the chains on the wall. “Stay and assist. There is a lesson to be learned for your own penance as well.”

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Esharah kept her expression neutral even as her stomach twisted, “I obey, Head Warden.” She’d expected no better, but hope still managed to tempt her into disappointment. In her shoulder the Thorn pulsed in anticipation, the wicked artifact somehow sensing the pain that was to come. Pain that would feed it.

The Warden opened his Book of Souls, flipping through the pages to the very last one marked with this new prisoner’s handprint - a handprint that Esharah saw was an inky black. Alarm twisted through her at the sight. Even in Hellfrost, a voidtouched was a rare monster.

The Warden touched the handprint with the tip of a long claw and spoke, “Prisoner, sit.”

The power of the soulbond sent the man’s body rigid, limbs mechanically following the order to sit in the metal chair at the far wall of the room. The Warden gestured, and Esharah followed the implicit command, binding the prisoner’s limbs with the chains and shackles attached to the chair and wall.

“The soulbond ensures that you will remain compliant to any command,” the Head Warden said. “I am aware that you received some degree of vis training, but I assure you no tricks will aid you now.”

A vis and a voidtouched. A double threat. Her senses revealed nothing about the nature of his vis domain.

“I assure you, there is nothing to resist,” the prisoner said, voice still calm.

“Perhaps. You’ve certainly shown a remarkable lack of resistance,” the Head Warden sneered, “But to ensure, we will be taking rather more decisive measures.”

With an unnecessarily grandiose flourish, the Head Warden produced a short length of spiked chain, pulsing with veins of red light. The Thorn’s anticipation became stronger still, a hunger for agony that traced its cold touch down Esharah’s spine.

“Warden Esharah,” the Head Warden’s cruel eyes met Esharah’s, “if you please.”

The request was accompanied by a mocking tap upon the pages of the Book of Souls, a firm reminder that the request contained a threat. As if such a thing were necessary. Esharah had followed the Head Wardens commands to the letter for all her time at Hellfrost. It did nothing to help.

Esharah took the chain.

“Thank you, warden” the Head Warden said. “Now, let us begin.”

Keeping her expression as neutral as possible even as the Head Warden’s gaze bore into her, Esharah took one end of the spike chain, stabbing one of the wicked barbs into the flesh of her wrist. The pain seared and burned like acid, seeping through her Flow and leaving behind an agony that surpassed any physical torment. Soon, however, the pain receded, draining away as the Thorn in Esharah’s shoulder drank it. Saved it. A momentary relief that would bring suffering later, invested to reap greater pain in the future.

Shoving down the agony, Esharah took the prisoner’s wrist and stabbed the other end of the chain into the man’s upper arm.

The man winced but held still, and Esharah had to admit some degree of admiration for the man’s willpower. For all the hours Esharah had spent weaving the shrouds to hide her own emotions, the man could match that stoicism. And stoicism Esharah could now tell it was, for the chain brought with it a connection that melded their minds together. In that instant, the man’s closed soul opened up to reveal its secrets. For a moment, the two became one. Memories swirled and merged, the pain at first halved as it shared between them, only to unite just as swiftly and return to full force.

“We will now begin your confession,” Father Yvris said. “What is your name?”

The memories flooded into Esharah, and both she and the prisoner spoke in unison, united in action as they were in pain, “I am Aven of Elensvale. Son of Legatus Gaius Avarnius and Elesmara of Elensvale.”

Brother of Helena and Viola Arvanius, the whispers within Aven’s mind reached Esharah’s understanding.

The two new names were strong enough within the prisoner’s mind to define him as strongly as the names of his parents. Yet he did not speak them. He resisted speaking the names, holding them close. And Esharah allowed that resistance.

Surprise echoed in the shared sensations from Aven. Suspicion and wariness followed, mirrored between the two connected. Even in the storm of pain from the spiked chains, even as fell magic twisted through them, Esharah’s own mental training and whatever discipline this stranger had learned allowed them to find reason amid that storm.

Give me something, Esharah impressed upon his mind. We can hide the rest.

Suspicion gave way to acceptance, not quite trust but a wary truce.

Images flashed. A manor amid quiet hills, the scent of wildflowers in the air. A distinguished gentleman and a woman with regal bearing. That same man now dressed in garb of a swordsman, blade in hand barking admonishment and direction as Aven struggled through the sword forms despite blistered hands and aching arms. Then that same man shouting and bloody, sword now held towards Aven with an expression of despair and regret mixed with murderous determination.

“Killer of Gaius Avarnius,” Esharah and Aven spoke as one in continuation. “Kinslayer.”

The Head Warden chuckled, “Yes, of course, and we shall explore that later. But you are more than a son and slayer of a father. What are you?”

More memories flashed. Images of missions spent lurking the shadows, waiting for prey to approach. Battles where flickers of the foe’s movement warned of oncoming strikes before they happened. Hours spent training to kill.

Aven and Esharah answered. “Initiate in the Shadow Order.”

The Head Warden scoffed, “Shadow Order? Those fools still exist? And here I thought the old orders had all been abolished. I suppose it is no surprise there are some who still cling to ghosts of old power.” Another chuckle, “And that order has done nothing to advocate on your behalf. Is kinslaying too much of a crime even for them?”

Aven offered nothing.

Thankfully, Yvris did not press for an answer there, “You are a trained vis, yes? What circle of power have you attained? And what domains?”

An answer came in Aven’s mind, the 1st circle of power, like so many. Somewhat rarer for one only on the first step on the road to power, two domains rose in Aven’s mind.

I’m sorry, Esharah whispered from their shared connection as Aven tried to resist speaking the domains. Lying isn’t possible while he holds your soul.

The words came anyway, “My sole domain is the Battle Mind.”

A lie. Esharah saw the truth echo in his mind, but the words that left their mouths were different. That wasn’t possible. Yet it happened. A lie that tore from their souls with an effort of will that stunned Esharah. Omission or twisting of truth was difficult enough amid the pain and compulsion of the soulchains, but a flat-out lie? Yet Aven had lied, and the lie had been accepted. In the man’s mind, Esharah felt the split, the two truths divided and one shoved to the back of his mind unspoken.

The Head Warden’s smile grew eager, a face of undisguised greed, noticing nothing of the shock that Esharah felt. “Not the void?”

“I cannot control the powers of the Void,” Aven and Esharah spoke. Another partial truth, with the reminder divided and shoved out of consciousness.

“Untapped potential,” Yvris rubbed his hands together. “Tell me, how did you come to be touched by the Void.”

Memories surged, and the prisoner once again fought them. And Esharah allowed him to fight. She could have forced the confession, could have guided the sharing, but did not. She sensed the fear and uncertainty from Aven, the instinctive knowledge that whatever he shared here would be used against him. And in this place, she could not deny the truth. So instead, she stood back and watched, giving the Head Warden no more than he would see for himself. In the man’s anxiety, Esharah saw something: emptiness. A carved-out space in his memories as if carefully pruned. Or…misplaced. Hidden deeper, divided even more strongly from the whole.

“I cannot say,” Esharah finally said, echoed by the prisoner.

The Head Warden’s eyes narrowed, and a twitch of his finger sent a renewed surge of pain through both of them. “I need more than that. Tell me what you know about such powers.”

Esharah sensed a hint of worry in Aven’s thoughts. His willpower faltered. The image came, wounds on his arm, small cuts turning black as the blood of voidspawn tainted the wounds. Those solid memories accompanied by a ghostly image of a needle carefully withdrawing from the wounds, hollow tip dripping black.

“Wounds infected by the black blood,” said both.

“Ah,” the Head Warden’s voice seemed somewhat satisfied by such an answer, “you are quite fortunate then. Most mortals touched by voidspawn blood die slow and painful deaths or else are changed to voidspawn themselves. Such fate awaits many of those who fight the voidspawn here. Gaining powers of the Void instead of succumbing to it...that is far more rare. And valuable.”

The ambition was clear: providing a voidtouched warrior for the Legions would be a credit to the Head Warden. Greater fruit than Hellfrost had produced in the two years Esharah had spent here.

“If I may, Head Warden,” Esharah said quickly, mind racing. “Perhaps it would be better to delay providing a report of this. If other powers discover this before the potential is confirmed, they could easily wrest him from our grasp. All under the guise of confirming reports of his powers, so that they could take credit for the discovery themselves.”

The Head Warden’s smile slipped as he considered her words, caution and ambition at war. Esharah could not use her magic on the Warden, not without inviting punishment, yet such a balance was close enough that even her simple words tipped the scales.

“You’re quite right, Warden Esharah,” the Head Warden said, nodding slowly. “Those parasites among the staff of Skal Iraias would surely claim it for themselves if we reported it immediately.” He gave a thoughtful look at Aven. “Yes...we will confirm the extent of his powers ourselves. Very good, Warden. Your compliance and initiative are noted.” He laid a hand on her shoulder, and Esharah fought the urge to recoil.

“Thank you, Head Warden,” Esharah said. “Shall I continue with the interrogation?”

“Confession, Warden Esharah,” the Head Warden insisted, but at least mercifully removing the hand from her arm. “We are not merely gaining information, we are readying souls for repentance, for their new path. No, we shall continue later. For now, return the prisoner to his cell. We will have him placed on a work crew later until we can figure out the most...appropriate use for someone of his abilities.”

Esharah nodded in acknowledgment of the order, then unchained Aven, separating the connection between them and laying the soulchains aside. The Thorn almost seemed to sigh as the loss of the pain, and Esharah knew it would not remain dormant for long.

The Warden left first, rubbing long-fingered hands together in excitement.

Aven followed as she led him out of the interrogation room. Instead of leading him directly back down the long spiraling stairs, she instead found another path, a side corridor formed by a misshapen bulge in the blackstone pillars used at the base for the formation of the Hellfrost. creating an alcove to nowhere. An error not worth the effort to correct in centuries past. An error that created a blind spot where the reflected light of the Warden’s Eyes did not penetrate.

“Quickly,” Esharah hissed, leading the way down the shadowy tunnel, “We do not have much time.”

The man followed without question or hesitation. Esharah kept a watch on him through the corner of her eye, and she could see the slight tremors in his hands as he followed. No, not the hands - the entire man trembled, shaking as though wracked by the most violent chills. Lingering shocks from the pain suffered from the chains, a pain that still burned in her veins.

They stopped at the end of the tunnel, in darkness deep enough that Esharah’s cthonian eyes .

“You can resist the Book of Souls’ power,” Esharah said, looking into his eyes. “You lied under its influence.”

Aven returned her gaze, the ghosts of their lingering connection fading, leaving his soul blank as before as if closing its shell. Yet that shell no longer guarded him from her now that she’d delved inside the man’s mind, felt the memories within. Felt the pain. Felt the strength.

A new world of possibilities opened up. The Book of Souls was the final weapon that enforced the Head Warden’s authority. As long as the book remained in the Head Warden’s possession, any escape or resistance became impossible. But if the power of the Book could be subverted...

“We can escape,” Esharah whispered.

Aven gazed at her with piercing eyes, the suspicion obvious. To the prisoner, Esharah was undoubtedly another gaoler, another monster imprisoning him. Perhaps even a daemon like most saw her.

“You saw my memories,” Aven replied.

“And you saw mine,” Esharah returned.

“You were a spy and inquisitor for the Empire,” Aven said. “And you turned away from that path. Why?”

Esharah closed her eyes as the memories settled upon her. Memories of relationships formed. Friends discovered. Friends betrayed.

“I served the Ideals” she said bitterly. “An agent in the world to spy upon the citizens of the Empire, searching for disloyalty, searching for defiance to crush...and creating excuses for my masters to impose their will. In the name of masters who cares nothing for my life, I deceived, I betrayed, and I killed. But I also learned. The lives of the people...even in the most distant and shadowed lands of the empire, people seek joy and life. There is good in our lands. Good that some would stifle.”

Aven chuckled softly, voice devoid of any mirth, “Our empire is no utopia. There is little cause for joy in these lands.”

“And people still make joy from suffering,” Esharah argued. “There are lights amid the darkness. I...I betrayed my sworn Ideal, and for that, I have been punished. I...” The Thorn burned in her shoulder, a constant reminder of the torment inflicted for the little good done in her wicked and miserable life. “I am as much a prisoner here as you. And I too wish to escape.”

The man’s eyes closed as he considered the offer. Even speaking the words filled her with fear. If she was wrong, if the Eyes could reach this shadowy corner or this prisoner confessed the conversation to Yvris, then all was lost. Everything would end here. Yet Esharah had to take the leap.

At last Aven spoke, “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’ve nothing to escape to. The life I knew has ended. The home I had is lost. All I can do is wait here to rot, so I can join my father in death.” He paused, “And since you saw my memories, you know that the powers of the Void I hold are ones that no mortal should possess. My father thought it better that I die than walk freely with such a curse. Perhaps he was right.”

On the blank page of his mind, Esharah could now see the despair and self-loathing bubble to the surface.

“I will find you again,” she promised. “When you’re ready.”

With that, she turned, leading him back up to the surface and to the Zav level where they had first met. When they arrived, he stepped into his cell willingly.

Esharah met his eyes one last time. This man could easily give her up to the Head Warden. Could reveal the knowledge she had given him. The moment of hope she had seized could easily turn to doom.

But she had taken the risk, and now she had to accept whatever came of it. And so she left, leaving the Zav level and the man within to his fate.

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