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The knight searches the ruins of his castle, gauntlets stained with ash and dust. The fire still smolders beneath the desolate wreckage. There is nothing to find among the silk scraps and glass shards. The liege lord is dead.

The knight curls in on himself like dog that’s been kicked in the ribs. The rubble still burns but the spark in his heart has gone out. He wants to cry but can’t trust his voice to sound human. In the mirror of a rain puddle, all he sees is the steel scowl of a visor, and behind it – a darkness as empty and bitter as the guilt he’s left to drown in.

Longsword in hand, the knight kneels where the stairs to the castle once were. The wind blows the smoke away. The rain comes and goes. He can’t bring himself to move without a destination, to act without purpose. He waits for someone to give his life the worth it once had and knows deep down that nobody will come.

When a pair of keen eyes spot the hunched figure, they mistake it for an empty suit of armor. It doesn’t speak when they ask it a question. It no longer believes there is a person inside.



Liraeth could tell that something here was wrong long before he reached his destination. As he had journeyed further along the road that cut through the ancient and foreboding forest that surrounded the castle, a sense of quiet unease settled over him. The forest was quiet, it did not teem with the life of living world, the insects and birds were silent. The shadows between the gnarled tree trunks were too long, their depths too dark. A sharp metallic scent in the air, like ozone after a lightning strike. It was faint, and would perhaps go unnoticed by those who lacked the gift, this sense of the unnatural. But to a mage like Liraeth, these were the tell-tale signs of dark magic.

He checked the wards set about his person, and drew his travelling cloak tighter about himself.

The cloak was a strange patchworked thing of many colours, with a deep hood that kept the rain that fell steadily from the grey sky above off of Liraeth. The face that peered out from underneath was narrow and fine featured, with smooth skin pale as porcelain, save for a band a freckles that ran across the bridge of his nose. His hair was likewise pale, it tumbled down to his shoulders in waves of silver blonde curls, parted in the middle to reveal a pair of startling mismatched blue-green eyes, lively and inquisitive.

He was only of average height, and his build was slender, but in his hand was a staff of pale wood, shod at either end with rings of copper and iron, silver and gold. And with it, he excluded a subtle aura of power, for it was more than just a walking stick, this was the staff of a wizard.

It had been a long journey from the seat on the Conclave to this far flung castle and the dark forest surrounding it. He had gone by travelling door at first, then by carriage and wagon, and latterly upon foot for these final miles up the mossy stone road beneath the cover the gnarled and ancient trees. But he was sure now, that he was nearing his destination.

It was then that he began to smell the smoke.

The castle emerged out the sheets of rain, commanding a rocky hilltop that rose above the canopy. But no call went up from its watchtowers, and no figures stalked its battlements waiting for travellers on the road below. For it was not a castle anymore, but a smouldering ruin, the final fires of its destruction still being extinguished by the rain. Its towers crumbled, its great keep cracked and broken like the discarded shell of some great and terrible being.

This did not bode well.

It took Liraeth another hour until he stood before the gates of the castle bailey, torn asunder and hanging off of their hinges. Despite the stench of ash and smoke, he could still smell it, still feel it, that lingering stain of dark magic. If anything it felt stronger to him here than in forest.

"What happened here..." He murmured to himself, as he checked his wards for a third time.

With a deep breathe he concentrated his will and power into his staff, so that it filled with a light, gentle at first, becoming brighter and brighter, to banish away the gloom of this place and whatever dark things might still lurk here. With grim determination, he walked beneath the bent and twisted remains of the portcullis and entered the central courtyard of the castle.

The inside was worse than the outside suggested. He passed by what might have been the stables, burnt to a mess blackened charred timbers that had collapsed in on itself. He could smell death in here, over the ash, over the smoke.

A flight of steps led up pile of rubble that had once been the front entrance to the main keep. Liraeth turned towards it, seeking the heart of whatever happened here, when the sight of the armoured body made him pause.

At first he had thought they were a victim of this disaster, a corpse in armour, so still were they sat hunched upon the ruined staircase. But in the stillness of the courtyard he could see the rise and fall of their armoured shoulders, the mist that their breath made in the cold wet air.

Whoever they were, they were alive, sat amongst all the devastation and destruction that filled this accursed place. They might be the only person to have witnessed whatever terrible thing happened here. Slowly, Liraeth lowered his staff and let the harsh bright light it was emitting fade into a soft moonlit glow instead. He did not want to frighten this knight, who knew what he had already been through.

"Greetings friend, are you a survivor of this? Can you tell me what happened?"

The arcane light reminded the knight of the raging fires that claimed the castle, though he hardly had it in him to feel frightened. The horizontal slit in the steel visor barely let in any of the eye-straining brightness, and when it dimmed to a gentle moonlike glow, a mere tilt of the head was enough to force it out of view completely. The knight closed his eyes for a moment, but snapped them open quickly, startled by the vibrant images that clung to the back of his eyelids, disturbingly fresh in his otherwise clouded memory.

He couldn’t find the remains of His Lordship, nor those of his closest servants. The only bodies still at least partially intact belonged to his personal steel-clad guard – the knight counted each and every one of them dutifully, as though the mere act of recognition would give valor to their gruesome demise.

The first one lay crushed beneath the collapsed ruins of the northern tower. The second suffocated, the smoke forcing air out of his lungs – the knight knew the feeling well, his own chest tight, unable to breathe in full no matter how hard he struggled. The third and the fourth perished together, their molten breastplates fused into a grotesque lump. Natural fires weren’t meant to burn that hot. Whatever destroyed the castle had not come from this world. Perhaps that was why the knight’s memories of it were so… disjointed.

The greeting startled him. The stranger before him was hard to look at, his hair – a snap of silver, his cloak – a whirlpool of colors. There was an air of fortitude about him, of knowledge and power of a different kind to that of a mere armored fighter, but it didn’t frighten the knight, nor was it what made him avert his eyes and turn his gaze to the dust-covered ground, bleak and dull.

Before the fall of the castle, for as far back as the knight could remember, the world had always been… dim. Drained of the radiance of color and sharpness of sound. The stranger spoke in a calm, level voice, but it fell harsh on the knight’s ears. The light from the decorated staff was gentle, but the knight’s eyes still couldn’t bear it.

He stood up with a soft grunt, swaying only once before regaining his composure. He was tall even for a knight, the pommel on the longsword barely coming near his waist, and his shoulders were broad, bearing the weight of armor with practiced ease. With his right hand pressed horizontally against his abdomen, he bowed slowly, the movement small and dignified even though his left hand clutched the sword handle for support as the tip of the blade scraped the stone floor.

“Hail, stranger,” rough, toneless voice boomed from inside the closed helmet, the echo of it grating on the knight’s ears, nearly making him flinch.

He wondered if the man before him had seen the others like him. The fifth was at the stables when the disaster hit – there was hardly anything left to identify him by, save for a torn edge of his surcoat with a gold-embroidered inscription. The sixth fell from the top floor when it gave out under his feet, the body left intact, the neck angled unnaturally, suggesting a quick and certain death. The seventh and the eighth succumbed to madness, turning their blades on each other and eventually proving a match in every skill. The ninth ran a dagger through his stomach to escape the carnage around him, unable to resist the overwhelming pull of despair.

“There are no survivors,” the voice in the armor suit went on, flat and detached, the weight of the tragedy that surrounded the castle too great to even acknowledge. “Tenth of knights, at your service.”

The Knight rose before him unsteadily with a soft grunt. Huddled on the stairs as he had been before, Liraeth had not noticed how tall and imposing the figure actually was until they were looming above him. Armoured from head to toe in heavy plate, a steel visored helm completely obscured their face. Even with their form so heavily obscured, Liraeth noted the breadth of their shoulders, and inferred from it the physical strength they must possess.

In his left hand Liraeth saw the longsword that the Knight still held. A cold shiver passed down the back of his neck. He realised then, that despite his all his craft, if this man were to suddenly try to strike him down or attempt to overpower him, he doubted that he would stand little chance of resisting him in such close quarters. Perhaps he should not have approached so blithely.

But the Knight made no such move towards him, instead he pressed his free hand to his abdomen and bent at the waist in a small, dignified bow.

That had been the last thing that Liraeth had expected. He felt his jaw slacken open and his eyebrows begin to involuntarily raise, and realised that he was making some kind of face. He quickly glanced around him, to confirm that yes, they were still standing in the smouldering and destroyed courtyard of this castle. Courtly manners tended to be one of the first things to go out of the window when things started burning down and the bodies started stacking up in his experience.

The voice that boomed out of the helmet was strained and rough, like they had been breathing smoke and without water for sometime. There was something odd about it too to Liraeth's ears, a flatness to it, a lack of emotion at what was clearly a horrific tragedy. Like the odd courtly bow the Knight had begun with, it such him as slightly odd, slightly queer.

"Well met, Sir -err Tenth of Knights? I am sorry to hear that..."

He looked at the largely extinguished fires, the timbers burnt down to ash. Whenever this disaster struck it was not mere hours ago, a day or longer at least had past. And this Knight had just been... sat here? Waiting on the steps all that time? For what? Perhaps the man was in some state of shock, Liraeth had seen and heard of such cases before... or perhaps it was something darker.

"Do you require aid or assistance? I have some travelling provisions I would be more than happy to share, and possess some skill in the arts of healing if you have any injuries... or..." His voice trailed off, unsure as to what to say to the sole survivor of whatever horrible thing had happened here.

"Please, let me help you."

The stranger’s apology stung, although no part of the knight’s bitterness showed in his expression, impeccably neutral and still obscured by the visor. Feeling regretful upon finding Tenth amidst the ruins could only mean he was hoping to find someone else instead, and if another knight’s strengths and talents were more suited to his needs, then so be it. There was only so much Tenth could offer, only so much trust he could earn after failing once already – he couldn’t possibly fault the stranger for something as natural as that.

He was about to open his mouth to protest, but then the stranger requested to help him, and something inside him… twitched. Like a nerve struck, a string plucked to produce a trill, his vision turned dull and clouded, sounds drowned in indiscernible noise, his body tensed, and before he could realize what he was doing, his mouth was already forming familiar words.

“As you wish.”

Then, just as suddenly, everything was back – the vibrant head-splitting colors, the ear-piercing sounds, the burning in his throat and lungs, the ache in his ribs he was sure he hadn’t noticed before… Gods, he wished all of it gone, at least for a short time, at least for a night – half a night, a third, a quarter of peaceful slumber – but wishes were for those he served, and whatever mess of dignity and tissue filled the suit of armor, it did not, in his mind, constitute a person.

He agreed to fulfill the request on instinct alone, but wished he was sure how to go about it, too. The stranger didn’t frighten him, but the thought of the mere possibility of failing again turned his blood cold.

Perhaps an explanation would suffice. If he took a deep breath and clutched the sword handle as tight as he could, leaning on the blade with as much weight as it could support without showing signs of strain, he was certain he could manage at least that much.

“I have no task for which to require aid or assistance,” he said, and if it was clear in the way he spoke that the words completely drained him of whatever energy was left in him after more than a day without food or water, he hoped the stranger would not acknowledge it. “I am not under any orders that my injuries would… prevent me from executing. I don’t… know how you could… I–I…”

He trailed off, trying to take a deep breath and feeling like it wasn’t reaching his lungs at all. Between such simple acts as standing up, bowing in greeting, and speaking at length, neither should have exhausted him so much, but a combination in quick succession must have taken its toll.

The air was still heavy with traces of smoke and dust. His left hand slid out of the gauntlet, the sword falling loudly, clattering down the stone steps, and reached behind his helmet, where a strap of leather was holding down the visor. He unbuckled it in one quick motion, though, had it not been so well-practiced, he feared the numbness in his fingers would have failed him. His other hand was already tugging at the chin of the armor piece, prying the visor open with a loud metallic pop.

He had a gentle face, though sweat and grime coated it in equal measure, and many of his features were still partially obscured by the helmet and the strands of short brown hair that clung to his forehead. His eyes were shut against the momentary lightheadedness that threatened to overwhelm him. Even so, between the creases of his thick eyebrows and behind the frown that pulled the corners of his mouth down, there were hints of smiles that never blossomed and kindness that hadn’t yet found a way to express itself.

The wind cooled the light red burn that began above his right cheek and ended where it met his stubble. The relief was immediate, clearing his head enough to speak again.

“F-forgive me,” he breathed out, feeling color drain from his face, “I’m… finding it hard to… think at the moment…”

Liraeth listened as the Knight began to speak, saying that he had no task with which he required help with, and that any injuries he had would not prevent him from executing any orders. But the way that he spoke seemed to pained, so laboured. He was leaning on that sword as if it were a walking stick. The small sense of unease that had lodged itself in Liraeth's mind, when he had first wondered how long exactly had this Knight had been sat here amongst all this ash and death, grew with each and every pained word that slowly trailed off to nothing.

The sword clattered to the ground as the Knight's hand slid out of his gauntlet, breaking the silence that had fallen over the destroyed courtyard. The Knight pawed at his helm and unbuckled his visor, revealing his face.

Beneath the steel mask, the knight's hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat that had dripped down over his grime coated face, leaving trails in the ash and dirt that stained it. His eyes were closed beneath thick brows, his mouth pulled into a frown. There was burn on his cheek just above where the stubble of his beard began, but other than that Liraeth saw no obvious injuries. That was good.

It was a good face too, Liraeth decided, he believed that this man meant him no harm, despite whatever strange and terrible may have happened to him here. As the Knight began to speak again, he watched the colour drain from his face, and saw that he no longer had his sword in hand with which to support him.

"Whoa Hey!" The slight pale mage sprung forward to the bottom of the ruined steps, closing the final distance between them. He grabbed the Knight by the by the arm, in a perhaps somewhat futile attempt to steady and support the much taller and larger man. If the Knight were to topple over, there was as much of a chance that he would take Liraeth with him, still he tried. "Don't worry, I've got you."

Once he was sure the big Knight wasn't going to tumble down the remaining few stairs onto the cobblestones below, he didn't let go. Instead, he tried to gently lower his armoured form back onto the step that he had been sat upon when Liraeth had first entered the courtyard.

"Come on, sit down, save your strength."

He knelt on the step next to the Knight and transferred his staff, still faintly glowing, to the crook of his arm. With his hands now free he began to rummage around in the satchel he wore at his side under his brightly coloured coat, it contained his travelling provisions, along with a few other useful tools of his trade. After a moment's brief search, he pulled out what he had been looking for, an almost full waterskin.

"Here," He pressed the waterskin into the ungauntleted hand of the Knight. "Drink this."

Instead of relief, a newly intensified wave of terror gripped the knight’s heart when a small, gentle presence appeared next to him, trying to steady him, urging him not to worry. He was about to open his mind in protest, to warn the small and light stranger to stay away from him for fear of taking them both down if he were to topple over, but then the stranger kept on talking, and for a moment, everything went… dull.

The knight’s eyes lost their spark, as though a cloud of grey smoke enveloped him. His expression, previously pained, relaxed into cold neutrality as he moved himself into a sitting position in one slow, deliberate motion, like a keyed automaton with its springs wound up.

The next thing he knew was that he was suddenly sat down on the steps, his pose unnaturally stiff, not at all like the relative comfort he’d allowed himself before the stranger first approached him. Vibrant colors returned to the world around him gradually, and when he raised his dark brown eyes at the other man, there was a clear tint of confusion in his gaze, as though he’s just woken up and hasn’t had the chance to get his bearings yet.

Something was pressed into his hand, the stranger spoke again, and before the knight had the chance to feel a little more like himself, his focus was gone again.

His body moved in the same mechanical, singularly purposeful way, bringing the waterskin to his lips. Cold fresh water seemed inexplicably sweet on his tongue and provided some much-needed relief to his parched throat, but every gulp turned agonizing just from knowing – from feeling with every fiber of his being – that none of it was Tenth’s doing, that someone – or something – else had him under its control.

He placed the half-empty waterskin on the cobblestone step, and his shoulders slumped immediately, like a puppet with its strings cut. “S-stop,” he muttered, discarding the remaining gauntlet and dropping his head into his hands. Then, with a long sigh of a futile attempt to steel his nerves, “gods…”

He stared at his palms for a few seconds, as if trying to judge whether or not he could trust his hands not to move on their own, then raised his eyes and glanced around, taking in the sharpness and vibrancy of shapes and colors. It struck him then that his earlier state – the dullness, the quiet, the purposefulness, the lack of need or ability to think of anything else – that was familiar. Everything else was new.

At first Liraeth had discounted the sudden change in how the Knight had held himself as he lowered himself to the ground as simply being him steadying himself. But then the stiffness that he had sat there with, back straight and unyeilding, despite the fact that Liraeth had feared he was about to fall over mere moments ago, struck him once again as being off somehow. As soon as he was fully seated, the change seemed to wear off, the Knight's shoulders slumped once more in exhaustion.

When they locked eyes again, the Knight seemed confused somehow, like he had just been somewhere else, or had only just awoken from a strange or disturbing dream. A head wound could account for such a reaction, but the Knight's pupils were normal, lacking the wide dilation that foretold of a concussion.

An unsettling flash of magical intuition registered in Liraeth's mind. As he handed the waster skin over to the Knight, he kept his eyes trained on him, looking this time for any sudden or strange change in behaviour.

As soon as he had passed the skin over the Knight changed again.

His shoulders set themselves once more, the hand closed about the flask like a vice, gripping it strongly and raising it to is lips in a single mechanical action. He drank from it in deep gulps, his throat moving up and down like a piston. It went on for an uncomfortable amount of time, the Knight not pausing to take a breath, until the skin was half empty.

But the most disturbing thing about this display was the change in the Knight's eyes. This close and watching intently, Liraeth saw it properly for the first time. As he handed the flask over, it was like some kind of film or cloud descended over the deep brown of the Knight's eyes. It was like he wasn't looking at anything at all, like the rest of the world had faded away. All the light went out of those eyes, replaced with a unsettling blankness that only belonged in the eyes of dolls and the dead.

When he placed the waterskin down, the Knight reverted back to his exhausted state once more, collapsing in on himself like the ruined towers and keeps that surrounded where they sat. His head dropped into his hands and he murmured something to himself. When he raised it once more, his eyes had lost their glassy blankness, the light and colour slowly returning to them.

Liraeth could only stare in horror and in pity.

Of all types of magic, fair and foul, that existed in this wide world, the power to rob someone of their own will and make them into a slave or tool, was perhaps the most disgusting of all.

He could not be fully sure yet, but he believed that someone had cast over this Knight some kind of Geas. A curse that compelled one to act against their own will and instead placed them under the control of another. It was a terrible piece of magic, one that mingled deep in the mind of the recipient, and could cause immense damage to them if tampered with or inexpertly removed.

To be so carelessly and freely placed upon him too. Most Geasa were designed to be activated with a specific word or phrase, or keyed to the possessor of a particular artefact or object. To place a Geas where one was forced to follow any verbal command they were given... the callousness of it sicked Liraeth.

He set his jaw, a sudden fierce determination rose him. He was going to help this Knight no matter what, and make sure whoever was responsible for using such terrible and powerful magic with such little regard for him was held accountable.

"Sir Tenth..." He was choosing his words very carefully now. "I am Liraeth, Journeyman Arcanist of the Conclave of Magi. I need to go and have a look at the rest of the castle, and I think it would be best for you to rest here while I do, though you are under no compulsion to do so. I shall leave the waterskin here with you, you may drink from it as much or as little as you would like. I will be back soon."

He placed one hand one of the brawny Knight's armoured shoulders and patted it gently. Then he stood up, multicoloured cloak twirling about him as he took up his staff once more, the light from it growing brighter again. Liraeth took one final glance down at the at the Knight, giving him a small smile that almost masked the anger that was bubbling inside of him.

"I promise."

And with that he climbed steps towards the ruins of the keep.

The stranger masked his expression well. There was something imperceptibly powerful about it, something determined, some kind of passion driving him to act, but no matter how hard the knight tried and how diligently he looked for any signs of a hint, he couldn’t discern the source of that passion. The stranger was… odd, but not in any uncomfortable way. Even now, when the knight’s heart was still beating too fast in – thankfully receding – panic, the presence beside him was reassuring.

Despite all that, he still couldn’t help wincing when the stranger spoke again. For as long as it lasted, Tenth only had half the presence of mind to take in the words, all while struggling to brace himself for another instance of someone else’s will taking precedence over his own. Fulfilling orders used to bring with it a sense of pride and accomplishment. He missed that. Cold terror had a firm, unyielding grip on his heart. When the stranger – not a stranger, he was Liraeth of the Conclave of Magi, Tenth gathered that much even in his confused and anxious state – finished speaking, it took the knight a moment to make certain that his body wasn’t going to move until it were out of his own volition.

He nodded shakily, unsure why Liraeth was so eager to further examine the desolate ruins, but deciding not to dwell on it. The man had come to the castle for one reason or another, he must have had something in mind – to find, to learn, or simply to see with his own eyes, it mattered not to Tenth.

“Stay safe, friend,” he returned, his voice strained but filled with sincerity all the same. He searched the ruins himself just a while ago, and was sure that the danger had long passed, but they were still hard to navigate, and dust and smoke were painful to breathe. He found he didn’t wish that upon Liraeth, who smiled at him kindly despite everything, and even lay a hand on his shoulder.

He couldn’t feel it through the armor. The thought sickened him. The first act of genuine, human comfort he received in as long as he could remember, and he couldn’t even feel the warmth of it on his own skin, instead left to imagine it to the best of his pitifully lacking ability. As soon as Liraeth was out of sight, he took a deep breath, clenched his teeth, and removed the pauldron forcefully, tearing the pieces of leather that tied it to the breastplate and weaved around his upper arm.

Instead of warmth, he suddenly felt cold and exposed, a shiver running through him. It was strangely freeing, making him more aware of the world around him, like waking someone up with a pinch of the skin or a poke in the shoulder. He discarded the other pauldron with a little more patience, this time actually bothering to untie the knots, but found that he wanted to put it back on even less.

He took off his helmet next. His short brown hair was soaked with sweat and felt the cold especially sharply – it felt a lot like standing under a cold stream. Next were his couters, his vambraces, his chestplate – it fastened on the sides and in the front, and, thankfully, he could take it off by himself, without assistance. He couldn’t remember the last time he needed to do so.

He didn’t get as far as taking off his cuisses, as that would require him to stand up, and he didn’t yet feel steady enough for that. Above the waist, though, he was down to a short-sleeved linen shirt that exposed a roadmap of scars on his arms and chest.

With that done, he felt both unbearably tired and uncomfortably lost. Hesitantly, looking over his shoulder first to make sure nobody was looking or objecting to what he was about to do, he lay down on the steps. They were uncomfortable under his now exposed back, and he had to tilt his head slightly to avoid a sharp corner digging into his neck, but the relief he felt was immediate – and certainly worth the transgression.

He wondered if Liraeth would request him to put his armor back on upon his return, and if he could find something to replace the torn leather pieces, but before he could give it too much consideration, his eyes slowly closed, and pleasant emptiness filled his mind.

Liraeth found nothing in the keep except ash and death.

He paced through darkened half collapsed tunnels of blackened stone and ruined halls open to sky save for the skeletal ribs of their charred timber rafters. Light blazed from his staff. He could feel the power inside of him coursing through his veins, ready at his fingertips, calling to be used. That was one of things they tried to teach you above all else at the Conclave, the gift desires to be used. So too, the greater one's gift is, the greater the desire to use it. Restraint was often the most difficult task of great mages.

And as he made his way through the ruined castle, Liraeth felt powerful.

He wanted to use his magic. Propelled by righteous anger, he wanted to find whatever mage or being had wrought such destruction to this place, and done such cruelty to the Knight sat on the steps outside. It was rare that he felt such fury. But perhaps it was to be expected, such misuse of magic, it brought back uncomfortable memories for him. Memories better left in the past.

The mage slowed his march and breathed deeply, trying to calm himself, control himself. But the air he took down into his lungs was thick with the stench of smoke and ash, of burnt meat and decay. This was terrible place, he would be glad to leave it, and he would not be leaving Sir Tenth here alone either.

True to the Knight's words he came across no other survivors, only bodies. Some of them were burned and twisted beyond recognition, little more than bones and warped melted metal. Others clearly died in the aftermath of whatever had happened here, two knights impaled upon each other's blades, another with their own dagger plunged deep into their abdomen, hands stilled wrapped around the bloody hilt.

It was in the remains who what might have been the great hall that Liraeth found a hint of what the cause of all of this might have been.

The fires in here had burned hotter seemingly than anywhere else, hot enough to melt the stone flagged floor in the centre of the cavernous hall. He could still feel the heat coming off of it despite the rain and the time elapsed as he picked his way through the smouldering rubble. As he pushed some charred beams that had collapsed down from the roof above out of his way, the wood scuffed up the thick layer of ash on the floor, revealing something carved into it.

Frowning, he knelt in the ash and wiped away at the carved tile in the floor. As his hand touched it, Liraeth felt a jolt run through him, his stomach lurched and his head span. Dark magic, and strong too. He pulled his hand away to reveal an arcane symbol carved into the flagstone. He examined it, not immediately recognising the purpose of the glyph, but knowing enough of the runic morphology to know this was a summoning sigil of some kind. He looked to his left and right, saw the line of where the stones were warped and melting curve off away from where he stood.

This was a Summoning Circle.

A great working of magic to bring a being from the worlds beyond to this one. Incredibly powerful and dangerous magic that few attempted and fewer still ever mastered. A chill ran through Liraeth's body. The real question though, was this a disastrous failure, or an even more calamitous success? Either way, the Conclave would want to know.

Liraeth pulled a sheaf of parchment from his satchel and sketched a copy of the sigil there before searching for more. He found a few more, but most of the others that would have once made up the circle were either destroyed in the inferno or completely inaccessible under piles of fallen scorched masonry. Any that he found he made similar sketches of, along with notes on their position.

It wasn't much, but he doubted that he would find many more clues inside of the ruined castle, the destruction had been too great. Any papers or books belonging mage who had performed this ritual from which he might have gleamed further knowledge would have been completely incinerated in the inferno. The stench of dark magic suffused this place so deeply it was hard to draw out the individual threads of precisely what magic had occurred here.

No, it seemed like there was only one avenue to further this investigation, the memories of the Knight outside.



When Liraeth returned to the stairs he had left Sir Tenth sat upon, afternoon was turning to evening. He saw that the Knight was laid upon his back, his eyes shut, seemingly at rest. He had stripped most of his armour off on his upper body, down a simple linen undershirt. It revealed more of his form, the Knight's thickly muscled arms, criss-crossed with faded scars, as well as a sliver of his broad and powerful chest that Liraeth could not help but steal a glance at.

In truth, the Knight almost looked peaceful laid there, the furrows in his brow slacked and smoothed, for perhaps the first time since Liraeth had laid eyes on him early that day. He wondered what it was like then, to have your will robbed of, how it felt. Was it painful to the Knight when he compelled to do something?

The Conclave would need answers, and Sir Tenth was the one hold them. Liraeth knew he could just wake him up, speak an order to divulge all he knew what had happened and he would almost certainly comply. It would be the quickest, most efficient way to get the answers that he sought.

And it would also be an unspeakably cruel thing to do.

He pushed the thought from his mind and sat down next to where the Knight lay, picking up the discarded waterskin to wash the taste of ash from his parched lips. The water was cool and clean, exactly what he needed in this place of cloying death and darkness.

"Sir Tenth." He leaned across to where the Knight lay, speaking gently to wake him." How are you feeling? Do you think you can stand?"

Liraeth glanced around the ruined courtyard once more. They could stay here for the night, undoubtably the destroyed buildings could be used as some form of shelter. But the thought of spending a night here, amongst the rubble and bodies of the castle filled him with a sense of dread. Better to take the chance of finding shelter somewhere in the forest instead he reasoned. Besides, there was still some foul magic hanging over this place, it could be that was part of what was affecting the Knight, his condition could improve as left whatever influence this place exerting on those less protected than Liraeth.

"I think it would be best if we left this place, and rest somewhere else. You may feel... better... outside of the walls..." He trailed off before hastily adding lest his orders by construed as a command, "only if you feel up to it, of course."

Tenth wasn’t sure how much time Liraeth spent searching the ruins. With the unfamiliar but comforting presence gone, everything else seemed to still, the deathly grip of devastation tightening around the castle halls. Even so, resting on the steps with his eyes closed, unburdened by orders and commitments, the knight couldn’t say if he truly slept.

He has slept before, of that he was certain – resentful as His Lordship was to every aspect of his servants’ humanity, he could never train it out of them completely. They were soldiers by daylight, invincible and inscrutable, never showing weakness or admitting to feeling pain, but nightfall tended to expose a different side of them, one they hid behind closed doors, where they would peel off the layers of steel that encased their bodies and give up their duty to restore their strength through slumber.

It felt different then. He would lay down and immediately feel nothing. His bed was in no way soft, and it was rare for him to spend the night in it anyway, but no matter how harsh the surface under his back was, it never bothered him. He didn’t remember feeling especially tired in the evening, nor rested in the morning. His energy would be replenished, and nothing else would matter.

Now, every sharp edge dug into his skin. Every distant noise disturbed him, every gust of wind made him shiver. Once or twice, he even thought of placing his hands over his ears, hoping it would help a little. But his tiredness took precedent, and he didn’t move.

When Liraeth spoke to him, it was careful, almost gentle, but he was still startled. It took him a moment to realize the man was addressing him, and another to parse the question posed to him – a simple one, he was sure.

“I’m…”

Tenth paused, eyebrows furrowing. How was he feeling? The answer should have come to him naturally. Good? He didn’t want to lie. His muscles still burned and his body ached – would likely ache for a long time, a familiar feeling, though, like all others, it’s never been this sharp and distracting before. No, he wasn’t well, but what was he supposed to be instead? Ready? He was always ready. Orders could come any second, one had to be prepared. Time waited for no one.

Was he unwell, then? If he was injured, it was hard to say how, exactly. There were light burns on his body where the armor provided the least cover, but none of them were quite as bad as the red spot on the side of his face, and that was definitely nothing to worry about. He’s had worse. Unwell and not injured, could he be ill? It was still hard to breathe, but the smoke in the air was as much to blame for that as the smoke in his lungs. Everything was too bright and too loud, and the dullness that came with executing someone’s commands almost seemed pleasant by comparison, but that wasn’t illness.

Neither well nor unwell, was he right at all, or was there something terribly, indescribably wrong with him? His head felt clear, but his thoughts moved at a snail’s pace. His body was fine, but if he were to throw himself into a fight, his strength would fail him. The question was supposed to be easy, but the silence hung in the air, heavy and tense. Thankfully, the second question was much easier to answer.

“I can stand.”

Tenth sat up immediately, as if to prove himself. Before standing up, though, he took the time to unfasten his poleyns and greaves. Liraeth said nothing about the armor, and in a somewhat selfish display of weakness, the knight decided to discard it completely. Once he was up, much steadier on his feet than before, though still far from being at his full strength, he removed his cuisses as well, keeping only the belt that was supposed to hold them – he’d use it to carry his sword instead. It would keep both of his hands free.

“Right,” he nodded curtly to the assertion that it would be best for them to leave the castle. The way out wasn’t hard to find, he was sure Liraeth wouldn’t need any help navigating the wreckage, so he waited for him to set the pace. It didn’t matter to Tenth where to spend the night. “Have you found what you were looking for in those ruins?” he asked tentatively as they walked. He found he was… curious about the man, with his magic staff, his odd manners, his kind but unusual way of speaking. His motives, too. Perhaps he would know something about the tragedy that brought down the castle. Perhaps he would even tell Tenth about it.

The pregnant pause that hung in the air in response to Liraeth's question was troubling. It should have been a simple enough question to answer, but clearly the Knight was putting in a great deal of thought to it, his brows furrowed, sat in silence. He had been careful in his wording, trying his hardest not to activate the Geas cast over the Knight, but there was still something strange about his manner that made Liraeth wonder if there was something more deeply wrong with his newfound companion's mind.

He would have to take the time of preform a more thorough examination on him. But first they had to get out of this castle, the dark presence that hung over it could not be doing either of them any good.

Thankfully, it seemed that his second question was a lot easier for the Knight to answer. He sat up promptly and finished unfastening the last of the soot stained armour that had previously encased him, though Liraeth did note that he kept his sword fastened to his belt. When he stood he seemed steadier on his feet than Liraeth had seen previously. Standing next to him he had almost forgotten how big the Knight actually was, almost a full head taller than Liraeth was, and broader by far at the shoulder than the slender mage.

They picked his way through the piles of burnt wreckage and rubble, retracing Liraeth's steps back to the sundered gatehouse that led to the mossy cobbles of the forest road beyond, when Sir Tenth asked him a question.

He considered it. Had he found what he was looking for?

He had come here following dark rumours, tales of strange signs and portents, of things not of this world emerging from a dark and isolated forest and the damage they were bringing to the people of this land. And then when he had arrived he had wanted to find the source of the calamity that had befallen the castle, and whoever had placed such a hideous curse upon the Knight. He still wanted to find those things, out both a mix of obligation and righteous indignation.

But in his heart of hearts, Liraeth knew the real answer to this question.

He had been looking for him.

And he did not know whether to be relieved or bitterly disappointed that he had not found any clear sign that he had been here. There were only the scattered fragments of the ritual he had to go off of, and whatever he could glean from the memories of the damaged Knight accompanying him. It was not much, but it was more than nothing.

"I found... something," he replied slowly, "not quite what I was looking for, but a start nonetheless. And I guess I found you as well, Sir Tenth, so that counts for something too."

They passed through the opened gates, beneath the rusting teeth of the iron portcullis that hung above, and beyond the foreboding walls of the castle. Liraeth found he could already breathe easier here, it felt like a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders, one that he had barely noticed at the time, yet its sudden absence left him feeling light as a feather. The persistent rain that had troubled them thus far finally began to let up, the sky clearing even as the day grew long

With the rain finally stopping, Liraeth pulled his multicoloured hood down and pushed his light blonde hair away from his face, revealing the tips of his pointed ears. A teardrop of aquamarine crystal hung from the lobe of each. He looked up at the sky and gave it a wan smile of appreciation.

He knew they would not make it far this day, so the pace that Liraeth set was not a hurried one. Though the Knight had said they were well enough to travel, he had seen how unsteady on their feet they had been only hours before. It had taken Liraeth the whole morning of walking at a brisk pace to make it out to the castle from the village closest to the edge of the forest. They would have to spend at least one night in the forest, perhaps two if the Knight needed more time to rest and recover.

As they traversed the slope down away from the castle, Liraeth spoke again.

"How is your head feeling now, Sir Tenth? Any easier to think? I was hoping that I could ask you some questions about what you remember about what happened back at the castle... there is no rush though, we can take our time."

Despite its lack of detail, the answer Liraeth gave to Tenth’s hopeful question was… comforting. It reassured him in a way he never expected. He was ready to learn of the man’s motives, of the purpose of his visit to the castle, of the traces of the tragedy that may have still been lurking in the charred halls and collapsed corridors. He was hoping to gain some hints to the events of the past few days, something that would cut through the haze that enveloped his memory, something his own search for survivors had regrettably missed.

Instead, he learned that Liraeth considered finding him a good thing.

The man didn’t really put it that way, but he said it counted for something, and whatever it counted for, it filled Tenth with the sense of purpose he so desperately lacked. His presence was wanted! Warmth spread through his chest, drawing a sigh out of him – not a smile, not yet, he didn’t know if he still remembered how to smile, but a sign of a feeling other than worry and pain, as foreign to him as the brightness of the sun and the sensation of wind on his exposed skin.

He didn’t mean to stare but couldn’t help a curious glance at the man when he removed his hood. The aquamarine caught his eye – a foreign, rare color, as beautiful as it was mysterious. It fit Liraeth well.

Tenth looked away, turning his gaze to the setting sun instead, feeling foolish and ashamed, like he’d crossed a line just then. They walked in silence for a while. He was grateful for that.

“My head works fine,” he was quick to assure, his answer confident but his phrasing avoidant. It was the same logical loop that threw him off when Liraeth asked how he was feeling. His head didn’t feel fine, but it didn’t feel like he was ill or injured, either, so the easiest way to answer was with something else, something more important, something the other man would probably like to know first and foremost.

And Tenth’s head worked fine, even if the incessant buzzing in his ears was gradually turning painful.

“I can think now. I’m sorry.”

The memory of how he’d acted earlier made him wince. Liraeth had been so patient with him then. He hardly deserved it.

“I should tell you, I no longer hold the title you call me by,” he confessed, his head hanging low in growing shame. “I called myself a knight, but I don’t have the right to, after what I’d done.”

His fists clenched, nails digging into the skin of his palms, drawing blood. He spoke with conviction and – deep, deep below it – with anger, with relentless fury directed at no one but himself.

“When the tragedy struck, my liege summoned me for a task. I’ve been trying to recall what it was for some time now, but I can’t, just as I can’t remember what it was that brought the castle down. Every time I try, it’s…”

He frowned, once again attempting to make sense of his memories, but there were gaps, blanks full of nothing, and they lit up in bright reds every time he dared disturb the stillness of ignorance. A short hiss of pain escaped him – the only hint of the agonizing headache that felt as though it was about to split his skull in two.

“…useless,” he finished the sentence with effort, taking a deep breath. “I know only that I failed – no, not failed – refused my task, and now my liege is dead. You’ve been… kind to me, but I fear that finding me counts for less than you’re hoping.”

Liraeth listened as the Knight began to verbally excoriate himself. He blamed himself clearly, for both what has happening to him as result of the curse that had been placed upon him, as well as whatever had happened back at the castle. He watched as he pushed himself to the point of pain, his brow furrowed in concentration, blood trickling from his clenched fists, hissing in pain.

He almost spoke without thinking.

"You're hurting yourself! Sto-" He caught the words before they were fully formed in his mouth. The Knight let out a deep breath, and finished his castigation. The danger of pushing his fragile mind too far passed for the moment at least.

Liraeth hummed with a quiet rage. He was angry at himself for almost slipping up and saying something that would compel the Knight to act against his will. But he was even more angry that this man still felt any shred of loyalty or allegiance to the person who had likely had this done to him. They most certainly did not deserve any shred of compassion or respect in Liraeth's mind.

It was like watching a whipped dog pine faithfully at their master's heels.

"You don't have to apologise for anything! Not to me at least, and certainly not to-" The indignant anger on the Knight's behalf that had been building up inside of Liraeth erupted for a moment, before he stopped himself once again. The Knight's psyche was probably fragile enough as it was, it would not benefit from Liraeth dumping the likely truth of the matter out now in an impassioned rant.

He breathed, closed his eyes and put his free hand to massage the bridge of his nose. When Liraeth opened them again, he could see the sun was low in the sky. They had only made it a few miles from the castle, they would have to find shelter in the forest tonight. When he spoke again he made sure to look the Knight in his eyes.

"We should find somewhere to make camp for the night, there are some things I think I need to tell you. I had been withholding them as I did not wish to distress you. But suffice to say for now, that you are not useless." He gave the Knight a wide smile, his mismatched eyes lighting up in the fading twilight. "And even if you were, you would still deserve my kindness and aid."

He struck right off of the side of the road, picking his way through the gnarled mossy trees, following the downward slope of the land. He could faintly hear run the distant sound of running water, there must be river or stream in that direction. It would make a good a spot as any for them to make camp.

"Though if you no longer wish me to call you by your title, Sir Tenth of Knights, perhaps I can just call you by your name instead then?"

Tenth nodded slowly, more in acknowledgement than in agreement, taking in the other man's strange, foreboding words. He spoke kindly, gently, and there was sincerity to it when he asserted that the knight - the former, disgraced knight - was not useless, nor owed an apology to him. And yet Liraeth did not order him. Made a point out of not doing so, which didn't escape Tenth's notice, though he wouldn't call attention to it openly. Whatever use there was to be gotten out of him, Liraeth seemed to have no need for it, and it stung.

With grim resignation Tenth focused instead on his other words, mainly the confession that he'd been concealing something, which didn't come as a surprise at all. With the way Liraeth held himself, effortlessly dignified and endlessly patient, it was easy to assume - likely not incorrectly - that he was a wise, knowledgeable man. He must've found something among the ruins that Tenth's own thorough but mindless search missed. Tenth shook his head. "You don't owe me any truths," he said with a shrug. It seemed so simple. "And worry not for my dustress. There's little else to be taken away from me."

He meant to sound reassuring, not realizing the words had come out so grim.

"I... don't have another name," he confessed, his tone still apologetic, though Liraeth told him not to apologize. It wasn't an order, was it? It didn't feel like one, but Tenth feared he might have lost the ability to differentiate whether it was his own will compelling him to do something or someone else's. "I'm neither a sir nor a knight any longer, but I have always been Tenth."

His name has never felt so... inadequate before. If Liraeth wished to call him something else, he wasn't sure there'd be anything left of him - the original him, the way he knew himself to be before the tragedy at his castle. He felt too tired to think of such things. The promise of setting up a camp sounded delightfully appealing. He wondered if Liraeth would have him keep watch. He wasn't sure he could, but if the same dull, focused decisiveness took over him as when the other man had given him small instructions earlier, perhaps he'd manage. The world was a lot less tiring when everything got a little muffled.

"The sky is almost clear," he noted, neither pleased nor displeased with the fact, merely trying to guess where Liraeth would prefer to stay the night. "We don't need much cover if it's not going to rain. The worst thing in these woods would be the wolves. A fire will scare them off."

A hesitant pause. A quick glance. A short hiss as he sucked in a breath.

"I can make a fire, but it'll be easier if you tell me to."

They didn't even leave him a name.

Liraeth could not believe it, the level callous disregard for someone's personhood that you could strip them of their birth name and leave them thinking of themselves as a number. It was more than just the stealing of their agency, it was the erasure of whoever they had been before. This Knight had been someone's son, part of a family somewhere, and now they were a number instead. It sickened him to the core of his being.

But he could not say that to the poor Knight's face. He could not bring himself to spell out the horror of what had been done to him so bluntly. The Knight seemed so fragile still, despite all his obvious strength. That would just be cruel, and Liraeth did not want to be that, especially to this Knight.

So instead he smiled at him, and used the name that his abusers had given him, trying not let his stomach turn as the words left his mouth.

"Then Tenth you shall be."

He did not linger in the moment, he turned away and starting walking off into the forest again quickly, lest the Knight catch sight of tears Liraeth could feel forming at the corner of his eyes.

Following the sound of the water, eventually they came to a mossy riverbank. The dark trees of the forest hung back away from the water's edge, leaving a patch of open ground beside the running water. There was soft grass here to rest upon, wood from the forest, clean water from the river and stones from its bed with which to line a campfire. It was as good as spot as they were like to find.

It was then that the Knight said something that froze him in place and made his blood run cold. He asked Liraeth to give him an order, that he would be easier if he just... told him to do make a fire. The thought of doing so had not even crossed his mind, the idea that the Knight might want him to do so... He found it unsettling. But even if he had no personal objections to do doing so, he did not want to activate the spells laid over Knight purely out of his concern for his wellbeing. Something was damaging Tenth's mind beyond controlling his will, until he had a better idea of what exactly was causing that, he would not risk using the Geas in any way.

"Tenth, I'm not sure if you fully understand what you are asking me to do. I will try to explain it to you as best I can, but for now I do not wish to order you to do anything... I do not think it wise."

Liraeth left the fire to Tenth, and went into the woods to see if he could forage anything for their supper. He had some day old bread, a little hard cheese and some dried apples with him, but there should be mushrooms and wild greens to be had this time of year, maybe some edible nuts and berries if they were lucky.

“I–I see.”

Tenth nodded, drawing in a sharp breath through clenched teeth. With every effort to keep his voice even and his tone devoid of emotion, he still couldn’t hide the slight stutter of poorly masked anguish. The sound of running water nearby, usually – supposedly – calm and peaceful, roared in his ears like a drum. Liraeth didn’t wish to order him. Liraeth wished nothing of him. Liraeth had no need for him.

Gathering wood for the fire was a meticulous, well-practiced task. He set about it in what was intended to be a familiar way, but soon felt every scratch of dry timber on his palms, every splinter digging into his skin, every bit of weight pulling on his exhausted muscles, and then the water – always the water – rushed past so fast, so loud, he could barely hear his own thoughts. He wasn’t supposed to think, not during such a task. Not during any task. His mind wasn’t meant to wonder towards the creaking sounds of tree branches, the rustling of wind in the leaves, the uneven ground pressing against the soles of his boots, and the water…

Calloused palms scraped red, eyes focused on the slightest hint of smoke emerging from the pile, sparks flying sideways, catching, spreading, so impossibly bright, so fast in changing their shapes, playing tricks on his vision, tinted dark with tiredness and lack of sleep. Still, it needed to get dimmer, or else he was about to start tearing his hair out of his head. The water flowed on and on, steady, vibrant, colorful lines, broken circles, twirling whirlpools of incessant noise.

He sat on the grass by the fire, feeling shaky and sick. The scent of smoke broke back memories still fresh, a violent assault on the senses, a scraping, scratching, cutting feeling in his lungs, drawing a cough out of him. Even his own voice was suddenly too much. At least in Liraeth’s presence there was something to match it. A set of footsteps to echo his own. A presence to focus on, to draw his attention from the wind, and the lights, and the water – gods, that water – that whistled, whispered, whisked away the smallest, quietest, briefest of whines he’s ever allowed himself to let out.

He clasped his hands over his ears, palms pressed flat against them, so tight he could hear the blood flowing through them, but it sounded just like that damned water, and he still smelled and tasted smoke, but he only had two hands. The fire shone through even as he shut his eyes tight, a snap of orange with a dash of reds and yellows.

It felt like he’d been awake for too long.

When footsteps broke through the onslaught of noise, dimmed only slightly by the hands still covering his ears, Tenth’s first instinct was to report on his task, to let Liraeth know the fire was done. He opened his mouth but built his tongue on the well-practiced line. It hadn’t been an order.

“Should be enough for the night,” he said instead, nodding at the firewood he’d collected. His voice came out strained. He braced himself before lowering his hands in case Liraeth responded. His headache was back – not as sharp as when he tried to remember whatever it was that destroyed the castle, not as quick to appear, not as… Unnatural. The water hissed and sliced the shore so vehemently, it only made sense that it’d cut through his skull eventually, too. His shoulders shook. He waited for it to pass, even knowing that it wouldn’t. There was nothing else for him to do.

Liraeth returned from foraging with a handful of edible mushrooms he had found growing in the lee of a fallen tree trunk, with the dried provision he had with him it would be enough to feed them for tonight. He stayed away a little longer to search in vain as the light faded from the forest. In truth, he could not help but feel nervous about what was to come next.

He had to tell Tenth about what was happening to him, the full extent of what had been done to him and the possible side effects that it may be having on his mind and memory. Liraeth was not sure how he would react to such information, he had seen little ill intent or hostility from the Knight so far, but there was no telling how he would take this revelation. Liraeth could had his own feelings about it all, simmering constantly being the surface, anger, disgust... pity.

And then would come the next trial, he would have to see if this thing was in his power to undo, or at the very least, make safer somehow. Magic of the mind was a subtle and delicate art, and he did not know whether he would have the skill in order to do such a thing safely, without causing any further damage or pain to Tenth.

He sighed to himself and watched the river flow by in the deepening dusk. There was no point in putting this task off any longer, it would not grow any easier, nor become less painful.

As he walked back along the bank of the river, he could see a fire crackling away at the spot they chosen to set their camp at. The Knight was silhouetted against the orange flames, sat on the grass, his hands clamped firmly over his ears, shuddering to himself. Liraeth tried to imagine what was going through his head, what it must feel like, being so used to be stripped on one's will, without the memories to make sense of one's life. He must be kind to him, Tenth deserved someone being kind to him.

"Yes, thank you for dealing with the fire, Tenth." Liraeth deposited the armful of mushrooms at the side of the fire. As he knelt down he unfastened the multicoloured travelling cloak. The Knight was only wearing his linens, and the night was closing in. Liraeth had good woollen tunic, dyed bright blue with woad, under which he wore a linen shirt of his own. Tenth had greater need of his cloak tonight than Liraeth did, he lightly tossed it to him with one hand. "Here, you look cold."

The mushrooms needed brushing down and cooking before they would be palatable, so Liraeth busied himself with that, cleaning them off and skewering them on twigs so they could placed above the coals. He hummed to himself as he did so, some song he distantly remembered from his own long lost childhood, what little of it he recalled before he entered the Academy.

Once they were sizzling away above the raked out coals there was nothing left from him to do other than begin to talk. He started slowly.

"So... there's a couple of things that I think I need to tell you, Tenth." Liraeth shifted away from the fire, sitting himself down next to the larger Knight, close, but not too close. "The reason I came here is that I was investigating rumours that the Conclave had heard of about the practice of dark magic in these lands, coming from this forest. As I travelled here, I became convinced that the source of these rumours was the castle of your Lord. And when I arrived, I found two pieces of evidence to support this theory, the first was some signs of a ritual that may be cause of the destruction there. The second... was you, Tenth."

He studied the Knight's dark brown eyes as they caught the flickering light of the fire. He was searching for any sign of distress, any sign that what he was saying was too much for his fragile psyche to currently comprehend.

"I didn't want to confuse or frighten you before, but you seem a little better now and I think you should know, someone has placed a spell on you. I believe it to be a type of curse, known as Geas, that compels the... subject to follow orders without question. It can be a dangerous and difficult piece of magic to use well, and it may have caused some the trouble you have had with thinking recently, as well as with you struggling to remember certain things."

The humming helped. It was a strange, unexpected thing, something Tenth would never think of doing himself, but also something that didn't seem surprising at all when coming from Liraeth. Everything about him seemed so together, composed and steadying, it made sense that he would also be familiar with such a mysterious, far-away thing as music.

Tenth was distantly sure he'd heard music before, somewhere, perhaps when his duties took him into a bustling city. It was hard to remember now, he couldn't pinpoint a familiar melody or even a sound he'd recognize, but he could focus on Liraeth's voice, how soothing it was, how gentle the rustling of leaves and whispering of waves felt when it didn't cut into his head like a battleaxe. He wished it could last longer, but before the scent of food could permeate the smoke-tainted air, the song stopped abruptly, and Tenth had to hold back the urge to clasp his hands over his ears again when Liraeth spoke.

Tenth frowned, struggling to make sense of the explanation. The words "dark magic" meant little to him - he wasn't involved in the study of the arcane at all, he knew nothing of spells and curses - but the words invoked a sense of unease. It gripped his heart and twisted his stomach.

"What?" the question fell flat, not demanding an answer, echoing quiet and hollow. He felt lost. Liraeth's words carried weight, stacking on his shoulders, dragging them down as they slumped and he rubbed his eyes as it it'd clear his head. Something wasn't right with him, he knew that much, but to believe what the mage was saying, he'd have to... Liraeth would have to...

He shook his head, a crease of worry between his eyebrows, a sickly palor in his cheeks. His eyes met Liraeth's - he was searching for signs of deception, jest, or even mere uncertainty, but whatever hope he still held onto was near instantly crushed.

"But I wanted to follow them," he protested, and this time, despite his attempts to lace the words with as much confidence as he ever had in him, it did come out like a question - broken and unsure. "I know I wanted to. I remember that."

Orders have always been so... easy. Natural. The rush of warmth and a sense of belonging that came with successfully following an order wasn't like anything he's ever felt before or since. The heat of the campfire couldn't even compare. He shivered under the mage's coat, grateful for it but seemingly unable to draw any comfort from it, always on edge, always looking over his shoulder in case someone would see his transgression and admonish him for it.

"I could always... I can still..." he trailed off, searching for words. Hands reached forward, closer to the fire as he flexed his numb fingers. "If you order me to do something—if you tell me to do something I can't—swim in that river or—something I don't want to do, like—to hold my hand over the fire, I won't..."

He shook his head again, determination filling his heart. Fists clenched and chest puffed with empty confidence, he looked at Liraeth.

"Order me. I won't do it."

Liraeth kept talking.

He just couldn't stop himself as he watched the expression of lost helplessness and desperation settle over Tenth's face. The Knight's eyes searched his own looking for something that Liraeth could not give him. And so he just kept talking, words falling out of his mouth as he continued to try and explain, apologise, comfort, reassure. Surely there must be some combination of sounds that he could produce that would make that expression go away.

"I'm sorry Tenth, I really am, I know this must be a lot to take in, and you're doing really well, and I'm sorry that I didn't say anything sooner but just I wanted to be sure that I was right, and I wanted to make sure that you were well enough to understand before I sai-"

The Knight cut him off with a protestation that he had wanted to follow the orders that had been forced upon him. But he sounded so unsure of himself that it came across as more of question than a statement of fact. He was trembling again, and there was nothing more that liraeth wanted to do than hold him and tell him everything would be alright. Liraeth could see what was happening, the foundations of the world that Tenth knew were collapsing beneath him, leaving him to question everything that he knew about his life.

Liraeth had been there before.

He thought back to that night in the infirmary when they had told him that he was gone.

The way the walls had closed in around him, the bed felt like it was sinking into the floor, his world turning into a black pit from which there was no escape. He had tried to scale the walls of that utter disbelief and despair with countless rationalisations, justifications, and excuses. That what they told him was not, could not be true, that they were mistaken, that they lying to him, that despite all their wisdom and power they had been tricked, deceived, hoodwinked, bamboozled, outwitted, and hornswoggled.

"Maybe so...." He could feel his hand moving to the familiar spot on his upper right arm, coming to rest over the faded scar there. Retracing the mark that had been left him that night. Burned into him, with flame hotter than any natural fire.

He returned to the present, forced himself back into this moment, where he was needed. A different night, a different fire, a different companion. One who was now pleading with Liraeth to order him to hurt himself. It was not a good idea, Liraeth knew he was right about the Geas, knew that this would only lead the already suffering knight to further harm yet still.

"Are you sure? I don't think... I don't know if that is a good idea, Tenth."

And still. He hadn't stopped trying to rationalised what happened until they showed Liraeth all that was left of him after that night. It was only then, that he had been able to accept what had happened, let the world he had built around him come crashing down and finally try to build something new. He had needed to see the proof with his own two eyes, only then had he been able to move past it. And even then... never completely.

Perhaps it was the same with this poor, wounded, Knight.

When he finally spoke again the words were small, quiet, soft. He kept his eyes focused on the Knight, the firelight making them shimmer in the darkness. Their blue and green depths were filled with an incalculable sorrow.

"Tenth... I order you to put your hand over the fire."

Liraeth's concern was understandable, but Tenth's confidence never faltered. Eyes shining bright with stern, decisive stubbornness, he waited for the order like an outlaw waits for the guillotine. The other man was probably right - the idea was dangerous, unwise, even foolish - but deep down Tenth knew that he wouldn't be able to live with himself otherwise. As long as there was that sliver of hope to hold onto, they had to try.

It was gone as soon as the order was spoken. Everything faded - the sounds, the colors, the scents - leaving only a dull but painless urge to raise his right hand and bring it closer to the fire. Closer. He leaned forward, face blank, eyes half-dead. Closer still, with no hestitation and no pause, until the fire enveloped the hand completely. He felt nothing.

A small part of him protested. He needed to save his right hand, or he wouldn't be able to hold a sword. More than that, he needed to prove to Liraeth - and to himself - that he could disobey if he wanted to. The small, quivering, barely present part of his conscience he was beginning to recognize as himsslf proper was screaming in agony he couldn't feel, willing himself to pull back, waiting for the sweet relief of freedom. It did not come.

He could neither hear nor discern Liraeth's order to stop, but his curse-driven body still somehow knew to obey. The hand moved slowly, so slowly, deliberately, methodically, like the singed skin wasn't there. Aimlessly, still not feeling any pain, he cradled it to his chest and waited for... Something. A sharp noise that would cut through the haze. A spark of color that would draw his attention. A sensation that would make him feel like he was still among the living. Anything.

Nothing.

He stood up, unsteady, color gone from his face in the seconds it took him to catch himself on a nearby tree trunk as he swayed. It was only a few steps to the river, a monumental effort, and then he dropped to his knees, sticking his hand into the cold stream, watching the angry red shift into soothed pink, struggling to remember how it got there.

He opened his mouth to speak, but his voice wouldn't obey him. Pale, trembling lips wouldn't move to form words. Tired, unfocused eyes wouldn't look where he wanted them to, wouldn't catch what he wanted to see. The water seemed to still under his touch - he knew it should've been moving, flowing through his fingers, but he couldn't feel it. It wasn't him who eventually forced the exhausted, stiff, injured body to stand up and return to the campfire, sitting down heavily in front of what should've been - at least in the moment - scaring him too much to approach. It wasn't him who raised his head, staring emptily somewhere past Liraeth, into a great nothing. It couldn't have been him, because he wasn't there.

Brown eyes searched for blue-green ones in a brief moment of recognition. A quiet whine was drawn from his throat, cutting off abruptly as the curse once again took over, waiting for another order. He wanted to apologize to Liraeth, to warn him not to give another command, to beg him - then, with everything gone, with no sounds, shapes, or feelings to hold onto, he wanted nothing. His liege was right to call him "Tenth". Whatever sat by the fire, pain unnoticed, shivers forgotten, was only an empty husk of a person.