Kael had been immersed in pitch darkness and silence for nearly an hour now. Just himself—and the void. While being transported inside the “cocoon,” he could not tell the direction of travel, the speed, or whether he was moving through the air or along the ground—across rooftops or through corridors. Everything blended into a single, suffocating sense of immobility.

  The only thing left to him was thought.

  “Even if I end up in captivity—it’s not a problem,” he reasoned calmly, almost coldly. “If it’s hard to find me now, soon Magister Duran will break through to the Jade Mage stage. Then the search will begin in earnest. They won’t be able to keep me locked up forever.”

  The thoughts gave him something to stand on. They set boundaries. Helped keep panic at bay.

  But then—something changed.

  Suddenly, sharply, as if someone had torn away an invisible veil, a sound reached his consciousness. Far too loud for someone who had spent over an hour in absolute silence.

  His head spun slightly.

  Light struck his eyes, muted but still painful. It felt as if a flame flared inside his skull—the contrast was that jarring. Kael blinked, trying to focus, and finally saw the room before him.

  Damp stone. A cold floor. Heavy steel doors and several empty cells opposite. Light crystals fixed beneath the ceiling glowed faintly, and there was not the slightest hint of natural light.

  “This is a dungeon,” Kael realized at once.

  Two mages in black robes were unwinding the fabric around him. Their movements were quick and mechanical, as if they had performed the procedure hundreds of times. When the cloth slid from his face, he rasped out a breath and looked at his captors.

  “Where am I?”

  There was no response.

  No glance, no gesture—as if he were not a person, but a sack of cargo to be unloaded at a designated point. The kidnappers continued their work with complete, unsettling focus.

  As soon as the fabric was fully unwound, they did not even let Kael rise. They immediately began stripping him, roughly and without explanation—removing his boots, cloak, belt, outer layers of clothing, turning out his pockets, checking the lining, running their hands along sleeves and trouser legs, feeling even the seams. Their movements were fast, indifferent, and well-practiced.

  They did not even hesitate to inspect his underwear.

  ? ? ?

  A minute later, he sat completely naked on the cold stone floor, a small pile of his belongings lying nearby—clothes, boots, belt, and the rest. Everything had been carefully laid out and checked. The spatial rings had been taken as well—along with everything inside them.

  Only after making sure there was nothing “dangerous” left on him did the two figures rise and leave the cell, merely lowering the partition behind them. It all looked as though they had simply penned in a sheep.

  But before they left, Kael realized it wasn’t that simple. The partition, though not secured with any lock, glowed with mana, as if a spell had been laid upon it.

  Kael remained on the cold stone, staring at the chaos of his belongings. He looked confused, but something entirely different echoed in his mind:

  “Lucky! They didn’t find the hidden ring!”

  He raised a hand and discreetly touched the back of his head—beneath his hair, he could still feel a tiny hardness, proof that the Black Rat’s ring was still in place.

  He got up quickly and began to dress, careful to avoid sudden movements—the cold of the stone seeped straight into his bones, and the air in the dungeon was damp and foul. The clothes returned warmth to his body—and with it, a sense of control.

  Only after dressing did he carefully examine the room. The walls were built from massive stone blocks, gray-blue, smoothly finished. In his mind, he was already confirming his earlier suspicions:

  “The walls are made of expensive, durable stone… The kind used for the foundations of rich estates.”

  And then he remembered—the doors had not been closed in the usual way.

  Kael lunged forward, braced both hands against the metal partition, and tried to lift it. It did not even budge.

  “Weight-increasing enchantments, most likely…” he muttered, examining it.

  Kael narrowed his eyes and carefully examined the partition. The heavy metal was covered in faint, matte patterns. He ran his fingers along the lower edge, then along the side guide, identifying the type of magic circle and its inscriptions.

  A calculation was already taking shape in his mind:

  “How much force would it take to move this? If these really are weight enchantments… how strong are they? Fivefold? Tenfold? Twenty?”

  He drew a deep breath, stepped back, planted his palms beneath the protruding edge, and this time poured as much mana into his body as he could safely channel.

  “Kgh-a-a-a!” he exhaled through clenched teeth, driving the mana pressure to its limit.

  Muscles swelled beneath his clothes, tendons drew tight like strings, and heat raced along his spine. It felt as if one more moment—and the skin on his palms would split under the strain.

  “Come on! Damn it!” he snarled through gritted teeth.

  A second later his body began to tremble, darkness crept into his vision, and his face flushed with blood. He pushed even harder—to pain in his wrists, to a burning ache in his shoulders—but without result.

  “Kha… ha…” he finally breathed out, stepping back and gulping air.

  He bent forward and dragged a palm across his forehead. Then, irritably, almost angrily, he said, “Damn… too heavy. Even as a Steel Mage, I wouldn’t be able to lift this.”

  He stepped closer again, placed his palm against one of the bars, and sent a small stream of mana into it. A faint gleam passed across the surface and immediately went out.

  “This dungeon is designed for Silver Mages at most,” he concluded. “Nothing special. No protective magic circles… They clearly aren’t afraid of my strength.”

  That thought stung more sharply than the cold floor. He held his breath for a moment, his lips twisting into an irritated smirk.

  “I don’t like admitting they’re right in their assessment…”

  At the thought, Kael slammed his fist into one of the steel bars, venting his frustration.

  The metal rang dully, the sound dissolving into the cold air of the dungeon. Kael ground out quietly:

  “I can’t stand this feeling… I’m in captivity again. I wish I could forget it forever.”

  He drew a deep breath and straightened, forcing his breathing to steady. His heart was pounding faster than it should, but his thoughts were gradually returning to order.

  “All right… I’ll find out soon enough why I’m here. I’ll draw conclusions as information comes in.”

  He stepped toward the center of the cell, intending to examine the walls once more, when a sound suddenly reached him from far away. A dull click—then the drawn-out creak of metal. Somewhere down the corridor, a heavy door had opened.

  Kael tensed.

  Then he heard a hum.

  Light, melodic, completely out of place in a dungeon—“Mmm… mmm…”. A tune that might have felt cozy, had it not sounded under such circumstances.

  In that same instant, Kael’s hands clenched into fists on their own, his teeth grinding so hard his temples ached.

  He recognized the voice instantly.

  “Elder Zeiran… That damned family again.”

  A dark, predatory fury began to swell in Kael’s chest.

  Before he could even decide what to do next, a silhouette appeared around the corner.

  An old man in a blue, richly embroidered robe; violet hair neatly gathered into a high bun; a faint smile like a fox’s muzzle, pleased with having driven its prey into a corner. His step was smooth and unhurried—so casual it only made things worse.

  “Greetings, Kael,” Zeiran said as though he had run into a familiar boy on a stroll, not a captive in a dungeon.

  Kael slowly raised his gaze, gathering what composure he could. His voice was even, though the hostility still bled through:

  “What is going on here, Elder Zeiran?”

  Elder Zeiran did not even bother to feign surprise, embarrassment, or the faintest hint of justification. He merely lifted an eyebrow slightly, as if the question were too obvious.

  “I ordered you abducted.”

  “I’d already figured that out on my own,” Kael replied acidly, without raising his voice. “What’s the point? They’ll look for me. Sooner or later, they’ll find me. And then… you’ll have problems.”

  At those words, Zeiran froze for a moment—then burst into loud laughter. Sincere, as though he had heard a truly excellent joke. The laughter echoed unpleasantly along the stone corridor.

  “Worried about my well-being? How touching,” the old man said, wiping the corner of his eye.

  But in the very next second, the play vanished from his gaze. It hardened, like a blade whose edge was no longer concealed.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “Let’s get to business.”

  He walked up to the bars and lazily lifted the metal gate. With two fingers, as if it had no weight at all.

  Zeiran stepped inside unhurriedly and cast a glance around the cell.

  “Usually, disobedient servants are kept here,” he said in a calm, almost bored tone. “If you’re unlucky, you’ll end up as one of them.”

  Kael clenched his teeth as rage rose inside him again—but he held it back. He remembered all too well how losing control always ended.

  Pulling himself together, Kael asked quietly:

  “If I’m unlucky? Then what happens if I am lucky?”

  Zeiran calmly sat down on the hard cot and answered, looking at the young man before him:

  “You once said you wanted to do good for Lasthold. Perhaps you’ll be given that chance.”

  Kael did not yet understand where the conversation was headed. But Zeiran, it seemed, had no intention of explaining—he was already savoring his own righteousness.

  “Lasthold has grown too rigid,” the old man continued, his voice turning hard. “And the Ancient Roots Family and the Sacred Flame Family have long since lost their courage. Once, we studied the world beyond our walls, striving to grow stronger. Now all we do is hide—like rats.”

  Kael did not interrupt—he only listened and analyzed. Zeiran’s words sounded confident, even inspired, but entirely different thoughts were already stirring in Kael’s mind.

  Before his inner eye rose the recent conversation with the Black Rat: the story of that very “campaign,” after which hundreds of orphans were left in Lasthold, and ordinary families lost their support.

  “And why do you stay silent about what those campaigns cost?” Kael muttered inwardly, feeling revulsion.

  Zeiran, meanwhile, continued, oblivious to Kael’s emotions:

  “With your help, I will take my place at the head of Lasthold. Then we will return to exploring the outer world. To studying the mountain ranges, to searching for the paths by which the founders of Lasthold once came. We will return to the origins.”

  He spoke as though he were painting a majestic vision of the future—one without disasters, without death, without the repetition of old mistakes. As if the world itself were meant to bend to his ambitions.

  Listening to all this nonsense, Kael, confident in his own safety, said dryly:

  “And how does any of this concern me?”

  Privately, Kael noted, “The old man has something up his sleeve… Maybe he expects me to help translate ancient texts? Something valuable enough to put him above the other families?”

  Kael expected any answer from the old man—just not the one that followed.

  Zeiran spoke—and at his words, the blood in Kael’s veins turned cold:

  “I need a great deal of your blood for an ancient ritual. It’s possible a power flows within you that you yourself don’t yet suspect.”

  The words were spoken calmly, almost gently, and at them, Kael’s insides began to tremble with fear.

  “No… I must have misheard… No…” he repeated to himself as his head began to spin.

  Zeiran rose, stepped close, and placed a hand on Kael’s shoulder.

  “If you resist… or decide to refuse food,” his voice dropped, grew sharper, “an accident may happen to your father. Mines have a habit of collapsing.”

  He paused briefly, letting every word sink into Kael’s mind. Then he leaned a little closer, and a dangerous, almost mad glint flared in his eyes.

  “Am I clear?”

  But Kael… did not answer.

  His lips trembled, but did not part. He turned to stone—his body no longer obeying him, a vise clamping around his throat, not allowing even a single word to break free.

  “I… I…” he rasped.

  It was the first time since returning to the past that such all-consuming, paralyzing terror came crashing down on him. His heart beat too fast, too painfully, as if trying to tear its way out of his chest. His breathing faltered—convulsive, ragged attempts to draw in even a little air. His fingers trembled, his knees barely held his weight, a painful throbbing pulsing in his temples.

  The mind that had endured pressure and preserved clarity so many times now quivered with fear.

  Zeiran watched without a trace of pity. Instead, a flicker of satisfaction passed through his gaze. He narrowed his eyes slightly and allowed himself a short, predatory, almost lazy smirk, like a man confirming that a tool worked exactly as expected.

  “I see you understood me,” he said, as if summing up. “Be obedient, and your father will be fine.”

  He did not continue. He offered no explanations or warnings—he simply turned and headed for the exit. His steps were calm, confident, as though what was happening were nothing more than part of a daily routine.

  The Elder stepped out of the cell, held the gate, and lowered it with ease, almost mockingly. Then he walked farther down the corridor without even casting a glance back.

  A few seconds later, a heavy, dull thud rolled through the dungeon, echoing off the stone walls.

  Silence reigned once more.

  But Kael remained standing, completely frozen. It was not the threat to his family that terrified him—at least, not now. The true blow had come from elsewhere.

  From the words about blood.

  “He… needs my blood? A lot of blood?”

  Each time that thought repeated, something inside him felt as if it were tearing apart. Images from his first life flared one after another—painfully vivid, so alive it felt as if they had happened only yesterday. The very scenes that had come to him in nightmares for centuries.

  The greatest mistake of that life. The gravest sin.

  The ritual of communion with the Gods.

  With the God of Knowledge and Madness.

  He remembered everything with terrifying clarity: how he collected his own blood for weeks; how he mixed it with a solution to prevent clotting; how he drew a vast circle of symbols and lines, each stroke requiring blood. He remembered the metallic smell, the sticky dampness on his hands, the strange trembling of the air as the magical circle finally closed.

  And he remembered what happened afterward.

  Now those memories struck his mind, as if someone had flung open a chest Kael had sworn never to open.

  His shoulders trembled. He pressed a hand to his chest, struggling to steady his breath.

  “No…” he whispered. “No. I made it up. That’s not it. It can’t be…”

  But his mind stubbornly dragged him back to the same words from Zeiran: “It’s possible a power flows within you that you yourself don’t yet suspect.”

  Realizing exactly what situation he was in, Kael reflexively—almost in panic—bit down on his tongue. Hard. Until blood. Sharp pain flared instantly—a hot stab that tore through the numbness and restored his ability to think.

  The metallic taste in his mouth became an anchor.

  His thoughts cleared for a moment. He took a deep, ragged breath and, clenching his teeth, hissed inwardly, “How… how is this possible?!”

  He spun sharply toward the door, as if that single movement might give him an answer. Texts, formulas, ritual descriptions, and pages of ancient folios raced through his mind. Dozens, hundreds of memories from his past life flashed by so quickly that they merged into a single stream.

  But they all led to one conclusion:

  “I need to escape. I need to get out of here—now.”

  He lunged for the gate, fingers digging into the cold metal. Amber eyes flared with madness.

  “Think… think!” he hissed through clenched teeth.

  His heart was pounding—but differently now. Not from paralyzing terror, but from a rising, dangerous resolve. He knew that if he allowed himself to sink back into numbness, it would be the end of him.

  “The Black Rat… she can hide my parents. If I manage to escape, she'll help. I just need to… just need to escape!”

  He braced his shoulder against the gate again, as if sheer willpower alone could force it to yield. But he understood perfectly well—raw strength would not be enough.

  And yet… his fingers clenched the bars as though he meant to tear them out with his bare hands.

  “No. I’d rather kill myself than ever be a slave to the Gods again!”

  The fear did not vanish. But now it drove Kael’s mind toward a solution. He had no intention of simply waiting for his death.

  ? ? ?

  Meanwhile, Elder Zeiran strode freely through the corridors of the residence, as if he had just concluded an ordinary, routine conversation—rather than shattered someone’s future. His footsteps echoed warmly and evenly against the stone walls—he was in no hurry, and he made no attempt to hide his satisfaction.

  I’ll need a great deal of blood… about a week to collect it,” he reflected calmly, as though he were placing an order for rare wine. “In the meantime, I should prepare the valuable texts for translation. No reason to let the boy sit idle.”

  He allowed himself a brief smirk.

  “Let him bring Lasthold the maximum benefit…”

  The thought warmed his soul pleasantly, but at that moment the silence of the corridor was broken by hurried footsteps and an anxious voice:

  “Greetings, Elder Zeiran!”

  The old man turned.

  A young man dropped to his knees before him, bowing his head convulsively. He was dressed in the simple clothes of a servant. Kael had seen him once in passing—this was Slug, the boy who constantly trailed after Aiden.

  Zeiran raised an eyebrow.

  “Why aren’t you with my grandson?”

  “He…” Slug swallowed, not lifting his gaze. “He said I was ruining his holiday. Told me to stay home and help the servants…”

  For a second, something like resentment crept into the boy’s voice. But the elder laughed, as if he had just heard a delightful story.

  “Aiden has a very… prickly temperament,” he said with a cheerful, almost benevolent smile.

  He stepped closer and added in an even, mildly sympathetic tone:

  “Don’t take it personally. Take it as a lesson. If you had your father’s talent, things would be different. So grow stronger—and one day you’ll be able to decide your own fate.”

  Slug lowered his head further.

  Zeiran, no longer sparing him a glance, continued down the corridor, lost in his own plans.

  Slug, still kneeling, cautiously raised his eyes—not toward Zeiran, but toward the dungeon hidden beyond the turn. His face remained as submissive as it had been moments before, but his eyes… his eyes betrayed what he hid best.

  Hatred. Dull, long-nurtured, carefully concealed.

  He narrowed his eyes and hissed inwardly:

  “That damned Vengeful Thunder Family… Someone has offended their precious honor again—and now someone will die for it.”

  The thought held no surprise, no shock—only bitter, habitual contempt. The script was as old as Lasthold itself: someone dared stand in the family’s way—and would soon vanish, never realizing where they had gone wrong.

  But then he watched Zeiran depart, and doubt flickered in his gaze.

  “But this time… something’s off.”

  He had seen the guards bring the cocoon inside earlier, and later—how the folded fabric was carried out of the cell. Prisoners had been brought here before, but today he had the sense that something in this ritual had broken the usual order.

  The dungeon to which the captive had been delivered was fairly simple. It had been built for weak mages, so as not to waste significant resources on containment.

  And yet… the Elder had come in person.

  “If the captive is weak… why did Zeiran go to him at all?” Slug noted coldly, squinting.

  It didn’t fit logic or the family’s customary methods. And because of that, a vague, unpleasant feeling crept in.

  When the Elder finally disappeared around the corner, Slug slowly rose to his feet. He brushed off his trousers, took a deep breath, and cast a brief glance at the two guards by the entrance to the cell block.

  “I pity you, whoever you are…” he thought. “You’ve fallen into the hands of those who know neither mercy nor restraint.”

  With that, he turned and moved down the corridor, like a shadow no one noticed.

  ? ? ?

  At that very moment, Lasthold continued to seethe with the Day of Winter celebrations—as if the entire city were living in a different, completely detached world—one without kidnappings, without dungeons, without people willing to spill blood for power.

  Crowds flowed through the streets like a sea filled with light. Magical garlands shimmered overhead, fireworks flared, music poured from every alleyway. The frosty air mingled with the scents of spiced wine, roasted meat, and sweets. The late hour did nothing to hinder the revelry—even children were not taken home, for this night was considered sacred, and happiness a mandatory attribute of the festival.

  Kael’s family was celebrating too. His mother laughed, singing along with the musicians; his father told stories to the neighbors; his sister, glowing with joy, showed her gifts to her friends. No one even thought to worry about Kael—he was a responsible, independent young man. Most likely, they assumed, he was simply out with friends—or meeting someone on business.

  It never even crossed their minds that their son was locked in a stone cage beneath the ground.

  Young mages from noble families crowded expensive restaurants, trying to outdrink one another. Ordinary townsfolk celebrated in cheap taverns, filling mugs with hot infusions. Snow absorbed their laughter; the streets gleamed; the city hummed as if no misfortune could ever touch it.

  Not a single person in Lasthold imagined that what loomed over the city was not merely danger—but a nightmare in the making.

  Zeiran’s tyranny was drawing near, as he prepared to wrench power from the hands of the other families. All that remained was to offer a sacrifice to the God of Shadow—and reap the rewards.

  The festival went on.

  Unaware that all of Lasthold stood just one step away from a blood-soaked abyss.