Chapter 4 Eoin
EOIN
Awareness returns with the clean, silent finality of a blade being drawn.
I take stock of my physical self. A full assessment in the space of a single, silent breath.
The body is fully functional. All structural damage has been repaired.
Musculature is at its peak. The lingering effects of the Aethel’s neurotoxin have been purged.
The Purna-infusion has been assimilated, leaving behind a core energy that is… elevated. Stronger than before.
I am lying on cold stone. The air is heavy with the scent of human blood and the metallic tang of fear. My armor is gone, my weapons are gone. I am a prisoner in a dark elf stronghold.
A new sound register. A soft, rhythmic hiccuping. The sound of a lesser creature in distress. It is coming from the far side of the cell.
The female.
And with that single observation, the memory of the preceding event rises. It does not trickle in. It crashes into my consciousness with the force of a physical blow: a complete, unsparing recollection of my total loss of control. The feeding. The descent into primal, illogical fury. The violation.
I do not register it as pleasure. I do not register it as conquest. I register it as the single greatest incident of shameful weakness in my ten thousand years of existence.
A complete and utter corruption of the discipline that is the very core of my being.
I, an Enforcer of the Vrakken, was reduced to a mindless beast by the blood of a human slave.
The logic is inescapable. The fault is not mine. The fault lies with the external agent. The Anomaly.
My assessment begins, cold and immediate, a necessary mental wall against the chaotic memory.
First consideration: The source. The female’s blood contains a potent, previously unobserved variant of Purna magic.
It does not merely heal. It overwhelms Vrakken physiology and, in doing so, shatters all mental and emotional discipline.
It is a poison. A highly addictive, intoxicating poison that induces a state of primal chaos.
Second consideration: The subject. Me. My reaction was absolute.
All discipline failed. All control was annihilated.
Conclusion: I am susceptible. It is possible that all Vrakken are susceptible.
Proximity to the source invites further contamination.
To remain here is to risk a repeat of the event, an unacceptable outcome.
Third consideration: The connection. A new, unwelcome sensation hums beneath the surface of my thoughts.
A phantom cord, a psychic link forged in the fire of the event.
Through it, I feel a constant, low thrum of her physical pain and emotional distress.
It is an infuriating distraction, a flow of illogical, chaotic sensations that clutter my thoughts.
It is a testament to my failure, a permanent scar.
The only logical course is to sever this connection.
Distance is the only blade sharp enough.
My decision is made. The calculation is complete. I must escape. I must purge the memory. I must return to the cold, clean logic of my existence.
The female’s soft cries continue, an irritating, persistent sound. To acknowledge her would be to acknowledge the failure. To look at her would be to engage with the source of the poison. She is an object, an element in a catastrophic experiment. She is nothing.
I rise. My movements are silent, my body a weapon restored to its full, lethal potential.
I stand in the very center of the cell and assess my remaining restraints.
A single iron cuff, glowing with the same dampening runes as before, remains on my left wrist. The chain that holds the female is bolted to the wall. The door is solid iron. Trivial.
Ignoring the small, broken shape huddled against the far wall, I turn my attention to the cuff.
I focus my restored energy, the raw power now humming in my veins, and direct it into the iron.
It does not glow this time. It simply groans under the impossible pressure before snapping with a sharp crack, the sound unnaturally loud in the silence.
I flex my freed hand, then walk to the wall where the female is chained. I do not look at her. I fix my gaze on the thick iron bolt securing her chain to the stone. I place my hands on the wall on either side of it and pull.
Stone grinds against stone. The muscles in my back and shoulders bunch, cords of steel under pale skin.
With a great, tearing shriek of stressed metal, the entire anchor plate rips free from the wall, taking a chunk of the flagstones with it.
The female lets out a small, terrified gasp as the length of the chain falls slack.
I do not pause. I walk to the door. It is barred from the outside, a solid slab of iron designed to hold a monster. I find the seam between the door and the frame. I dig my fingers in, my claws finding purchase in the microscopic fissures of the metal.
I pull.
The iron groans, whining in protest. The hinges strain, their screech a high, piercing sound.
The bar on the other side bends, then snaps with the explosive report of a thunderclap.
With a final, brutal wrench, I tear the door from its frame and cast it aside.
It crashes against the opposite wall of the corridor with a deafening clang that will undoubtedly alert the entire stronghold.
It does not matter. None of them can stop me.
Cool, fresh air from the upper levels calls to me. Freedom. A return to discipline. I step out of the ruined cell and into the corridor. I do not look back. To look back is to fail the calculation. She is a factor I must leave behind.
I take to the air in the vast, open cavern of the undercroft, my wings beating a powerful, silent rhythm.
I ascend through the stronghold’s shafts, a silver wraith in the darkness, moving with a speed the Aethel guards cannot possibly track.
I emerge into the cold, clean air of the night, the twin moons of Protheka casting a pale light over the frozen landscape.
I am free. I am in control.
A spike of pure, unadulterated agony lances through my mind.
It is not my pain. It is hers. Through the phantom cord, I feel a wave of her terror and utter despair at being abandoned in that broken cell, left to the mercy of her captors.
The feeling is a sharp, illogical intrusion that causes my flight to momentarily falter.
I build a wall against the sensation. I sever the connection. I force the chaotic, emotional torrent into a sealed chamber of my mind.
It is a weakness. It must be purged.
I angle my wings and accelerate into the starless sky, leaving the dark elf stronghold—and the memory of my failure—behind me.