Chapter 18 Mage in Distress… Mostly
MAGE IN DISTRESS… MOSTLY
brANDON
The first thing Brandon noticed when he came to was the taste of blood in his mouth. The second was the suppressant cuffs burning against his wrists like molten iron. Thankfully, his cloaking was still in place. He didn’t want Muriel experiencing any of this.
He kept his breathing shallow and his body relaxed despite the screaming protests from bruised ribs and a busted lip.
Through slitted eyes, he took stock. Tallow candles burned in the corners, casting just enough light to see.
Earthen floor. Earthen walls. Rough-hewn support beams atop flat stones.
One window high on the far wall, fitted with iron bars.
Open stairs made of sturdy hardwood slabs led upward to a door reinforced with iron crossbars and heavy-duty hinges.
The place smelled of damp, musty air as if it had been closed up for months.
The nulling spell had worn off, but the suppressant cuffs were still in place.
Standard Magisterial issue, they were designed to block a mage's access to cultivated magic—the structured flows they'd spent years learning to channel and shape from the innate magic within.
They burned because they were working, cutting him off from the pathways he'd built through decades of study and practice.
They were not as effective against the latent, ancestral power he’d been born with, however.
The old magic sang beneath his skin, wild and primal, answering to bloodlines that predated the Magisterial Consilium by millennia.
Merlin hadn't just learned to channel natural energy—he'd been born knowing how, the same way wolves knew to hunt and birds knew to fly.
And Brandon, last remnant of that lineage, carried the same gift.
He called it to him now, using the earth energy beneath the cabin floor, the slow pulse of ley lines running through the mountain roots, and the wild green life force of the forest pressing close on all sides.
The magic came to him slowly, sleepy and stiff from decades of unuse.
Brandon had locked that part of him away when he’d moved to Mythic, making it nearly impossible for the Consilium to track him.
Now it seeped through the gaps in the bespelled iron cuffs—not enough to break free, but enough to start unraveling the spells placed on them.
Footsteps crossed the floor above him, sending tiny particles of dirt and dust down onto his head. He made out two distinct sets of footsteps, but there had been at least four, possibly five at Zed’s. If there were more—and there probably were—they’d be lurking farther out, guarding the perimeter.
He checked the cloak again. Under normal circumstances, maintaining a shield took minimal effort. Between the injuries, the suppressants, and the natural magic he was carefully channeling, his control kept slipping.
He felt it happen again now—the cloak flickering like a candle in a draft, just for a heartbeat. Long enough for Muriel to know that he was still alive. Did she know that he’d been taken?
Yes, he thought, allowing himself just a peek. She knew.
Every instinct in him screamed to keep the bond cloaked completely, both to protect her from feeling his pain and from using it as a GPS. But the magic that had bound them together had its own imperatives.
It would compel her to come. The bond would call to her like the tide answering the moon. No amount of anger, well-meaning friends, or logical arguments would be able to stop her.
So instead of wishing she'd stay safe and far away, Brandon turned his focus to making sure he'd be ready to keep her safe if she heeded the call.
The door at the top of the stairs opened and heavy footsteps descended the stairs. Brandon let his head loll against the wall, kept his breathing ragged.
A well-placed kick to his midsection got his attention. “I know you're awake, Emrys.”
The voice was cultured, educated. A British accent with the faintest Irish lilt beneath it. The speaker was tall, lean, with the kind of aristocratic features that spoke of old bloodlines and older money.
“Brandon Emrys, proprietor of The Glas Tann, skilled mage, and—most interestingly—last known descendant of Merlin Ambrosius.” The man’s smile was both evil and gleeful. “Yes, we know quite a bit about you.”
“I seem to be at a disadvantage. I know nothing of you.”
The man’s mouth curled into a cold, villainous smile. “Medraut,” the man said. “Cormac Medraut.”
Brandon recognized the name. Medraut was the Welsh line of Mordred’s descendents.
That explained the use of excessive force. Of course the man nearly coming with satisfaction over capturing the last of Merlin’s bloodline would be descended from the man who brought down Camelot with his corruption and treachery.
Talk about poetic irony.
“The Magisterial Consilium sends its regards.” Medraut taunted. “How disappointing it must be, to know that your free reign has reached such an unfortunate conclusion. And to think, we weren’t even looking for you. Where is the Codex, by the way?”
Brandon shifted slightly, testing his bonds. Thick rope, professionally tied. Standard protocol. “I don't know what you’re talking about.”
Medraut laughed, low and evil. “I bet your mate does.”
Brandon kept his expression neutral, even as something cold settled in his chest. “I don't know what you're—”
“Please. The eyes don’t lie, and yours are burning with green and amber amid that Myrrdin blue.” Medraut’s smile widened. “The texts describe the phenomenon quite clearly. Merlin's line has always been distinctive in that regard.”
Beneath the conversation and the careful mask of exhaustion he was projecting, Brandon kept working.
Latent magic didn't flow like cultivated magic, answering to meticulously worded spells or rigid incantations.
It moved fluidly, like water and wind, and came not from the mind, but from the essence in his blood.
He pulled it through the metal’s gaps to pool against the cuffs' interior framework. He wasn’t trying to shatter them; that would summon unwanted attention. No one would notice slow erosion from the inside out while he untangled the knot of complex spells.
“So what's the plan?” Brandon asked, aiming for casual curiosity. “You think to use me as bait? Hope she comes running, book in hand?”
“Hope?” Medraut laughed. “Hope isn’t necessary. The mate bond is exceptionally rare and exceptionally powerful. There’s no doubt she’ll come. She won't be able to help herself. All we have to do is wait.”
Brandon allowed a slow, smug smile to curl his lips. “Jealous?”
Medraut’s expression went cold, then twisted into something uglier.
“Jealous? Of the same curse that destroyed her father? The great Declan Rourke, so pathetic at the end, and for what?” He leaned forward, and there was genuine malice in his smile now.
“Mate bonds make you weak. So no, thank you, I'm quite good without one.”
The callous confirmation that they'd killed Declan, the sneering dismissal of what had clearly been love—it took everything in Brandon not to react. He added it to his list of reasons operatives like Medraut needed to be stopped.
“So what if she does come? Then what?”
Medraut brushed imaginary dust from his sleeves. “What do you take me for—some kind of monologuing villain? Giving everything away so that the hero can foil my plan once he escapes?” He laughed. “That's not how this story ends.”
He headed for the stairs, then turned as he reached the top. “The Consilium wants you alive, Emrys. You're too valuable to waste. But if it were me, I’d prefer death to what they’re going to do to you.”
The door slammed shut, sending another shower of old dirt and dust raining down.
Brandon waited until the footsteps faded before letting out a careful breath. At least two of his ribs were broken and several more cracked or bruised, probably courtesy of Medraut’s steel-toed boots.
Then he turned his attention fully to the natural magic flowing through him. Touching his fingertips to the earthen floor, he closed his eyes and extended his senses.
The cabin sat in the mountains surrounding Mythic's valley—he could feel it in the quality of the earth and the unique signature of the ley lines which made Mythic the ideal location for preternaturals of all kinds. The location was strategic. Isolated. Easily defendable.
Perfect terrain for a wolf pack, actually.
The thought brought a grim smile to his split lip. Matt would be coming. They all would be. The question was whether Brandon could weaken his cuffs enough to be useful when they arrived, or if he'd be a liability.
He reached deeper, pulling on the green-gold energy of the surrounding forest. It answered, wild and eager, unfettered by the Consilium's rigid, regulated rules.
This was magic the way it had existed before the first mage tower was raised, before the first grimoire was written.
This was Merlin's gift, passed down through generations, hidden carefully from those who would seek to control or weaponize it.
It felt remarkably like Muriel's magic, with its deep connection to the earth and life, that same primal power that dated back to creation myths.
No wonder the bond had formed between them. Their magic recognized itself in each other, like calling to like across the centuries.
Beneath the cloak, his bond with Muriel pulsed again, pressing stubbornly against his shield, stronger now.
She was coming. And, knowing Jason, she wasn’t coming alone.
Thank the gods.
Part of him hated that the magic binding them together would pull her into danger, especially when his every instinct screamed to protect her. To keep her far from this place and the likes of Medraut and his men.
The other part swelled with gratitude that he’d been given such a rare gift. The mate bond was stronger than instinct. Stronger than sense. Forged in the very fabric of their magic.
Which meant he had to be ready.
Progress was slow but steady. He counted his breaths, matching his pace to the pulsing rhythm of life in the soil. If he channeled too fast, he'd burn out. Too slow, and he wouldn't weaken the cuffs enough to matter.
Above him, footsteps crossed and recrossed at regular intervals.
Voices murmured, and he caught occasional fragments.
At least four operatives were in the cabin at all times, rotating in and out with more outside.
The wards extended in all directions. Detection spells had been woven right into the wards, so they’d know the moment someone came within range.
All good information, but essentially useless unless he could share it.
The bond cloak slipped again—a longer flicker this time, his strength genuinely flagging. He felt Muriel's response like a physical touch: fury and fear and absolute determination. She was close. Getting closer.
Brandon pulled harder on the natural magic and the spells enhancing the cuffs loosened and fell free. A hairline crack fractured the iron.
It was progress.
The door at the top of the stairs opened again. Medraut descended again, looking pleased with himself.
“It won’t be long now,” Medraut said. No preamble, no explanation needed. He crossed the basement in three strides and checked the ropes with professional efficiency. His hand paused on the suppressant cuffs, and for one terrible moment Brandon thought he'd noticed the weakening.
But Medraut just nodded, satisfied, and headed back to the stairs. “We'll have your mate—and the book—within the hour. Then the real fun will begin.”
The door closed.
Brandon was out of time.
He let the bond cloak drop completely.
The connection blazed between them—his location, his physical state, the layout of the cabin as he understood it, everything he'd learned about the Collectors’ plans. He held it open for ten full seconds, knowing Muriel would feel every detail and convey it to those she’d be bringing with her.
Because if there was one thing he knew, she wouldn’t be coming alone.
Brandon smiled.
Come on then, Muriel. I'll be ready.