The Craft （Part 2）
!!!TW WHILE THIS CHAPTER IS NOT GRAPHIC, CONTENT IN THIS CHAPTER MAY BE DISTURBING TO SOME READERS!!!
Rowena waited until the army disappeared from view before rising unsteadily to her feet. Her mind raced, and her body trembled.
What could she do?
Where had they taken them?
She hurried to the door and tugged the handle.
Locked.
She let out a low groan, then carefully squeezed through the shattered window into the study.
Sharp glass shards tore at her clothing and pattered to the floor.
Each faint sound felt loud in the silence.
She tiptoed to the entry door and pressed her eye to the keyhole.
Armed guards waited at the top of the stairwell, and others patrolled the halls nearby.
There was no chance of sneaking by unnoticed.
Her eyes darted around the room desperately, searching for another exit, but there was none.
She drew in a shaky breath, realizing she had no choice but to go back the way she'd entered. Her eyes fell on the draping curtains around the window.
That would have to do.
Working quickly but quietly, she painstakingly removed the heavy curtains from the rod and shoved them out the open window, dropping them in a heap onto the balcony. As she prepared to climb out, her eyes grazed over the stack of papers and letters nearby, and she suddenly remembered.
She still had a task.
She needed to figure out exactly what was going on in this sinister place.
She hesitated. Everything in her wanted to get out as quickly as possible before she was discovered, but the memory of the doctor and general's conversation nagged at her.
What if there was something vital in this study?
Something about Prince Ladomir or the strange new magic?
Reluctantly, she crept from the windowsill to the desk.
Her hands shook as she rifled through the piles of hastily scrawled, unintelligible notes.
Most of them were mindless babble or terminology that she couldn't quite comprehend, and the handwriting was so bad that she couldn't make out most of the words anyway.
She opened the desk drawer and found only a single journal inside. She pulled it out and opened it to the first page. The handwriting inside was almost unrecognizable compared to the scrawl on the desk. It was elegant and neat.
Today was my last day at the academy. I am now in a carriage heading west, though I do not know where they are taking me. And I do not care. They can take me across the ocean if they wish, so long as I get to meet him.
They told me I am an exemplary student.
I am superior to the rest. I no longer have need of the basic academics because I have received the attention of the master himself.
From now on, I am to learn from him and see to any task he assigns to me.
It is a tremendous honor, one that most will never receive. ..
Rowena furrowed her brow and skipped ahead, flipping several pages.
I do not understand. This is all wrong.
The Craft never seemed like a dark magic.
In my three years of study, I was never once told about this side of it.
Had I known the highest level of the Craft was necromancy, I would have never undergone the ritual.
I would not have even joined the academy.
I was a surgeon before this. I saved lives, not stole them.
The master insists that the victims are not fully dead, just suspended in animation at the brink. I do not know which is worse. To end a living soul, or to trap one inside a mindless corpse? They are puppets! This feels wrong!
I have to leave. I must find a way out of this forsaken place...
She skipped ahead again, nearer to the end of the journal. The handwriting was becoming more difficult to read.
My training is complete. I am being sent to the south where I am to build an army.
They will send me the prisoners. All I must do is take them to the edge of death and snatch their life source when they lack the strength to fight it.
I have done it hundreds of times now, but still, the shock has not worn off.
Does one ever get used to the screams of torture?
Or the tears of one whose mind is breaking?
I should not think about these things, but they haunt me day and night. And these headaches. I cannot continue to fight the Craft. I must submit to it. There is no escape for me...
Rowena turned to the very last entry, struggling to interpret the sloppy scrawl as her hands shook the pages.
I no longer know the day or the hour.
Time slips from me and headaches.
I am failing! I cannot snatch their life.
They keep dying wasted. Wasting prisoners.
None left. All gone. I will die for this.
Blackouts someone there someone else.
Him but not him. Who am I? I was a Doctor.
Am I? What have I become? I am a doctor.
I am a Doctor. I am Doctor. I cannot save I steal them. I am ...
Rowena slammed the book shut, shoving it into the drawer as if it might bite her. Her breath caught in her throat and her pulse pounded in her ears as a cold knot of dread twisted in her stomach.
Necromancy?
It seemed impossible, but then again, so did the legend of the champions.
But there was more, something felt off.
The timing of the war in Etheria. This new surge of dark magic. Armies of undead. Wars looming on every front and kingdom.
It felt too convenient. Almost... Orchestrated.
If the enemy was not after Griken's lumber, then what were they after?
The words of the Doctor and General rang in her mind.
"...Our master's plans reach much further than Etheria and petty resources..."
"...Then what do the Etherian's have that he wants?..."
Her blood ran cold as she thought of Lord Davenport lying in the mud:
"...They were looking for me. For it... They wanted the key..."
Her mind raced and her heart pounded in her chest.
Could it... All be connected?
If the Greater Empire and Tide Gate were on the verge of war, could it be that they were after the same thing?
Rowena became dizzy and she gripped the leather strap of the scabbard tightly.
The weapons.
Even dormant, their power is accessible.
For a moment, she couldn't breathe.
If it were true, the danger was far more severe than she ever imagined. If the enemy was seeking power, then she'd just delivered it. Right to their doorstep.
----------
The Dissolver fought against his assailants with all his strength, but they outnumbered him.
They forced him into a dank, dark room, lit only by several torches mounted on the stone walls.
There were no windows and the air reeked of copper and feces.
He trembled as the Anak'sukes strapped him upright to a steel rack.
His arms were wrenched above his head and his legs were shackled tight below.
He had never seen a torture chamber before, only heard of them in stories while he was still surviving in Etheria.
Being prominent leaders of the resistance, his parents took no chances. They educated him as much as they could for a child so young, always warning him of the dangers of being caught. They ingrained in him that it was better for him to run than to fight, if the time ever came.
When their underground hideout was finally rooted out, that is exactly what he did.
He ran.
He left them behind.
Just like they told him to.
When he went back down the sewer days later, they were gone. Not just his parents, but the entire resistance was gone.
He had always wondered if they met the same fate he was facing now.
Were they strapped to racks?
Were they questioned and tortured for information?
Did they have the mercy of a quick death?
His eyes glanced across the room at the various instruments, ropes, and chains, but all he saw through his eyes was the faces of his parents.
A dragon's memory was absolute. He could remember every feature, down to the last detail. He could even hear the sweet tones of his mother's gentle voice telling him not to be afraid.
But he was afraid.
His teeth chattered despite his best efforts to be brave, as the doctor stepped in front of him. The Anak'sukes slammed the door shut behind them, leaving only one remaining inside with the doctor and the boy.
The doctor circled the rack. His hands jittered, and his eyes darted over the shadows as if he was searching for something.
"Where to begin?" he muttered. "Diagnosis before... dissection. Yes. That's right. Order. Always the method. Yes. But—" He paused, frowning, then leaned close to the boy. "Tell me... What ails you?"
"A-ailment?" the Dissolver stammered.
"Yes, yes! Your sickness, your suffering! What is it?"
"I don't—I'm not sick," the boy managed.
"Not sick?" The doctor's hands twitched. "No, no, that can't be. No one arrives here well. Where—ah! Blast it! Where are my tools?"
The Anak'suke in the back of the room snorted and shoved the table forward. The doctor jumped, then hunched over the bloodstained knives.
"Thank you, nurse," he said, but his voice was suddenly flat. "But... this isn't right..."
He looked at the boy, in confusion, then realization dawned on him. "No illness. No operation. You're... not here to be healed. I remember now. Yes... yes."
He collected himself, straightening and mechanically rolling up his sleeves.
His voice dropped to a cold, monotone. "I wish it were otherwise, but failure is no longer an option. The master's patience is thin. I must show him I can still succeed. If I do, perhaps I will be spared."
The Dissolver's heart raced as the doctor chose a jagged knife and stepped close. The blade gleamed in the torchlight.
"Wait—please!" the boy cried.
The doctor's face twisted. "No. Don't plead. It changes nothing. I can do it this time. Your body is strong, and your will is—well... we will see about your will. If I triumph now, I will remember how I did it. I must remember. Do you understand?"
The Dissolver's breath came quick and shallow, and he twisted his wrists uneasily in the cuffs. "No. Please, stop!"
But the Doctor droned, no longer looking at the boy. "I mustn't fail. Not again. The master—he is watching. Always watching. I will remember this time. I will." His knife hovered in the air, uncertainly.