Lirien and Aeloria each looped an arm around Yomi’s bruised frame, guiding him with measured steps into the dim confines of the house. The wooden door groaned on iron hinges as it opened, revealing a stark interior that exuded the essence of medieval pragmatism. Cold stone walls stood draped in tattered banners, their faded crests whispering of a forgotten lineage or defeated ones.
Wooden beams crisscrossed the ceiling, creaking under the weight of time and dust. A solitary torch flickered in a wrought-iron sconce, casting shadows that danced like restless phantoms along the uneven floor.
The air was thick with the scent of damp straw mingled with iron, a cruel reminder of blood and captivity. Chains rattled subtly, echoing the subdued sobs that permeated the silence. In the far corner, an imposing iron cage sat like a grotesque monument. Aeloria’s expression faltered as she and Lirien guided Yomi toward it, the metal’s chill biting into their senses.
The cage’s interior was no more than a box-like prison, yet it provided enough space for one to sit and ruminate—a cruel gift for those trapped in its grasp. As Yomi sank to the straw-covered floor, his breath came in shallow gasps. Aeloria’s fingers twitched, an urge to comfort met by the coldness of reality.
Beside Yomi’s confinement, two other cages lay like silent sentinels. In one sat an old man, his frame wiry yet resilient, marred by the passing years. His eyes, gray as winter storms, spoke of battles witnessed and stories untold, lines of hardship etched deep into his sun-leathered skin. He shifted slightly, the chains at his wrists jingling with a resigned cadence.
In the other cage, a girl barely reaching adolescence huddled against the bars, her gaze wide and unyielding. Her eyes—the deep, expressive brown of a red panda—shimmered with a peculiar mix of fear and defiance. Loose strands of dark hair fell across her dirt-smudged face as she clutched a woven doll, its faded threads clinging desperately to moments of innocence lost.
The crackling fire in the stone hearth cast a warm glow across the room, where a lively gathering was immersed in song and stories. The scent of burning oak filled the air, mingling with the sharp tang of ale as the revelers lifted their mugs in mirthful toasts. Lirien shut the latch on Yomi’s iron cage with a sharp clink and glanced over her shoulder, already drawn to the cheer by the fire.
"Aeloria, come," Lirien called, her voice cutting through the din. Aeloria turned away from Yomi, but before she could follow, a hand brushed hers—a touch that was both gentle and insistent. Yomi’s fingers, marred by a life of hardship, held her in place. Something in his eyes, a storm of intensity and unspoken longing, compelled her to stay.
"I’ll be there soon," Aeloria promised, glancing back at Lirien, who sighed, her gaze flickering with irritation and something else—wariness. She shot Yomi one last, wary glance, a shiver trickling down her spine.
"Fine. But if you’re not back soon, I’ll come drag you myself," Lirien warned before turning on her heel, the golden hem of her battle dress swayed as she strode away.
The firelight danced over Yomi’s face as he released Aeloria’s hand and settled into a lotus position, the iron bars casting jagged shadows across his form. "Forgive me for my behaviour earlier," he said, his voice breaking the silence. It resonated with an unexpected nobility, rich and deep like a forgotten melody. Aeloria’s eyes widened. A voice like that didn’t belong to a Dra’kesh—a tribe bred for servitude, stripped of all dignity.
"I don’t mind," Aeloria whispered. Curiosity got the better of her. "Do you have a name?"
Yomi’s eyes darkened as memories surged within him, echoes of battle cries, mountains soaked in blood, and the relentless pursuit of power. He recalled the name that once inspired awe and dread: Master of the Heavenly Art, God of the Mountain of Blood and the most common in the martial plain, Heavenly Demon. But all those titles felt distant, like phantoms of another life.
"Yes," he finally said. "You may call me Yomi."
Aeloria’s breath caught. A name? For a Dra’kesh? Her thoughts spun with disbelief. Only nobles, warriors, and the free were given such a right. Yet, before she could voice her astonishment, Yomi’s deep voice cut through her turmoil.
"Earlier," he said, studying her with eyes that reflected steel and storms, "what did you do to my body?"
"You mean the healing spell... magic?" Aeloria’s brows furrowed as she recalled his initial reaction—a look of rage, fear, and something deeper.
"Magic," Yomi repeated, tasting the unfamiliar word like a foreign delicacy. The syllables seemed both alien and dangerously familiar, sparking memories of the entities that descended from the heavens, who had wielded destructive powers that felled entire legions. His jaw clenched, the echoes of ruin flashing in his gaze.
"Don’t tell me you don’t know what magic is," Aeloria said, half-laughing in disbelief. Everyone knew about magic—the life-force of Nythraxis, the very pillar that held their world aloft. But Yomi’s silence spoke volumes, confirming her suspicions.
"Magic.. where do I begin," she continued, her voice softening as a spark of passion lit her eyes. To her, magic was a tool, a gift, the art that her alive. But to Yomi, it was the harbinger of every nightmare he had ever faced—the very force that had shattered everything he once held dear.
Aeloria paused, her mind racing to find the right words for Yomi. How could she explain the essence of magic to someone so unfamiliar with its wonders? An idea sparked, and with a graceful motion, she summoned golden threads into the air.
They shimmered as they twisted and twirled, weaving themselves into a mesmerizing display of radiant flowers. As the delicate blossoms bloomed before them, Yomi’s hard gaze softened, his thoughts momentarily lost. Was this the same magic—the ethereal art—he had witnessed before his death? A fleeting doubt whispered within him, as the beauty of it all stirred forgotten memories.