He stopped counting the screams after the third hour.
Time blurred in the dark. Hunger turned to nausea. The cold seeped into his bones, then past them, into the place where his core was supposed to be. Into the place where magic should've lived.
Nothing answered.
Not the core. Not the gods. Not even himself.
And still, they called it *training*.
The room smelled of stale air and old stone—a place untouched by warmth or light. It was one of Rollo's safe houses, a forgotten corner of his dealings, where nothing was sacred. The walls were bare, the floors cold and cracked, as though time had forgotten this place entirely.
In the center of the room, Blake hung by chains, his body suspended from the ceiling, weight pulling him downward. His arms were stretched taut, the iron digging into his skin, but he barely felt it anymore. The ache of his body had been overtaken by something darker, a deeper emptiness.
The room was desolate, nothing but shadows and the faint echo of his own labored breathing. He was alone—alone with the silence, with the stillness, with the nothingness that had become his world.
Each breath felt like it took a lifetime, his lungs burning with the effort, his chest still trembling from the last round of shocks. His thoughts were blurred, slipping between moments of agony and brief, fleeting fragments of clarity.
But there was no escape.
Blake's chest burned as if a fire were lapping at his skin, but it wasn't fire—it was something far worse.
Felix stood over him, his hand glowing faintly with magical energy, an insidious hum filling the room. Every pulse of energy shot through Blake's body, wrenching him from the inside out. His muscles twitched uncontrollably, his head spinning, but the core... the core remained silent.
"Focus," Felix's voice cut through the chaos, his tone cold, devoid of the comfort Blake once thought he saw in the man. "Concentrate, Blake. This is the only way."
Blake's eyes were wide, his body jerking from the pain, but his gaze remained fixed on the wall in front of him. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. Each shock that tore through him made his chest feel heavier, like the core was being crushed from the inside.
His heart thudded erratically, but there was no pulse of magic to guide it. No glow, no hum. Just silence. The core was dormant. Useless.
Blake's breath was ragged, his body convulsing with the force of the magic that coursed through his veins. He wanted to scream—to beg them to stop. But each time the magical shock hit him, he was forced to relive fragments of his past: his mother's face twisted in pain, his father's disappointment, the cold, empty nights in the mansion, feeling like he was nothing.
The deathcall should have been an awakening, a connection to the magic he'd spent his whole life believing he could control. But it was only pain—empty pain.
He gasped for breath, his hands trembling at his sides, but no matter how much he wanted to run, to escape, his body was pinned in place by the chains that dug into his wrists.
Felix stepped back, satisfied with his work, his eyes cold as he studied Blake's broken form.
"Is it working?" Blake managed to rasp, voice strained, barely audible. "Am I—"
"Shut up." Felix's response was clipped, void of any warmth. "You're not trying hard enough. This is your fault."
Rollo stood in the corner of the room, arms crossed, eyes narrowed with frustration. "We've tried this method for weeks, Felix. It's not working."
Felix's lips tightened into a thin line. "It will work. It has to. He has no choice."
The words sliced through Blake's chest, and he flinched, his entire body jerking at the brutal weight of the ritual.
"Please," Blake whispered, his eyes watering from the torment, voice cracking, "stop…"
Felix ignored him, his focus turning back to the glowing sigils carved into the floor, another magical symbol he'd prepared to "awaken" Blake's core. He'd tried drowning Blake in a tank of freezing water hours before, holding him under just long enough to almost let him die. But nothing. No spark. No power.
Felix's jaw clenched as he knelt down beside Blake, fingers brushing against his forehead. "We're not done. You're going to awaken, Blake. You have to awaken."
Blake's vision blurred as the shocks intensified. His body was numb from the pain, the numbness of defeat settling in deeper than anything else.
The room was cold, colder than Blake had ever felt. He could feel his skin tightening from the chill, but it was nothing compared to the searing pain that had become his constant companion.
Blake's chains clinked as his body shifted, and he gasped for air, each breath shallow and uneven. The once-familiar rhythm of his pulse now felt distant, foreign—his body had betrayed him. His core, the one thing that had given him purpose, had remained silent. Useless.
Felix stood across the room, his hands steady, as always, his expression unreadable. The soft glow of his magic illuminated his face in sharp contrast to the shadows swallowing Blake's form. Rollo stood beside him, arms crossed, his eyes narrowed in frustration.
The room was eerily quiet, save for the occasional scrape of metal on stone as Blake shifted his weight, desperate for some kind of relief.
Felix approached Blake with a device in his hand—a simple, cruel-looking needle. Blake's heart skipped a beat.
"Felix... please... stop..." Blake's voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. His throat burned from the strain of speaking.
Felix didn't acknowledge the plea. Instead, he slowly and deliberately pressed the needle into Blake's exposed skin, sending a surge of excruciating energy into his body. Blake gasped, his body jerking as the magic seared into his veins, running hot and wild. His vision swam as a wave of nausea hit him.
"Focus, Blake," Felix muttered, his voice low, almost calm. "This is the only way. The only way you'll awaken."
Blake gritted his teeth, unable to speak. His body screamed in pain, but still, the core remained silent. Every time Felix shocked him, every time the needle plunged deeper into his skin, Blake's heart fluttered with a false hope. This time—this time it will work.
But it didn't. Not this time. Not any time.
His head sagged forward, his body exhausted from the pain, but the cold chains kept him upright. The shock lingered in his bloodstream, a burning reminder of how little control he had left.
"I can't do this..." he whispered, his voice cracking.
Rollo stepped forward now, his voice cold, calculating. "You will do this, Blake. You will awaken, or you will die here."
Blake felt a pit open in his stomach. His father's words, so sharp, so final—he had heard them before, each time with less hope, each time with more fear.
Rollo continued, his voice dripping with disdain, "If you don't awaken, you'll die in this pit. This house will become your tomb."
Felix paused, glancing at Rollo, then at Blake. There was something almost... merciful in his eyes, or maybe it was just the emptiness in them.
"Blake," Felix said, his voice softer now, "The core is awakened through death. Pain... it's the only way to call it forth. But you're fighting it. You're fighting yourself."
Blake's thoughts were a fog. Pain clouded everything. His body, his mind, his memories—all felt like distant echoes of a life he no longer understood.
He wanted to scream. To tell them they were wrong. That he couldn't feel his core, couldn't feel anything but pain. That no matter how many times they shocked him, held him underwater, cut him open, it wouldn't awaken.
But nothing came out. He couldn't speak. His throat was dry, raw, from the torment.
Then, Felix's eyes softened—just a fraction. He turned and began setting up a new device—a thick, cylindrical tank of water.
Blake's heart skipped in his chest. No… not again.
"Felix," he whispered, barely able to breathe, "please... don't. Not the water again..."
Felix didn't respond. He just moved forward with his cruel efficiency, placing the tank just in front of Blake. The water was cold, cold enough to freeze his bones, and as the tubes were attached to his wrists, Blake knew what was coming.
Rollo's voice was low but firm. "We're going to drown you, Blake. You'll die, and then you'll awaken. That's the only way."
The tank was filled with water, icy and thick with magic, swirling around him. Blake's breath hitched in his chest as he was pulled toward it, the cold pressing against his skin like a vice. His panic began to rise.
"No! No, I can't—" Blake gasped as the water surged into the tank, submerging him almost immediately. The pressure hit him like a shockwave, and his chest burned as he fought to breathe.
But he couldn't. Not anymore.
He was drowning. His lungs screamed, his chest tightened, but still, the core remained silent. It didn't stir. It didn't hum. It didn't call.
The world around him began to dim. His vision blurred, the edges of reality slipping away. His hands twitched. His heart pounded.
This is it. This is how it ends...
But then, just as the last of his breath left him, the water was drained away, and Blake was left gasping for air, his throat burning from the lack of oxygen.
Felix's cold gaze met his as Blake's chest heaved, struggling to find air. "See, Blake? You're still alive. Still breathing. But you haven't awakened."
Blake didn't have the strength to respond. He was broken—spirit, body, and mind. He had no more fight left to give.
Felix stood quietly by the edge of the room, the magic circle beneath his feet faintly glowing with violet light. The sigils carved into the stone pulsed like a heartbeat—slow, ominous. He raised one hand, and with a whisper of ancient language, the spell took form.
They called it Dread Mirage—a forbidden branch of illusion magic once used in the war to drive enemy soldiers mad. It didn't just show illusions. It forced the mind to believe them, to feel them, to die from them. Over and over again.
Felix had never used it on a child before.
Blake lay on the ground now, his chains loosened after the last trial. His eyes were dull, skin bruised and wet from the tank, breaths shallow and uneven. He didn't even flinch as Felix approached.
"Blake," Felix said softly, kneeling beside him. "This is your final chance. If your core won't awaken through pain... perhaps it will awaken through death."
He touched Blake's forehead, and the moment his fingers made contact, the world fractured.
Suddenly, Blake was standing in the middle of a battlefield. The sky was red, screaming with the sounds of war. He looked down and found his hands bloodied, a sword in his grip.
Then—an arrow to the chest. Pain exploded in his ribs, and he collapsed, gasping, choking on blood.
Darkness.
Then light again.
He was drowning—again—but this time it was the ocean, endless and cruel, waves dragging him down into the dark. His lungs filled. His body thrashed.
Darkness.
He was on fire now. Flames licked at his skin, eating through flesh and bone. He screamed, but his voice vanished in the crackle of burning wood. He could feel every inch of his body blistering, splitting.
Darkness.
Again.
Crushed under stone. Slashed across the throat. Eaten alive by beasts. Poisoned. Torn apart by magic. Impaled. Frozen.
Every death was vivid. Every pain was real. He died over and over again. Minutes. Hours. Days. It was impossible to tell anymore.
Each time he came back, his mind was slower. He no longer screamed. He only trembled.
Why won't I die for real?
Felix watched Blake convulsing, curled into himself like a child, mumbling nonsense as blood trickled from his nose.
Rollo stood behind him, watching silently. There was no more anger on his face—only resignation.
"How long has it been?" Rollo asked.
Felix didn't look up. "Twelve hours. Maybe more. His mind's still resisting."
"He's not going to awaken," Rollo muttered. "He's a failure. A deviant."
Felix didn't answer. Part of him hated this. He hated that Blake wasn't fighting anymore. That the light in his eyes—the quiet defiance he once saw—was gone. Snuffed out by the very magic meant to awaken him.
Felix rose slowly, pulling his hand away. The magic circle faded.
Blake lay still, twitching, whispering something beneath his breath.
"…please… just let it stop…"
The hallucinations ended not with a scream, but with a whimper.
Blake lay motionless on the floor, his body curled inwards, twitching occasionally like a dying animal. His eyes were open, glazed, staring at nothing. Silent tears streaked down his cheeks, though he didn't seem aware of them.
Felix stood beside him, arms crossed, face pale and drawn. Even he looked shaken. The Dread Mirage had worked perfectly—it had always worked. But Blake's core hadn't stirred. Not once.
Rollo entered the room with slow, deliberate steps. He didn't speak. He didn't ask how Blake was, or what had happened. He already knew.
He stood over Blake's broken body for a long moment. "It's done," he said at last.
Felix turned to him. "We could try again. There's still one more—"
"No." Rollo's voice was sharp. Final. "If he hasn't awakened by now, he never will. He's defective. A hollow core."
Felix didn't respond. There was nothing left to say.
Rollo looked down at Blake—his son. His disappointment. "If the kingdom finds out the Tempest bloodline produced a deviant, the Council will strip me of my seat. My name will be erased from the archives. Do you understand what that means?"
Felix nodded slowly. "Yes. I do."
"Then make sure no one ever finds him." Rollo turned and walked away. "Bury the shame."
They took Blake in silence, his broken body limp in Felix's arms. They traveled deep into the forest, to an ancient cave hidden in the cliffs beneath the mountains. No maps marked it. No roads led to it.
It was a place used only for secrets.
Felix laid Blake down on a bed of old stone and covered him with a tattered blanket. The cave was cold, damp, and black as pitch. Only the faint flicker of Felix's magic lit the space.
Blake stirred, barely conscious, his voice cracked and dry. "Wha… where…"
Felix didn't answer. He simply wrapped a chain around Blake's ankle and locked it into the rock.
"You'll be safe here," he murmured. A lie. "You need rest."
Blake's eyes fluttered open for a moment, confused, distant.
"Felix?" he whispered.
Felix paused. He looked down at the boy—no longer a child, not yet a man. Just a ghost of what could have been.
"I'm sorry, Blake," he said quietly. "You deserved better."
And then he turned, sealing the cave entrance behind him with a wave of his hand and a final whisper of magic. The sound of the stone door locking echoed like thunder.
And then there was silence.
Just Blake.
And the dark.