She was not in the tower. She was not in her body. Her mind was adrift in a cold, black sea, buffeted by waves of memory that were not her own. They were echoes, psychic residue absorbed in the violent consumption of her Master -- a final, intimate violation. She was reliving a memory of a memory; the Master's recollection of a day that had defined them both, now filtered through the terrible clarity of the void.
The grate of cold stone on her knees was a raw, grinding reality. The air in the cavernous judgment hall was frigid, thick with the scent of damp rock, ozone from magical wards, and the palpable fear of the condemned. The metallic tang of her own blood, from a lip split open hours ago, filled her mouth. A low, sibilant murmur slithered through the assembled convocation of mages, a hateful sound that coiled in her gut like a serpent of ice.
A brutal hand, armored in dark leather and steel, grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking her head up. The executioner's face was a mask of bored contempt.
Executioner: "We left the worst for last... this sad little pile of *filth*."
His voice was like grinding stone. He shoved her forward, and she whimpered, the sound swallowed by the vast, unforgiving hall.
Executioner: "Caught dabbling in the dark arts -- sacrificing her own limbs to summon forth forbidden magics."
He forced her to face the sea of accusing eyes, a gallery of disgust and cold, hard righteousness.
Executioner: "Her victims...? Her own flesh and blood. Mother and father, turned inside out as if a bloodthirsty beast had been let loose in the safety of their own home... How anyone can ever come to trust such a monster is beyond me."
Some mages, their duty done, turned their backs as they led away their newly-acquired apprentices, young talents saved from lesser fates. Others stared, their expressions hard and unforgiving. A dejected sorcerer near the front spoke, his words a final, heavy nail in her coffin.
Dejected sorcerer: "How vile... Just cast her down already. To put it bluntly, there are beings so corrupted even the right to live should not be granted to them."
Despair, absolute and crushing, threatened to extinguish the last spark of her will. This was the end. The pit awaited.
But then, a new voice cut through the venom, as clean and sharp as shattering glass.
The Master: "I'll take this one."
A ripple of shock went through the crowd. All eyes turned to the woman who now stepped forward, her grey robes rustling, her fiery hair a beacon in the gloom. Her peers looked at her as if she'd lost her mind.
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Surprised mage: "Y-you?! Of all people, you'd take her in...? You despise the black arts more than anyone!"
A faint, knowing smile touched the Master's lips. And in this stolen memory, intersecting her own recollection, Mola could begin to understand the truth behind it -- the thrill of the challenge, the colossal pride, the desire to mold this broken thing into a testament to her own power... and a touch of something even darker.
It was no nurturing smile.
It was predatory.
The Master: "Exactly."
Her gaze fell upon Mola, not with pity, but with a piercing, analytical intensity. It was the look one gave a fascinating, dangerous specimen.
The Master: "I shall prove to you all how no one is beyond redemption. More -- how it is possible to cast aside our prejudice and hatred to help another in need. To put our differences aside and work together, in unison."
She pointed a long, elegant finger at the broken girl on the floor.
The Master: "An animal may stand before us today. But one day, she will be acknowledged as one of us, as prestigious and worthy as anyone else! This much, I promise you..."
A beautiful speech. A beautiful promise.
A beautiful, terrible mistake built upon a foundation of lies.
The memory did not end. It simply began to fray at the edges, the Master's ambitious voice echoing in the darkness of Mola's mind, a promise that had become a curse.
Bazren (in the distance): "Oh she'll talk... as soon as she wakes up."
The sound was muffled, distorted, like a conversation heard from underwater. Two voices, vaguely familiar, yet foreign.
Xayn (in thedistance): "How can this be...? She was vaporized, we saw it!"
Slowly, Mola's eyes fluttered open. The dim light of the study was a physical pain. Returning to the real world was like being born into agony. Her gaze struggled to focus on two figures standing over her. A young woman and man, arguing.
Bazren: "I don't know, Xayn... But that was her voice -- you know it. Plus, who else do we know that can control the void like that...?!"
The man, Xayn, glanced over his shoulder, his eyes widening as he noticed Mola stirring.
Xayn: "She wakes...!"
Instantly, the woman -- Bazren -- spun around. An ethereal flail, crackling with menacing pink flames, materialized in her hand. She strode towards Mola, a predator closing in.
Xayn: "BAZREN...!"
Bazren: "Don't move another muscle! Who are you?!"
She stood inches from Mola, arm extended, the wickedly spiked head of her flail hovering just above the girl's fragile skin, its heat a palpable threat.
Mola: "W-what...?"
Xayn moved quickly, grabbing Bazren's arm and forcing it down.
Xayn: "Haven't you had your fill of fighting yet?!"
Mola squinted, her mind struggling to bridge the gap between the voices she knew and the faces she did not. The man had a dark beard, the woman a sharp, angular face. But the eyes... the eyes were unmistakable.
Mola: "Bazren and... Xayn...?"
Her own eyes widened in horrified realization.
Mola: "Y-you two look... you look..."
Bazren ripped her arm from Xayn's grasp, a cruel smirk spreading across her new face.
Bazren: "That's right -- as human as you do, huh?! No more mocking us now, eh witch bitch?!"
Mola gritted her teeth, a flash of her old annoyance piercing the fog of her despair.
Xayn: "Give her a rest, would you? She's still groggy."
Bazren scoffed.
Bazren: "A rest?! Easy for you to ask, if only you'd seen what she did to her master...!"
Mola: "Enough, Bazren."
Her voice was flat. Broken. Destroyed.
Mola: "... Please."
Her eyes began to well up, hot tears blurring the faces of her tormentors. She promptly, fiercely, wiped them away with the back of a shaking hand. They were the only things she had left. She would not give them to these people.
Mola: "You have what you wanted. Now please... please leave. Leave, and never ever cross paths with me again."
Bazren actually seemed taken aback by the sheer, desolate finality in her tone. She eased her stance slightly.
Xayn, however, stepped forward, his expression softening into something resembling grim pity.
Xayn: "I'm afraid we can't leave yet, Mola. You've still something we need."
She raised her gaze to meet his, her own eyes hollow, defeated.
Xayn: "Answers. Regarding the fate of our home, and the lost souls therein."