(1) Soulless And Will-Less
“A man’s greatest fear does not lie in the fear of being hurt or killed—his greatest fear lies in his fear of failure, of not having enough courage to act in the moment of danger!”
Horst Bulla
Blood magic is all-consuming and omnipresent. Once it has fully sunk its claws into you, it never lets go. It burns your pride, feeding off your suffering.
All that remains is the echo of a shadow, a fleeting breath of your self and the life that once defined you, that gave you purpose, that made you who you are.
The person you once were no longer exists the moment this crimson mist-walking magic has completely overtaken your mind.
You try to resist and rise against it, yet your soul still cracks, crumbling as the destructive wrath of blood magic rains down upon it.
The impact of this violence on body, mind, and perception would be so staggering that you can feel how the small shards and, eventually, larger fragments are torn from your existence, from your very being with every psychic blow that strikes at your essence.
How they slip through your fingers, escape, rain down to the bottom of the abyss, and shatter, forever lost.
The mental torment of this torture is more than mere pain, more than the most horrific suffering of the body. These wounds scar the heart, distorting the innermost part of you in such an abstract way that there can be no way back.
Not even the memory of the faces of those who once filled your life with light remains. The feelings become twisted, decay, and rot, buried beneath those very shards of your self in the darkness of the Devourer.
After my abduction, I was thrown naked into larger cells, packed together with a multitude of other wolf-shifters deep within a dilapidated fortress, mostly men, but also women.
The underground vaults were expansive, housing several of these cells. Two large fighting arenas were located in the center, offering us all a view of our grim future.
Pressed together, we sat. Hardly a patch of the slate-gray stone floor was visible. We were packed tightly with the bodies of enslaved wolves.
Not entirely master of my senses, I still fought, despite all odds, to push back against the waves of destructive magic crashing upon my mind, defying the commands of Typhus – half-wolf, half-sorcerer, a mist-walker, and thus a blood mage.
Against his desire to cloud my senses, twist my thoughts, and subjugate me, I remained resolute, determined to resist despite the constant torment.
Time and again, my body ultimately lost the battle, but my will had not yet broken. Better to be unconscious from pain than to be shattered and condemned for eternity.
I saw it in the aimless gazes of the empty shells of wolves around me. They were no longer the beings they had been not many weeks ago.
My friend Torr had also become an instrument of Typhus. His eyes, from that point on, bore the blood-orange hue of submission to this mist-walker.
The changes in Torr crept in and quickly grew into the avalanche that would forever brand his soul to Typhus, the mist-walker, and to the Devourer of Worlds himself.
At first, his gaze was merely dull, as if he could no longer recognize anyone. His once-deep blue irises became milky gray, shrouded in mist. His already restless nature became even more agitated, and he began to attack and hurt both himself and others.
As though he could outwardly express the internal struggle against the subjugation of blood magic. Trying to deflect it only brought more problems and unwanted attention.
He was my friend, and that alone was reason enough to protect him from himself. Many times, I clung to him, holding him back from leaning on others, from tearing them apart, and letting the last flicker of light in him die out.
Weakened by lack of food and water laced with wolf’s bane, most of us had no strength left to resist the blood spells of the mist-walker.
At regular intervals, we were also separated from one another and tortured. Dragged from our ‘quarters,’ thrown into individual cages, and with no hope of escape, Typhus would send his blood-red mists upon each wolf in turn.
Yesterday – as on nearly every day – I was among the ‘lucky ones.’
“Give up already, Cainym,” the mist-walker commanded, looking down on me with a mocking grin. “I must admit, I do enjoy your steadfast resistance... It’s... entertaining.”
I clenched my teeth and refused to give in. I would rather die than fall to him. My only satisfaction was that even the mist-walker’s power was not limitless.
After a while, I began to recognize the signs. With his arrogant grin still on his face, he lost a little of his composure. His body swayed slightly, but he quickly regained control. Yet the tiny twitch revealed to me that even he was not as unstoppable as he wished us to believe.
I couldn’t find any truly exploitable weakness, but the prospect of revenge and the potential redemption of my suffering companions made me watch my opponent more closely, noticing his every detail.
There was a chain around the neck of that vile bastard of a mist-walker. The pendant upon it was made of the finest moon-silver. Yet artifacts of such a kind are not carelessly handed out by Selene, and certainly not to such a despicable creature.
As soon as he noticed me gazing at the trinket, he quickly hid it beneath his clothing. The malicious grin faded into a tight mask of pure rage, which he immediately unleashed upon me.
The wave of mental pain relentlessly overwhelmed me, forcing me to the ground. The torment made me endure unspeakable horrors as his mist touched me.
All my packmates, my parents, and my sister were repeatedly and cruelly tortured and killed in my mind. I tried to cling to the truth that they were mere illusions. None of it was real. But damn, it felt so real.
After what seemed like endless agony, I lost consciousness.
Back in the holding cells, I awoke on the floor, bleeding from my nose and mouth. All physical sensation had left me. My limbs were so numb that it took all my strength to push myself up.
Something was wrong. There was too much space in here. I forced my burning eyes open, and I could only vaguely make out the blurred shape of the cell. With my hands, I felt over my dark brown hair and face. Since my fingers were still cold and numb, I at least made use of their chill to soothe my eyes a little.
What I saw when I opened my eyelids again made me gasp in disbelief and shock. Many of the wolves were missing!
The few that still remained in the cell had their empty gazes fixed on the dirt on the ground.
Where is Torr?
I must have lost my friend to the forced servitude of blood magic and to the Devourer during my torture yesterday. I fear he lost his last hope too soon or perhaps no longer wished to refuse the false, illusory salvation from the mental torment. Yet the deceptive rescue from the humiliating, degrading, and soul-destroying agony at the hands of Typhus carried an even greater evil.
The broken, soul-deprived wolves that he commands are taught exaggeratedly cruel combat techniques by a group of his ‘elite wolf-shifters.’ Each of them has eyes that glow a deep red, bringing corruption.
Torr was still here, though in one of the other cages, so I might still have a chance to save him. However, he no longer refuses a command or shows even the slightest hint of doubt. His own desires no longer exist. The blood magic and the devastation it threatens to bring to us all is now his sole desire.
The unfortunate puppets who must undergo this training now face not only mental subjugation but also extreme physical punishment. The more compliant they are and the harsher and more merciless they train to injure their opponents, the less severe the obligatory punishments are.
This drives them into a spiral of unconditional obedience and ruthless brutality. I realize that an army of obedient suicide warriors is being created here.
So many shattered souls of beings who were once familial and protective by nature, the children of Selene, are twisted into barbaric absurdities by Typhus.
It seems as if it will never end.
Throughout the course of the following day, the familiar deep red mists once again approach, but this time, they engulf us right here, among the others. Apparently, only a few of us are still steadfast enough for the mist-walker to deal with us in this way, without locking us away in separate cells. Or are there other reasons for this?
He doesn’t seem as arrogant as usual, but he also shows no hint of weakness—or perhaps I simply don’t notice it, due to my lack of mental and physical clarity.
Typhus positions himself before us, summons his powers, and then the mists he has conjured completely surround us. The cage doors open with a mere wave of his hand.
Driven by his blood magic, I feel as though I am controlled by forces beyond me. I have no influence over what follows. I charge forward with the others, racing up the stairs into the inner courtyard and further, to the long-forgotten gates of the great fortress. There, I am overcome with the impulse to protect my ‘home.’
What the hell is going on here? Why does this thought overwhelm me, this monstrous desire to protect this place of torment?
My head spins.
Desperately clinging to my sanity, I scream at my body—especially my legs—to take the opportunity to escape, to run, but nothing happens.
What are we waiting for here? What is all this?
Then I see them. Wolves! Many angry and determined wolves are charging towards us, intending to storm the fortress, with a large, jet-black wolf leading the charge. Surely, an Alpha, as he towers over the others. Beside him runs a sandy-colored, slightly smaller wolf, yet equally driven by untamed fury.
As the pack of foreign wolves cuts their violent, bloody path through our ranks, I finally understand...
We are the pawns in Typhus’ battle.
Manipulated, we are powerless to defy his command. I plead with Selene, with the Moon, and I turn my gaze upon the wolves before me.
No escape...
The others around me stare, some in horror, others forced into aggression by Typhus, meeting the attackers head-on.
The foreign wolves lunge at us, mowing us down without mercy. I watch as they sharpen their claws on the bones of my fellow captives. Since they are in far better health and mental condition than we are, they offer little serious resistance.
I cannot escape the inevitable, so I close my eyes, taking a deep breath, and brace myself.
I reach for the last flicker of my own will, and somehow, I succeed—not in facing the attacking wolves, who rush toward us at a relentless pace, but in grabbing the frightened, utterly surprised man beside me and trying to drag him to the edge of the battle.
Though I wish I could have saved Torr, perhaps I can still save some other life.
... Even if it is not mine.
