A Small Resistance

Lyselle awoke in darkness.

The stone ceiling arched above her like a monstrous jaw—cold and damp. Heavy iron shackles clamped around her wrists, though they weren’t welded to the wall. A false sense of imprisonment, designed to make her feel powerless yet unbound. Perhaps they wanted to see how far her strength could stretch.

Torchlight from the corridor outside flickered across the magical symbol etched into her cell’s wall. The inscription didn’t glow, but when her fingertips brushed its surface, the engraving felt warm—alive—and patiently waiting for something.

Lyselle sat cross-legged, steadying her breathing. She retrieved the Nethra crystal from beneath her tunic—now cracked with fine fractures. She’d pushed it too hard in the ruins. Still, a faint glow persisted in its core.

“You see me… don’t you?” she whispered to the symbol.

There was no reply. Yet she sensed she was not alone. Not merely in a physical sense, but on a path traveled before—and surely traveled again. Reian had walked this road; she now walked it. And perhaps one day, others would follow.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor.

The cell’s iron door weaponized itself with a creak that sounded like a wounded howl. A man entered—long silver hair tied at his back, dark-blue robes trailing the floor. A slender crystal-topped staff hung from his belt. His sharp eyes swept over Lyselle—not with overt hostility, but without warmth.

“You are the child who dared touch the ruins,” he said, his voice smooth as silk, dangerous and calm. “I am Vaeril, liaison of the Outer Tower.”

The name echoed in Lyselle’s memory.

She trembled but spoke. “You’re the one snatching children.”

Vaeril raised one silken eyebrow. “You make it sound barbaric. They are chosen for something greater.”

“Purification Rite? That was murder.”

A faint smile curved across Vaeril’s lips. “Magic does not blossom from morality, but from balance—and yes, at times, sacrifice.”

Lyselle rose to her feet. “Then am I the next sacrifice?”

“Perhaps… or maybe a catalyst.”

He approached, eyes holding hers. “You are unlike others. A Nethra crystal should never respond to an ordinary human—yet you command it. Without formal training. Without swearing oath to the Tower. That is dangerous.”

“Because I do not submit to you?”

“Because you have yet to choose a side.”

Vaeril turned and strode to the door.

“I’ll grant you time—but not much. If you continue to refuse us… your body will serve in our experiments.”

He left, the door clanking shut behind him. Lyselle exhaled, heart pounding—but not in fear.

In fury.

---

Three days slipped by.

Every day, Vaeril returned—bearing questions, insinuations, threats. But Lyselle remained silent, memorizing every detail: footsteps of the guards, cracks in the wall, moments when torches flickered.

On the fourth night, with the corridor silent, she reached out and touched the magical inscription. The Nethra crystal pulsed.

“Show me the way,” she murmured.

Lines of faint light flared to life—a slender teleportation circle. Weak. Narrow. But wide enough.

Lyselle bit her lip, channeling all her energy into the circle.

ZRRRRAK—

In an instant, she found herself in a dim, unused storage room deep within the castle. But she wasn’t alone.

Two figures stood with their backs to her. One tall, cloaked in dark garb, its chest plated; the other shorter, hooded in gray cloth.

They spun around. Shock and wariness flickered in golden eyes.

“You… from those ruins?” whispered a youthful voice.

Lyselle stared back. “You’ve seen me?”

The hooded figure lowered the fabric. A boy—no older than twelve, but with a face aged by hardship. White hair. A strange marking beneath one eye.

“My name is Niran,” he said. “We… are prisoners here too. But we’re trying to escape.”

The taller man shifted. “If you can use that wall-sign… you’re no ordinary captive.”

“I’m Lyselle,” she said firmly. “And I’m not staying silent.”

Niran nodded. “Then… come with us.”

---

The underground tunnels beneath Ardellon Castle were far vast than she'd imagined: branching through ritual chambers, old laboratories, even abandoned magical training halls.

In one hidden chamber stood several other children—terrified eyes alight with hope the moment they saw Lyselle.

“They’re survivors,” Niran whispered. “We hid them after fleeing Vaeril’s clutches.”

“You’re not alone, Lyselle,” said the tall man. “My name is Therran. I was a soldier from the southern fortress. I deserted when I learned the Tower trafficked children.”

Lyselle clenched her fists. “They won’t stop until we make them.”

“That’s why we need you,” Therran said. “You can control Nethra. Without binding. That means your magic was born from will alone. It is… the purest kind of magic.”

Lyselle gazed at them—the frightened children, the steely soldier, the strange boy named Niran. They were not an army.

But they were seeds.

“Then… let’s begin here. A small resistance. But real.”

---

That night, they made their plan—not an assault, but sabotage: darken the Tower’s apparatus, disrupt teleport runs, burn archives, and most importantly—rescue anyone still in chains.

Within a week, rumors of the “Nethra Shadow” rippled through the guards. Reports of spontaneous sparks, symbols shifting of their own accord, even wards failing to hold.

Vaeril raged. The Baroness grew suspicious. Yet they had no idea where to look.

Lyselle, hooded and clutching her cracked crystal, became a specter weaving through enemy lines.

A small resistance had begun.

And, slowly, the world began to shift.