Under a Warlock's Spell

A hazy contentment settled over Wells, blurring the edges of his reality. He felt a profound sense of relief in Lady Helena’s presence, trusting implicitly that she had everything under control. Why should he worry? Surrendering to this blissful idleness, he watched the clouds drift across the sky. He was incredibly lucky she had rescued him from Cirus, a man he now recognized as a truly corrupting influence who had resorted to blackmailing him. And Aria? He pushed the thought aside. For now, she was free, soaring high and doing what she loved.

Every so often, Helena would guide her mount to his side. She would gaze down at him, her lips curling into a sweet, disarming grin. Wells craved her approval, and the sight of her apparent satisfaction filled him with a quiet thrill. During these interludes, she would perform her “healing,” and with each gentle wave of her power, it felt as though every negative sensation was simply washed away.

As the day wore on, Wells's grip on his surroundings loosened further. He would catch snippets of conversation, distant and indistinct, but Helena was always there to soothe him, her magic calming his mind with gentle, murmuring sounds. He tried to pose a question once, but she just smiled and pressed a finger to her lips, a silent command that he need not trouble himself with speech.

When night finally fell, he slipped into a deep and profound slumber. The agony in his face returned almost instantly, but it came with a startling gift: his awareness. The white fog that had shrouded his mind evaporated, and his thoughts sharpened, becoming lucid and clear. He found himself standing on the snow-dusted peaks of Mount Nenara, the world around him utterly silent.

“What’s happening to me?!” he screamed into the empty sky, his voice escalating with each desperate question. “Why was I kidnapped? How can I possibly be a magician? I thought I was just a normal fifteen-year-old!”

A familiar voice cut through the silence from behind him. “Careful, Wells. Someone back in your world might not have heard you.”

He spun around to see Aria descending toward him. “Aria!” he cried out in joy, pulling her into an embrace that would have crushed her if it weren't a dream. Instead, she only laughed. “Are you all right? Where are you? Have you seen Cirus? Have—”

“Wells, slow down,” she interrupted, her tone one of mock exasperation. “One question at a time. Yes, I’m fine. I’m in Pelara, and Cirus sent me a message.”

He set her down, and she flew up to perch on his outstretched arm. A wave of comfort washed over him. “A message?”

“Indeed,” she confirmed. “He said Anais rode off to find you the moment they realized you were gone. And Cirus says you are to do exactly as they say and not pull any more stunts like you did yesterday.”

Wells groaned. “I didn't mean for that to happen,” he said glumly. “Besides, didn't it set you free?”

“Yes, and for that, I never properly thanked you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Aria chuckled. “So, what are they doing to you?”

“They’re—” Wells paused. He tried to grasp the memory of the previous day, but there was nothing. It was as if the event had been surgically removed from his mind, leaving only an unnerving void. He could remember releasing Aria in the morning, but everything after that was a complete blur.

“Wells?” Aria prompted.

“I can’t remember what they did to me,” he stated bluntly. “The last thing I recall is Helena coming over to me after you left… she said something about consequences for my actions, then she burned my face, and…”

A look of concern crossed Aria’s face. “She’s likely erased your memory.”

His eyes widened in astonishment. “Wizards can do that?”

“Well, Helena isn’t a wizard, obviously, is she?” Aria said wryly.

“Even if she’s a warlock—can Kalan or Myran do that?”

“Honestly, I don’t know,” Aria admitted. “I just know that her being able to access Myran is very bad news.”

“You’re just saying that because Cirus said it,” Wells retorted sarcastically.

“Oh, hush.”

They spent the rest of the night talking about nothing in particular. Once or twice, Wells felt the distinct and unsettling sensation of being watched, but the feeling passed as quickly as it came. At another point, while telling Aria about high school, he noticed his ring begin to glimmer.

“What’s happening?” Wells asked, his voice tight with alarm.

“I—I’m not sure,” Aria stammered. “But you’re doing magic.”

“No, I’m not,” he insisted. “I don’t feel anything, and I’m not calling to the Greatwood.” Just then, a sharp pain lanced through his side. “Ow!” he yelled, doubling over. “It hurts!”

“What is it?”

“It feels like I’m being kicked—AGH!”

The dream shattered, and Wells was violently catapulted back to consciousness. He was still restrained, and the source of the pain became brutally clear: Lyren and Isrien were kicking him in the ribs. Morning had broken. Standing over him, her expression unreadable, was Helena.

“You did magic,” she remarked, a note of grudging awe in her arrogant tone.

“No, I didn’t—ow, stop it!” he shouted at Lyren and Isrien, who continued their assault despite his being awake. They only ceased when Helena raised a hand, and they immediately moved to flank her, glaring down at him.

“Yes, you did, you filthy little liar,” she spat. “When I approached you, you had surrounded yourself with a wall of pure Myran.”

“How could I do that when I don’t even know what pure Myran is?” he shot back fiercely. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Lady Helena’s eyes narrowed with suspicion as she studied him. She chewed on her lip for a moment. “Untie him,” she commanded Lyren. As the intricate knots were swiftly undone, Wells’s stomach lurched with dread; whatever she had in mind could not be good.

“Get up,” she ordered. Not daring to disobey, he staggered to his feet. The pain from his bonds registered for the first time—angry red welts, some of them bleeding, marked his skin where the ropes had dug in.

She seized his right hand and examined his ring. Her eyes locked onto it as she whispered something in a language Wells had never heard. Nothing happened, but when she waved her own ringed palm over his, there was a sudden flare of teal light.

“You wear an Astaloran Ring,” she stated at last, her voice quiet.

“Yes,” Wells replied, deciding the truth was his safest bet.

“This complicates things,” she murmured, speaking more to herself as she stared into the distance. “The Lords did not know of this.” She turned back to Wells, her face troubled, as if she were contemplating a repugnant course of action. Then, her features hardened into a mask of grim resolve. “There is nothing else for it.”

Her ringed hand came up. A dazzling teal light began to glow from it, but from its core bled a strange and absolute darkness that seemed to drink the morning light. The blackness surged forward, engulfing Wells completely, casting him into a silent, featureless void. Thrown into the emptiness, he could see nothing but himself. Then, the shimmering forms of Isrien, Lyren, and Lady Helena appeared. Her men looked terrified, but Helena’s face was a portrait of steely determination as the heavy fog, at last, began to lift.