After the whole incident in Ragla, Thomas invited them to the guild so that Talmir could clear things up.
The guildhall felt colder than usual.
Not because of Teclos's mana — his father kept a tight hand on his shoulder, keeping him calm — but because of the mood hanging in the air like a storm cloud. The torches flickered along the stone walls, casting long, trembling shadows across grim faces.
At the long central table sat Chief Thomas, wrapped in his fur-lined cloak he'd hauled on in haste. To his right were the four most respected hunters of Ragla: Irven, Darnel, Rollo, and Tonka. Their expressions were stony, suspicious — some haunted, some angry, some curious.
Behind them stood Talmir with a protective hand on Teclos, the now trembling twelve-year-old boy. Teclos's eyes flickered like a hunted deer's as he tried not to meet their gazes.
They all hate me… all because I messed up…
Chief Thomas cleared his throat.
"Talmir," he said quietly, "explain it from the start. What happened… what we saw."
Talmir stepped forward, composed.
"Teclos was training under my supervision — meditation, mana control. He lost focus and his darkness mana leaked outward. It was an accident. Not malicious in any way. I assure you he meant no harm."
Silence stretched. Then Tonka shifted in his seat, brows furrowed.
"Accident or not," he said carefully, "I felt that cold like ice itself froze the forest. It made me sluggish, even through my clothes."
Rollo nodded, voice low.
"Aye. I won't lie — I'm frightened. But I don't think this boy is evil." He glanced at Teclos, who flinched. "Maybe… he needs help."
Irven snorted.
"Help? Help won't save us when that boy decides to lash out in anger. Training or no training — this kind of power is a knife without a sheath, not to mention sinister."
Darnel slammed his gauntleted fist on the table.
"A knife is good. A knife keeps wolves away. Maybe we can bind him with a slave mark or brainwash him before he becomes a monster, no?"
Teclos squeezed his eyes shut. His heart thudded in his chest.
They want to make me a slave? Really? Because of one mistake?
Fear rose like bile in his throat.
Talmir didn't flinch. He met Darnel's glare evenly.
"A slave mark? So the boy sits in chains because you're scared of what you don't understand?"
Rollo's chair scraped as he stood between Talmir and Darnel.
"Enough. Darnel — do you truly believe that enslaving a twelve-year-old is the right way to go about this?"
Darnel stared him down.
"I believe in protecting the village."
Talmir raised his hand, voice firm.
"If you don't know enough, Pella can examine him in front of you. Clearly magic like this needs proper oversight so that you people can be satisfied."
At the name Pella, the tension between the hunters and Talmir shifted subtly. The room grew lighter with fear receding a bit — but caution was still ever-present.
Chief Thomas nodded slowly.
"Talmir is right. I've known Father Pella for a long time. He's a wise and just member of the Dawn Church. If he says this is just the mana of a learning child, I will trust him."
Irven spat.
"And if Pella misses something? Or lies? He is from your village; for all we know he's in cahoots with you! We'll be crippled waiting for an answer while that mana spreads."
"I already told you Father Pella isn't like that," said Thomas angrily.
"Still better than blood of an innocent child in the snow," Rollo muttered,backing Thomas and refuting Irven, while also glancing at Teclos's pale face.
Thomas rested his hand on the table, thinking.
"All right, we will send a letter to the Dawn Church directly. Requesting an inquisitor — an experienced agent to assess the boy's mana firsthand. That should clarify everything."
Silence swallowed the room.
Darnel chuckled bitterly.
"An inquisitor? That'll cost blood or coin, maybe both. Hopefully you're not thinking of ours."
Irven clasped his hands on the table.
"It's necessary. That inquisitor should help us get rid of that pest." He said this looking directly at Teclos.
Talmir stiffened. His face remained neutral, but Teclos felt the tension in his father's arm — a trembling anger he rarely showed.
Dad's angry… he never gets like this unless something is really wrong…
"Chief," Talmir said quietly, "an inquisitor is… extreme."
Thomas nodded slowly.
"Perhaps. But necessary."
"They evaluate curses, corruption, undeath. Teclos has none of that."
Talmir's voice wavered with a hint of desperation.
"He's simply… different."
"And difference can be dangerous," Darnel muttered.
Talmir ignored him.
"Thomas. You know me. You know Saldia. You know he's our son."
"I do," Thomas said gently. "And that is the only reason this discussion is even happening, instead of panic spreading through the village already."
Teclos's heartbeat felt like a hammer against his ribs. His breaths were sharp and uneven.
He finally whispered,
"Dad… are they going to take me away?"
Talmir knelt before him.
"No. I won't let that happen."
He exhaled slowly and muttered silently so only Teclos heard him:
"I will send word to Pella immediately. He'll arrive soon once he knows."
Teclos trembled against his father's cloak, not really reassured.
What if Father Pella is late…? What if they decide before he comes?
The hunters scoffed, but Thomas silenced them with a glare.
"We are not deciding anything yet," the chief said firmly. "We are simply requesting an evaluation. The Church must assess him. That's all."
But Talmir heard the unspoken meaning:
Assess him… and decide his fate.
Chief Thomas rose. The hunters watched him, guarded.
"Until that agent comes, you and the boy remain under supervision. No forest trips. No solo travel. And no — and I mean no — training, lest concern and fear spread again."
The room murmured with agreement, guarded relief, and silent grumbles from the distrustful hunters.
Thomas looked at each man.
"That is all."
The hunters went out slowly. Irven and Darnel last, leaving cold stares in Teclos's direction. The torchlight flickered as they passed, shadows trembling like whispers in a graveyard.
Once the footsteps faded and the door closed, Talmir pulled Teclos into a tight hug.
"Don't worry, son," he murmured. "I will write to Pella and send word right away. He'll come… and we'll prove to them that you're just a boy."
Teclos nodded. Against the cloak, in the hush, he let soft tears slip. Not only because he was sad that nobody believed him — but because he was tired.
Tired of fear.
Tired of suspicion.
Across the hall, Tonka lingered by the doorway. He turned to Rollo, voice quiet but firm:
"Fear is not hatred. Hope the boy doesn't take it to heart too much. Let's just hope the Church sees it too."
Rollo nodded once.
"That would be for the best."
Outside, snow drifted silently in the courtyard. After a few minutes the wooden door shut with a dull thud.
Inside, only the warm glow of torches and the steady breath of a son in panic remained as Talmir left to write a letter to Pella.
Meanwhile.
Below the Guildhall, directly under Teclos… chains rattled.
The sound echoed through the stone belly of the guildhall like a weak, metallic cry.
Deep below the main floor lay the holding chambers — a set of four cramped, windowless cells carved into the cold earth centuries ago. They were built for one purpose: containment. The air smelled of iron, mildew, and old regrets, heavy enough to taste.
The walls were lined with obsidian-black mana-suppression bricks, each etched with faint runic grooves that glimmered dull blue in the torchlight. The ceiling and floors were paved with the same stone, draining mana from any unlucky soul forced to stand upon them.
Even the bars were crafted from Nullsteel, a rare alloy forged to deaden magic like a damp cloth smothering a flame.
This place was meant to cage monsters.
Tonight, it held Joe.
He lay slumped against the back wall, one leg twisted at a wrong angle, the shin swollen grotesquely beneath his filthy trouser cloth. His skin was a canvas of black-blue blotches, purple pools of swelling, and strips of torn flesh where rings and boots had caught him during the beating.
Blood — not fresh red, but sluggish, dark, sticky — trickled from his nose and from a split across his brow. The dried streaks on his arms were smeared by the trembling of his hands.
The cold was merciless. With no windows, no sunlight, and stones that leeched warmth like predators, the cell felt less like a room and more like the inside of a tomb.
Joe's breaths rattled, fogging faintly in the frigid air.
"Hah… hah… ahh — damn… bastards…" he croaked, voice cracking. A violent shiver wracked his body, making the chains bolted to the wall tremble.
He tugged weakly at the shackles around his wrists. They scraped the stone with a hollow metal whisper.
"I'll kill you… all of you…" he hissed. His voice was low, hoarse, half-mad. "Leave me in here to rot… like I'm filth… like I'm nothing…"
He laughed, a wet, broken sound that echoed off the stone.
"Nothing… that's what they called me, wasn't it…?"
His head slumped forward. Memories slipped through the cracks in his mind like unwelcome ghosts.
Memories of a Broken Life.
He saw his father lying still on the bed — thin, pale, barely breathing as the sickness claimed him. The hunters stood by, not helping, not even looking at Joe when it happened.
After the burial, they whispered:
"That boy's trouble."
"The father's debts… they'll fall on him."
"Bad luck follows that family."
He was twelve when the first shove came.
Fourteen when the first punch landed.
Fifteen when even the adults crossed the street to avoid him.
Sixteen when his apprenticeship fell through because "someone like him" couldn't be trusted near tools or coin.
Joe's jaw clenched, cracking fresh blood on his lip.
"They all hated me… all of 'em… even when I tried…"
He remembered the nights he spent trying to win the village over — fishing for extra meat, offering to fix fences, trying to help in hopes someone would smile at him.
But the smiles never came.
Eventually, the drinks did.
And with them… ruin.
Remembering the Day He Lost His Family
"They all look at me… like a monster…" he whispered, staring at his shaking hands. "Even Lira… even little Ren…"
He remembered coming home reeking of liquor, thinking he was being funny as he stumbled through the doorway.
He remembered shouting about nothing, throwing a cup, slamming a hand against the table so hard the wood cracked.
Not hitting them.
But scaring them.
Terrifying them.
His wife had cried that night. His son hid behind her skirt.
Joe remembered reaching toward them — not to hurt them, but to hold them, explain, apologize.
But drunken hands are clumsy, and drunken shouting feels like rage.
The fear in their eyes burned him even now.
"Maybe I wasn't the best husband… or friend…" he muttered, voice trembling. "But I don't deserve this…"
Then he remembered the fire.
His one friend — Rogan — had taken him in when he'd been too drunk to walk home.
Joe remembered waking up in Rogan's house, cold and miserable, the taste of cheap liquor still clinging to his tongue. He remembered stumbling toward the table, knocking into a candle.
He remembered the flame catching a curtain.
Rogan had screamed for water. Neighbors had rushed in.
And Joe had stood there, frozen, while the house burned.
Rogan never looked at him again.
The village decided that was enough reason to shun him entirely.
The Present — And the Breaking Point.
Joe pressed his forehead to the freezing stone. His breath quickened into a manic rhythm.
"And now…" he laughed bitterly, "…now they beat me… leave me here… after all I did…"
His eyes went wild.
"This is all that brat's fault. That cursed child…"
He spat blood on the floor.
"Teclos… Teclos … you ruined everything…"
He laughed again — high, sharp, unhinged.
"They'll see… they'll all see… who the real monster is…"
His voice faded into a rasping whisper.
The chains rattled softly as he curled tighter into himself, shivering violently.
Above him, faint footsteps echoed from the upper floor.
Warm voices murmured through stone.
Joe stared up at the ceiling with wide, glassy eyes.
"…laugh while you can…"
His teeth chattered.
"…you won't laugh for long…"
And although the dungeon swallowed his words whole,
He took action.
He remembered the Ritual.
Forbidden, sinister, and full of hatred.
Joe bit his finger for fresh blood and started drawing a magic pentagram.
Giving his remaining life force and what mana he had left away. It was a summoning ritual of an evil spirit or banshee he learned from a Necronomicon his father kept for a while until he sold it for booze.
Mana spiked and flared even in this environment. Hatred and life force were the basis for necromancy he'd read from the book, so he poured every ounce of his being into summoning the monster and sacrificing himself in the process.
Once the pentagram was finished, the whole dungeon lit up in red.
The runic signs started turning in a counterclockwise way around the pentagram, and a dark fog rose from the middle of the magic symbol.
Teclos felt a sinister aura — so sinister it froze him in place out of fear.
"What… what is this? This isn't me… this isn't my mana?"
The air trembled.
The torches in the dungeon flickered violently.
And then—
Joe's life faded; in return, unlife was born anew.
The pentagram formed a black gateway that roared open with a blast of crimson light—
And something unspeakable crawled out.