For the first time in eons, Raznal found himself genuinely doubting his Master's grand design.
He stood perfectly still, his arms crossed over his chest, watching the pathetic Mawsworn struggle to shape his internal anima just to cast a simple Deathbolt.
He was agonizingly terrible at it.
"Argh, why isn't this working?!" he heard his supposed 'student' grumble in deep frustration.
Vorath violently shook his hands, pacing back and forth as if the gesture would somehow calm his erratic magic.
The Painsmith let out a rumbling breath. He truly could not comprehend the Jailer's reasoning on this matter. Why bother with a worm like him in the first place? The boy was only good for leeching anima from chained prisoners.
And yet, Zovaal had specifically commanded Raznal to bestow upon him the Mourneblade, a weapon painstakingly forged using the forbidden knowledge ripped directly from the mind of their most prized acquisition.
'Perhaps I should forge a spare, in case this oaf manages to lose it,' Raznal mused, his eerie blue eyes narrowing as he watched the worm fail for the tenth time in a row.
"I told you to use your intent," Raznal growled, his patience wearing dangerously thin. "Shape the anima into a bolt and expel it. It is not a difficult concept to grasp."
"It's not as easy as it sounds!" Vorath shot back, dropping his hands with a heavy huff of exasperation. "How exactly do you shape the anima?"
"With your intent, exactly as I just said!" the Painsmith roared, the sheer volume of his voice making the heavy iron tools on the nearby anvils rattle.
Vorath threw his arms up in the air. "But what does that even mean?! You're just repeating the same words! Am I supposed to visualize it? Feel it? Push it?"
Raznal stared at him blankly for a long, heavy second. To a creature born of the Shadowlands, manipulating Death magic was as natural as breathing. Having to explain the mechanics of it to a foreigner.
He isn't a genius either, so what does the Master see in him? Raznal truly could not fathom the infinite genius of the Jailer. To find a purpose for such an utterly worthless pawn was a feat entirely beyond the Painsmith's comprehension.
"Nara, come to my forge," Raznal barked into a rune-etched transmission crystal.
He lowered the device, his heavy gaze returning to the struggling Mawsworn. Vorath was already raising his hands, his armored fingers trembling slightly as he stubbornly attempted the spell yet again, refusing to give up despite his repeated failures.
He had perseverance, at least. And that much, Raznal could begrudgingly acknowledge.
"You called for me, Painsmith?" a Magus Mawsworn asked, floating silently into the workshop just behind Vorath.
"Train him in basic Death magic so that he grasps the fundamentals. I have better things to do," Raznal ordered curtly. Without another word, the behemoth turned on his heavy heel and marched back toward the roaring fires of the forge.
Nara silently observed Vorath's incredibly crude attempts at shaping anima. Just watching the clumsy, erratic flow of energy was enough to make a phantom headache assault the Magus's mind.
Who the hell is this novice? The thought couldn't be more aggravating.
As if on cue, the novice somehow achieved the impossible exploit of violently detonating his own spell right in his hands. A sharp crack of unstable Death magic echoed through the room, and the sudden backlash sent Vorath stumbling backward with a startled grunt.
Yes, Nara could already feel the migraine setting in.
"Didn't Lord Raznal brief you on the basic fundamentals?" Nara asked, floating deftly toward the disgruntled Mawsworn.
"He threw around some words I didn't comprehend," Vorath muttered, looking up at the Magus. "Can't you give me a bit more help here? Because just 'feeling' and 'shaping' the anima is not working for me at all. And for your information, I am not from the Shadowlands."
"Very few in this Tower are," Nara replied flatly, scarcely believing what they were hearing. Did this idiot actually think the Jailer was expending what little remained of his raw power to forge more pureborn entities like Raznal, or—gods forbid—more of Dormazain? "The vast majority of us are mortal souls, just like you."
"Really?" Vorath asked, sounding genuinely surprised.
"Yes, really. True native species of the Shadowlands are exceedingly rare down here. They are mostly bound to the eternal Covenants... or they are Devourers."
"Devourers," Vorath muttered, his voice tinged with intrigue. "What are they, anyway? They're native to the Shadowlands, right?"
"We believe so," Nara replied dismissively. "We do not have the luxury of experimenting on them, nor do we explore much outside the boundaries of the Maw."
Vorath didn't comment on the Magus's bitter tone. Instead, he raised an armored hand, resting it thoughtfully against his chin.
"But why are they so voracious? What drives them, other than pure hunger?"
"Nothing drives them except hunger. They are a profoundly simplistic existence. They devour anima, and that is all," Nara explained, the floating Magus shaking their head slightly. "They are a blight, even to us. The concentrated power of the Jailer acts like a blinding beacon to their kind, drawing them in droves. They are the entire reason Lord Raznal is constantly experimenting to invent deadlier, more effective traps."
"But aren't they a bit like the Void in that regard?" Vorath babbled, his idle curiosity instantly freezing the Magus in place.
How does he know about the Void? Nara felt his breath catch for a fraction of a second. It was exceedingly rare for a common Mawsworn to know anything about the cosmic forces of the Void. The few who did belonged exclusively to the elite spellcaster covens of Torghast or the absolute upper echelons of the army, certainly not a clueless novice like him.
"Yes... a bit like the Void," Nara said slowly through gritted teeth, eyeing the armored warrior with suspicion.
Vorath snapped his mouth shut, the uncomfortable silence making him realize a second too late that he had just spoken out of turn.
Shit. My lore-enthusiast ass just bit me again.
The heavy silence stretched for a moment before Nara finally sighed, deciding to drop the subject of the Void for now.
"Lord Raznal asked me to help you with your spellcasting problem," the Magus said, their tone strictly professional again. "Show me. Shape some anima."
Vorath nodded. He focused, pushing a small wisp of dark anima from his core, channeling it down through his arm and out his armored palm. Almost immediately, the wisp became unstable, sputtering wildly before harmlessly dissipating into the cold air.
"Control the wisp. Apply your will to it," Nara instructed, floating a bit closer. "Treat your mind the exact same way you would treat a muscle in your arm. Flex it."
Vorath frowned beneath his helm. He tried exactly what the Magus suggested, visualizing the energy, but he found it incredibly difficult to bind his stubborn will to the erratic magic. It just kept slipping away from his grasp.
"Strange," Nara murmured, observing the pitiful display. "It shouldn't be this difficult, even for a complete novice, to simply shape raw anima."
Nara raised a hand and beckoned the warrior to watch. A similar wisp of dark energy exited the Magus's palm. But unlike Vorath's sputtering attempt, this wisp immediately responded to its master, smoothly coiling around the mage's gloved fingers like an obedient snake.
The coiling anima suddenly condensed into a small, tight sphere before snapping forward as a swift beam of dark energy, harmlessly striking the heavy iron wall of Raznal's workshop.
"That was a Deathbolt, one of the simplest spells in the registry of Death magic," Nara explained, letting their hand drop. "Continue to train your will to shape the anima, and the rest shall come much easier."
But secretly, it was truly strange to the seasoned caster. All souls in the universe possessed at least a minuscule degree of control over anima once they were stripped of their physical bodies, which all Mawsworn were. The forged armor should have made the process even easier; the dark runes embedded within the plating were specifically designed to allow for a far more fluid channel of anima than what would normally be possible.
But this novice... it was as if his very soul was fundamentally different. It felt entirely unaffected by the natural laws of the universe he was supposedly born in.
How strange, Nara mused, unable to suppress a sudden, dark curiosity. The Magus suddenly wanted to push this bizarre soul to its absolute limits, just to see what he truly was.
Vorath quickly began to practice as Nara drifted into his own thoughts. This soul was indeed strange, and perhaps this was the very reason the Painsmith had asked him to train the boy.
Yes, it must be a test for a promotion to Deathspeaker. After all, wasn't that the ultimate goal for all spellcasters in the Maw? To become part of the strongest coven of magic-users the tower had to offer, gifted with a direct strand of the Jailer's own power.
If he were still alive, Nara was sure he would have salivated at the prospect of such boundless knowledge.
"Ouch!"
Nara heard Vorath's anima violently backfire yet again, but the spellcaster paid no mind to the failure, simply watching in silence as his improvised pupil stubbornly prepared for another attempt.
"Tighter," Nara advised suddenly as his disciple's anima began to slip out of control once more, a subtle fluctuation that only a veteran spellcaster like him would have noticed.
And so he did. The erratic wisp finally stabilized.
"Now, guide it along your arm," Nara instructed.
Vorath did so almost without fault. The flow was clumsy, but all it needed was just a little more control.
"Now try to gather it into an orb."
Nara knew the novice would likely fail this step, and he did. The very second the dark wisp started to condense in Vorath's palm, the fragile equilibrium shattered, and the energy violently exploded with a sharp crack.
"Compress it with less force," the Magus advised, completely unbothered by the sudden blast. "It must be instinctive."
Vorath nodded, carefully repeating the process. It was clumsy, and though the magic didn't violently shatter this time, it still stubbornly fizzled out at the very last step.
"Continue. You are off to a good start," Nara instructed smoothly. "Once you master this and can easily gather the anima into a stable orb, I will teach you the true depths of Death magic. Should the need to find me arise, I will be in the outer workshop assisting the runesmiths with their craft."
Nara turned and floated silently toward the heavy iron doors.
"Thank you."
The simple words made the Magus freeze in mid-air. Nara slowly looked back over their shoulder at the armored novice. In the Maw, gratitude was a completely foreign concept, a weakness long tortured out of every enslaved soul.
Saying nothing, the spellcaster eventually turned back around and drifted through the doorway.
Strange, Nara noted once more, leaving the roar of the forge behind. A very peculiar soul indeed.
–
AN: Improvement, but still very far from the top !
Hope you liked it !