Grey's eyes fluttered open, the dull throb of pain pulsing through his skull like the aftermath of a heavy bell tolling in his mind. Disoriented, he struggled to gather his thoughts. The ceiling above him was hewn from rough stone, dimly illuminated by the trembling flame of a solitary candle. The waxy light cast long, dancing shadows across the walls, turning the modest room into something out of a dream or a nightmare.
He tried to move, only to discover that both his hands and legs were firmly bound to the wooden chair he sat upon. The coarse rope bit into his skin. Cold. Tight. Real. A sickening realization crawled into his mind: he had been kidnapped.
He tried to recall what had led to this, to piece together the fragments before his collapse. But each time he reached for a memory, a sharp spike of pain lanced through his head, as though something some force was actively preventing him from remembering.
Time passed. Footsteps echoed in the corridor beyond the door measured, deliberate. A metallic click, and the door creaked open.
Three figures stepped into the candlelight: two men flanking a woman clad in crimson robes. Grey's breath caught in his throat. There was something hauntingly familiar about them, yet their identities danced just beyond the edge of his comprehension.
The woman spoke first, her voice oddly soft for the situation. "Is your pain manageable now?"
Her words, though gentle, struck Grey with the cold certainty of a blade. They knew. They were involved. Whether they were the orchestrators of his abduction or merely its instruments, he could not say but they held all the power.
Still, he did not scream. Nor did he beg. A man like him, an orphan with no name and no connections, had little to offer and less to threaten with. If they had wanted him dead, surely he would have been by now.
He nodded once, cautiously.
The woman gave a nod of her own to the men beside her. "Call the priest," she said, her tone brooking no opposition. The two men exchanged a glance and exited wordlessly.
Now alone with her, Grey took the chance to observe. She stood before him with an air of authority, her red robe shrouding her from neck to foot, revealing only a pale, expressionless face. Her eyes studied him with clinical detachment.
"You're aware of why you're here?" she asked.
He shook his head. That wasn't entirely true he had suspicions. Dangerous ones.
"Your department professor at the university has been executed," she said flatly. "He was found to be a knight of the Church of Darkness. All those associated with him staff, students, confidants are under investigation."
A heavy silence settled in the room.
Grey's heart raced. The body he now inhabited its previous owner had left behind warnings. Hide the mark on the right hand. A mark that could betray him.
Trying his best to remain composed, he pleaded, "I... I swear by the God of Light, I knew nothing of my professor's identity. I'm just a scholar. My parents, rest their souls, were devout believers. You can check the records, please."
The woman remained unmoved. Her eyes held no trace of empathy.
"You needn't be afraid," she said at last. "You were under an illusion spell. For an entire day, I observed you your reactions, your memories. I found nothing incriminating. I also inspected both your hands. There was no sign of divine blessing no mark of allegiance to any god."
Grey's breath caught. Relief came in hesitant waves, soon broken by the tide of her next words.
"But," she added, "the priest will now confirm whether your mark has been concealed by arcane means."
A chill ran through him. He was trapped. Tied down. Powerless.
The footsteps returned, and a middle-aged man entered. Clad in ceremonial garb, he gave no acknowledgment to Grey only a silent nod to the woman. Then he stepped forward, closed his eyes, and muttered a prayer under his breath.
A soft golden radiance shimmered into being, descending upon Grey's restrained hands. It lingered for a few agonizing seconds, then dispersed without effect.
The priest said nothing. The woman's voice returned, this time edged with curiosity rather than suspicion.
"It seems you are not a follower of the Dark Church after all."
Relief, warm and sudden, blossomed in Grey's chest. His life, it seemed, was spared. But no sooner had that thought taken root than a more chilling one followed.
She said I was under an illusion spell for a day ,yet I remember reading that book the one left by my body's former owner. I remember the words, the diagrams, the mark on the hand
If it was an illusion, how did I read something that should not exist in the illusion? If it wasn't real, how did she not see it?
And if it was real how did the priest's holy light not reveal the mark?
His mind reeled, trying to separate truth from deception, memory from illusion. What was real? What was imagined?
He didn't have long to ponder. A sudden blow struck him from behind.
Darkness claimed him once more.