Morning light streams through the cathedral's shattered windows, casting mottled patterns across the marble floor. Sir Kieran stands at the center of a circular rune etched into the ground, flanked by Lorin, the acolyte-priestess of Seraphina. Her silver robes shimmer as she watches him with a mixture of reverence and trepidation.
"Focus on the mind," Lorin instructs softly, guiding Kieran's gaze toward a nervous temple acolyte kneeling beyond the rune's boundary. "Your will is the key. Let your power slip into his thoughts like water through a broken dam."
Kieran closes his eyes, summoning the new energy pulsing within. He extends his hand, palm glowing with a subtle violet haze. Inside the acolyte's mind, he senses barriers—fear, doubt, loyalty to old gods. He pushes. A mental whisper forms: Stand. The acolyte's rigid posture relaxes. "Rise," Kieran continues. The young man obeys without hesitation.
Lorin's breath catches. She steps closer, her voice hushed. "Now… make him forget his name."
Kieran nods, weaving threads of seduction magic through the acolyte's thoughts. The man's brows furrow, then smooth. He tilts his head, eyes vacant. "Who… am I?" he murmurs. Lorin's lips curve into a triumphant smile. "Perfect."
But the moment shimmers. In the corner of her vision, Lorin sees the acolyte's mind stir against the spell—a flicker of true memory, a silent plea.
She swallows. A whisper of doubt threads through her devotion: What if the chains I weave can also break?
The cathedral walls tremble with distant thunder, as if the world itself senses a rebellion stirring in the currents of magic. Lorin's heart pounds. The price of this power may be greater than either of them imagines…