Out of Time

Fingertips tracing along the well-known halls of her family home, Arytiss struggles once again with the ever-present temptation that is the locked cellar door. The cedar rails wane ever so slightly at her touch, beckoning her closer. Every room in the house is hers to explore. Every room except this one. Why?

Unable to withstand temptation’s call any longer, Arytiss gently removes a simple scroll from within her robes. With a single breath to hold her nerve, she unrolls it, places one hand on the lock, and whispers the scribed incantation. The lock clicks open, offering Arytiss the chance of a lifetime.

The brittle stairs creak beneath her weight as she hurries down into the darkness. What answers lay ahead of her? What was worth keeping from her all this time?

What she finds below the floorboards of her house is disappointing to say the least. Dust covered tomes lay discarded in this dungeon, with only a thin black notebook in any condition to read. Arytiss sits on the rickety chair in the centre of the room and brushes the ancient powder off the leather bound text.

Flicking through the pages, she notices markings of a language never learnt, but somehow familiar. The energy ripples through her like electricity, with every touch of the runic script, her eyes widening with excitement at this unexpected source of power unlike anything she had ever felt before. Without a second thought, Arytiss lays the book out flat, placing both hands on the pages in front of her. Trembling, she takes another steadying breath and speaks an incantation, unaware of its meaning, but driven by the need to know and the desire for more of this power.

Her breath catches in her chest as a strange green light draws out of the book, the warmth of it pulsing through her arms and into her chest, filling her being with pure ecstasy. Nothing could compare. Then it shifts. The warmth begins to burn, slowly at first but before long it is a pain beyond her control. Arytiss clamps her eyes shut, trying to block it all out. She should never have come down here. Could this really be the moment she dies?

In a final burst of burning energy, Arytiss cries out in agony releasing the magic that built inside of her. From the waves of heat that now surround her, she feels the cool grasp of worn and gentle hands take her wrists. Arytiss opens her eyes just in time to see the kind, smiling face of an old woman before the swirling flames engulf her saviour.

Slumping to the ground, tears streaming down her face onto this stranger who now lies dead before her, Arytiss only now realises this room is brighter than before. As she glances up, through water-logged eyes, she no longer sees the dusty cellar of her home. Oddly shaped vials, filled with liquids of every colour, line the steady shelves of this single roomed hovel. A bookcase houses countless black, leather bound books, and upon the desk lies an impossible sum of money. Shining gold coins, stacked to the ceiling, sit unguarded before her eyes.

Arytiss slowly rises and steps cautiously around the corpse, careful not to make contact. For all she knew the magic that brought her here could reside within the body of this old woman. That kind of power doesn’t just disappear. As Arytiss takes one of the gold pieces, weighing it in her palm, she quickly does the math. There has to be around 20,000 gold here.

“Quite the conundrum wouldn’t you say?” snarks a grating voice from behind her.

Arytiss spins around to see a tiny, red-skinned outsider crouching on the corpse’s chest. Its pointed ears and sharp, toothy grin shine light on its devilish nature.

“W-what do you want?” Arytiss stammers, her quivering voice betraying her.

“To leave,” the imp replies, “and you’re going to release me. So, if you would be so kind as to sign here.”

With a flick of the wrist an infernal strip of parchment and a sharpened quill appear in its clawed hands. It flies up to the desk, pricks Artyiss’s arm with the point, and hands the set to her. Her eyes dart across the page. A dull pain builds beneath her brow as she tries to make sense of it all.

“This binding can only be broken by the wizard who trapped you. I can’t help you. A powerful enough spellcaster might be able to counter it, but that kind of magic is well beyond me.”

A low groan escapes his lips as the imp rolls his eyes, frustration building with every second spent with this minor. Children are not his specialty. He swoops down beside the still body once more, this time scratching at the charred flesh below the old woman’s right collarbone revealing a small symbol, the scarring clear even beyond the body’s first line of defence.

Immediate recognition takes hold, as Arytiss drew her hand slowly to her own. It was given to her on the day of her first spark. These symbols are unique to the individual. No one else could have it. Waves of dread wash over her as the dots connect. Her breaths quicken as she stumbles back into the far wall, shattering glass and spilling the concoctions in a multicoloured shower. A horrible combination of burning, healing, sickness, and light overwhelm Arytiss as the effects of mismatched potions are unleashed simultaneously.

“No, no, no, no, no…” she whimpers, “This can’t be happening.”

Arytiss raises her hands, grasping her fringe in fear and frustration. It is then she notices two new marks, one on each wrist. The first, a crooked star with tiny dot at its centre. The second, a single word in capital letters: TRUST.

While strange, these marks bring Arytiss a small sense relief and resolve. Even now, with the knowledge that her future form lies dead at her feet, the calm begins to grow. With these symbols that must serve a purpose, an imp bound to do her bidding, and all the gold she needs to hide her crime, Artyiss takes a single steadying breath. It’s time to begin.