and words of power from an arcane tome. Other times she would be practicing strange gestures or reciting mystic chants under Rexol’s watchful eye, a student dutifully performing her daily exercises.
Sometimes she would be very young—six or maybe seven. Still of an age when adult authority was accepted without question. Other times she would be older; on the cusp of womanhood, her mind filled with the questions and insecurities every teenager faced. In every case, however, the wizard’s goal was the same: to convince Cassandra’s subconscious that she was his apprentice and he her mentor.
Typically, it would take some time before Cassandra was able to remember her true identity and shake off the ruse—time the wizard used to force his knowledge into her mind, bit by bit. And each time she rejected him, he would threaten, cajole, or tempt her in a futile but relentless effort to win her over.
I can teach you to control the power of the Crown so that it won’t harm anybody else.
If you don’t learn these lessons, you will be defenseless the next time the Slayer’s Minions find you.
Listen to me and you can become a God!
Ultimately, however, Rexol’s desperate ploys held no sway over her. The Order had trained her too well; her mind was too disciplined to ever embrace what he was trying to tell her.
You know that’s not true. Like it or not, you’re beginning to understand the true nature of Chaos rather than the myths and lies taught to you by the Order.
This time there was something different about the dream. Rexol wasn’t projecting an image of her younger self. He didn’t seem to be projecting any kind of image at all—it felt as if she were standing in a completely dark room.
This dream is not of my doing.
She could still feel the wizard’s presence, but she sensed him only as the incorporeal voice inside her head rather than the stern and commanding authority figure he typically portrayed himself as.
The room is dark, but you have the ability to see what is in here…if you dare.
Cassandra concentrated, and details came into focus as her Sight pierced the blackness. As the picture emerged, a shudder of revulsion ran down her spine.
She was in a cellar, empty save for three figures. Two were human, or had been once—a man and a woman. Their bodies were twisted and mangled, their bones broken and their flesh ripped and torn. They had been positioned on either side of the room, their figures prone on the earthen floor, their broken limbs splayed out at forty-five-degree angles.
Their stomachs were split open, exposing their entrails. The blood from their wounds had been used to trace a wet circle around them, and from the circle extended five sharply pointed triangles, one each aligned with their arms, legs, and head.
They’re still alive,
Rexol noted.
To her horror, Cassandra saw he was right. Though motionless and silent, the eyes of both figures still flickered from side to side and the muscles of their faces twitched and shuddered.
Blood magic,
Rexol explained.
An ancient practice even I found too abhorrent to study in detail.
Repulsed, Cassandra wrenched her focus from the helpless suffering of the victims and focused on the other figure. It was pacing back and forth anxiously between the man and the woman, making a final check on the preparations of his spell. She sensed it wasn’t human, but Cassandra’s Sight couldn’t make out any specific details. It was as if the being was shrouded in a veil of blue-green mist that kept it hidden.
It’s using Chaos to mask its true form,
Rexol noted.
It is a monster that does not wish to be seen.
Cassandra concentrated, trying to peer through the fog. For a moment the vapors seemed to thin, and the figure suddenly stopped. Its head snapped quickly from side to side, scanning the room.
It senses your presence.
The figure let loose a low, angry hiss, then clenched its hands into fists and thrust them toward the ground. The image around
Sometimes she would be very young—six or maybe seven. Still of an age when adult authority was accepted without question. Other times she would be older; on the cusp of womanhood, her mind filled with the questions and insecurities every teenager faced. In every case, however, the wizard’s goal was the same: to convince Cassandra’s subconscious that she was his apprentice and he her mentor.
Typically, it would take some time before Cassandra was able to remember her true identity and shake off the ruse—time the wizard used to force his knowledge into her mind, bit by bit. And each time she rejected him, he would threaten, cajole, or tempt her in a futile but relentless effort to win her over.
I can teach you to control the power of the Crown so that it won’t harm anybody else.
If you don’t learn these lessons, you will be defenseless the next time the Slayer’s Minions find you.
Listen to me and you can become a God!
Ultimately, however, Rexol’s desperate ploys held no sway over her. The Order had trained her too well; her mind was too disciplined to ever embrace what he was trying to tell her.
You know that’s not true. Like it or not, you’re beginning to understand the true nature of Chaos rather than the myths and lies taught to you by the Order.
This time there was something different about the dream. Rexol wasn’t projecting an image of her younger self. He didn’t seem to be projecting any kind of image at all—it felt as if she were standing in a completely dark room.
This dream is not of my doing.
She could still feel the wizard’s presence, but she sensed him only as the incorporeal voice inside her head rather than the stern and commanding authority figure he typically portrayed himself as.
The room is dark, but you have the ability to see what is in here…if you dare.
Cassandra concentrated, and details came into focus as her Sight pierced the blackness. As the picture emerged, a shudder of revulsion ran down her spine.
She was in a cellar, empty save for three figures. Two were human, or had been once—a man and a woman. Their bodies were twisted and mangled, their bones broken and their flesh ripped and torn. They had been positioned on either side of the room, their figures prone on the earthen floor, their broken limbs splayed out at forty-five-degree angles.
Their stomachs were split open, exposing their entrails. The blood from their wounds had been used to trace a wet circle around them, and from the circle extended five sharply pointed triangles, one each aligned with their arms, legs, and head.
They’re still alive,
Rexol noted.
To her horror, Cassandra saw he was right. Though motionless and silent, the eyes of both figures still flickered from side to side and the muscles of their faces twitched and shuddered.
Blood magic,
Rexol explained.
An ancient practice even I found too abhorrent to study in detail.
Repulsed, Cassandra wrenched her focus from the helpless suffering of the victims and focused on the other figure. It was pacing back and forth anxiously between the man and the woman, making a final check on the preparations of his spell. She sensed it wasn’t human, but Cassandra’s Sight couldn’t make out any specific details. It was as if the being was shrouded in a veil of blue-green mist that kept it hidden.
It’s using Chaos to mask its true form,
Rexol noted.
It is a monster that does not wish to be seen.
Cassandra concentrated, trying to peer through the fog. For a moment the vapors seemed to thin, and the figure suddenly stopped. Its head snapped quickly from side to side, scanning the room.
It senses your presence.
The figure let loose a low, angry hiss, then clenched its hands into fists and thrust them toward the ground. The image around
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