Chapter 13 – Dormant Embers
*
The Silent Flame. She screamed, and the world stood still, A storm unleashed, a broken will. Silver-bound, a timeless stare, Power sleeps in fragile air. In quiet depths, her spark remains, A shadow bound by porcelain chains. What will it take to wake the fire, To see her rise, her full desire?
*
It had been five long years since the scream.
I could still feel its reverberations in my bones, as though it had left a stain on the very air I breathed. Five years since Subject 17 our masterpiece, our hope, our beacon, had gone silent.
Five years of nothingness.
I sat at the edge of the summoning dais, staring at the rows of glyph-covered scrolls spread before me. They chronicled every stage of the subject’s transformation: her first injections, her physical changes, the way her body accepted the forbidden blood without rejection. She was a miracle a dream made flesh.
But that day…
That day, something had gone wrong. Or perhaps something had gone right in a way I could not comprehend.
The subject—her—Subject 17 had screamed so loudly, so powerfully, that the very foundation of our sanctum trembled. Every glass shattered, intricate magical arrays burned out in brilliant flashes of light, and spells meant to contain her power unraveled like thread before a storm. It was chaos. Glorious, beautiful chaos.
And then…nothing.
Since that day, she had stopped responding. No cries, no resistance, no acknowledgment of our voices or actions. Her body remained in a state of stillness that was almost lifeless, except for the fact that she still consumed blood when we forced it down her throat.
If not for that, I might have believed she had died.
We had tried five times to awaken her. Each ritual was grander than the last, each spell more desperate. And each one ended in failure.
I closed my eyes, pressing my fingers to my temples. Five years of failure. Half the cult was losing faith. They whispered among themselves, their voices full of doubt. Some even dared to suggest that the Master had made a mistake by investing so much in her.
Idiots. They had no vision, no understanding of what she represented.
But even I couldn’t deny the growing unease.
For years, Subject 17’s transformation had been a marvel. Her hair had turned silver-white, as luminous as moonlight, and her body had shifted in ways that defied nature. Skin like porcelain, limbs delicate yet unyielding, and the gradual feminization that made her seem almost otherworldly. She had been incomplete but evolving. Her every change a testament to our success.
Yet since that day, her physical changes had ceased entirely. She remained as she had been five years ago, as though frozen in time.
It didn’t make sense.
Master Zareth was growing impatient. He didn’t say it outright, but I could see it in the way his hands tightened into fists when he looked at her. In the clipped tones of his orders. In the glances he cast at me, as though blaming me for her stagnation.
I thought I was immune to the fear that gripped the others. But what if we were wrong? What if the power we sought to create was never meant to exist?
No. I refused to believe that.
I stood abruptly, my robes rustling against the stone floor. The air in the sanctum was cold, filled with the soft hum of residual magic, but it felt suffocating. I had to see her.
The corridors leading to Subject 17’s cell were quiet, save for the faint flicker of enchanted torches. Guards stationed outside the door saluted me, their expressions carefully neutral. I waved them off and stepped inside.
There she was.
She sat slumped against the wall, her silver hair cascading over her shoulders like liquid light. Her once-bright eyes stared blankly ahead, unfocused and unseeing. She looked so small, so fragile and yet I knew better.
Her body was a vessel of immense power. A sleeping titan wrapped in the guise of a girl.
“Subject 17,” I murmured, stepping closer.
As always, there was no response.
I knelt beside her, studying her face. It was serene, almost doll-like in its stillness. But there was no life behind her expression no spark of awareness.
“Why won’t you wake up?” My voice cracked, and I hated myself for it.
I reached out, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. Her skin was cool to the touch, but it was warm enough to assure me she was still alive. Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, a mechanical rhythm that offered no comfort.
What had happened that day? What had we missed?
The Master believed her outburst had triggered some sort of magical backlash, a disruption in the delicate balance of her transformation. I wasn’t so sure. There was something about the scream itself, raw and primal that defied explanation.
I clenched my fists, anger bubbling beneath the surface. She was supposed to be perfect. A being born of succubus and vampire blood, forged by our rituals into something beyond human. She was supposed to embody the culmination of our efforts, our devotion, our sacrifices.
She was supposed to change the world.
And yet here she was, silent and unresponsive, her potential locked away in a prison of her own making.
The sound of footsteps broke my reverie. One of the acolytes stood at the entrance, his face pale and drawn.
“Lady Ysara,” he began hesitantly, “ the Master has arrived and he requests your presence in the council chamber.”
I nodded curtly, rising to my feet. “Very well. Ensure the subject is fed. And do it properly this time.”
The acolyte bowed and hurried away, leaving me alone with her once more.
I hesitated, glancing back at her still form.
“I won’t let you fail,” I whispered. “Do you hear me? I won’t let you.”
She didn’t respond.
The council chamber was filled with tension. Cultists murmured among themselves, their voices a mixture of frustration and fear. The Master sat at the head of the table, his eyes sharp and piercing as they fixed on me.
“Ysara,” he said, his voice a low growl, “report.”
“She remains stable,” I replied, forcing confidence into my tone. “Her condition hasn’t worsened, but there has been no progress.”
“No progress,” he echoed, his lips curling into a sneer. “For five years, Ysara. Five years and you bring me nothing. Do you mistake my patience for tolerance?”
“Tell me, Ysara. How long will you cling to excuses. Will you stand here next year with the same hallow words?”
I straightened my spine, meeting his gaze. “The subject’s potential remains intact. I believe the issue lies in….”
“In you,” he interrupted, his voice cold. “You were tasked with overseeing her transformation. Yet here we are, with nothing to show for it.”
Anger flared in my chest, but I kept my expression neutral. “With respect, Master, the subject’s condition is unprecedented. We are navigating uncharted territory…”
“Enough,” he snapped, slamming his fist against the table. “Do you hear yourself? ‘Uncharted.’ ‘Unprecedented.’ Stop dressing your failures in clever words.
“I am not a man who waits, Ysara. You seem to forget the cost of failure here. The blood spilled, the power sacrificed, it was all for her. Do not think for a moment you are irreplaceable.”
“I suggest you remember this, Ysara. It is not her life on the line, it is yours.”
His words hung heavy in the air, a thinly veiled threat that sent a shiver down my spine.
As I left the chamber, my mind raced. I couldn’t let this failure define me. I wouldn’t let her slip away.
I had sacrificed too much to lose her now.
Back in my chambers, I poured over the scrolls again, my hands trembling with frustration. The subject’s scream played in my mind like a haunting melody, each note laced with pain and power.
What had happened in that cell? What had driven her to such despair?
And more importantly…
What would it take to bring her back?