Warden of the Mind

Escape

Eryndor slowly regained consciousness. His head throbbed with pain, and as his vision cleared, he found himself in a dimly lit cell. The cold, gray stone walls pressed in on him, slick with moisture and covered in patches of moss. The air was thick with the stench of decay and rust from the old, iron shackles that bound his wrists to the wall. A single, barred window high up on the wall let in a sliver of sickly, gray light, barely enough to cut through the gloom. The cell was sparse, with a worn wooden bench as a bed and a bucket in the corner. The heavy door was shut tight, and faint echoes of guards' voices carried through the corridor outside.

Eryndor groaned, pulling at the shackles that restrained him. The iron bit into his skin, but he ignored the pain, focusing instead on the flicker of his memory—something about a fight, a betrayal, and then nothing but darkness. He strained against the chains, but they held firm. His psionic abilities were still there, but they felt faint, distant, like a voice calling out from the bottom of a well.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Eryndor noticed something out of place. On the floor near the barred window, a small wooden box lay partially hidden by a stray piece of cloth. The box was carved with intricate symbols that seemed to pulse with a faint, arcane light. It was about the size of his palm and made of smooth, dark wood.

Curiosity piqued, Eryndor reached out with his mind, trying to grasp the box telekinetically. A sharp pain stabbed through his temple, as if his thoughts were being torn from him, and for a moment, the box didn't budge. He clenched his jaw, pushing past the discomfort, and finally, the box gave a slight tremble before sliding slowly across the floor with a soft scraping sound. The strain left him lightheaded, a reminder of how tenuous his control still was.

With trembling hands, he picked up the box and carefully opened it. Inside, he found a small piece of parchment, the message scrawled in a hasty hand: Enjoy the gift. The message was unsigned, and the handwriting looked foreign. The parchment was coarse and worn as if it had been handled many times before. In the corner of the note, there was a small symbol-a crude drawing of a snake coiled around a staff.

Before he could contemplate the message further, the note and the box crumbled to dust in his hands, leaving him with nothing but questions. Eryndor focused on calming his mind, trying to suppress the rising panic.

He examined the shackles more closely, noticing that one of the links in the chain seemed thinner than the others, almost worn through. It wasn't much, but it was something. Taking a deep breath, he began to strain against the chain, focusing on that weak link. He tried to summon his psionic strength, but it came in fits and starts, like trying to pull water from a cracked well.

After what felt like an eternity, the weakened link snapped with a soft clink, and Eryndor's hand was free. His wrist throbbed, the skin raw where the shackle had bitten into him, but he barely noticed. He worked quickly to free his other hand, the second link giving way more easily now that he knew what to do.

Eryndor was free, but he wasn't safe yet. The guards' voices were growing louder, and he knew they would be coming to check on him soon. He needed a weapon, something to defend himself with. He scanned the cell, his eyes landing on the wooden bench. It was old, splintered in places, but sturdy enough to serve as a club if needed.

But there was something more. Eryndor noticed a small seam in the wood, barely visible, running along the edge of the bench. He pried it open with his fingers, revealing a thin, hidden compartment. Inside was a small, leather-wrapped dagger. The blade was tarnished, but its edge was still sharp.

As Eryndor held the dagger, he felt a faint hum of magic emanating from it, like a whisper in the back of his mind. The dagger was enchanted, though its power felt dormant. He didn't have time to ponder its mysteries—footsteps were approaching.