The Marvel of Underworlds

4: Sylvain's Successor

Brilliant hues of orange and red flew through the scalding atmosphere around him. Beads of sweat poured from his forehead, as the fire crept onto his skin. There was no burn. There was no pain. Only the drone sound pounding in his ears. Only the steady cackling of a child draped in shadow. The fires dimmed, cloaking him in blackness. Fear of the unknown swept over him. He couldn't think. He couldn't speak. He could only feel the blackness of the void surrounding him.

However, he was rescued by the comforting blue glow of a familiar silhouette. She held out her arms for an embrace as the welcoming shadow before him radiated with warmth. He felt a smile plaster itself on his face.

The void collapsed below him, sending him plummeting into the inferno blazing from below. He reached for the woman, screaming out a name he couldn't remember. Black flames grabbed at his feet, dragging him further down into the abyss. There was no impact, but he soon found himself at the bottom. The fire continued to blaze, but no burns appeared on his skin. An inaudible voice cried out. Another presence welcomed him to the fire. Another woman, draped in shadow, held out her hand, calling out to him for help. He approached the woman, but as their hands touched, he began to melt away.

His body started to dissolve into a thick golden liquid. Skin, muscle, and bones dripped off, then fell into the nothingness below him. He felt himself scream, but couldn't hear a single call. The woman before him smiled bitterly and mockingly. That was the last thing he saw.

Cedric's eyes shot open. Not a single ray of light shined through the blinded windows. Thousands of books were sprawled across the floor, the desk, and any other available surface. A shelf filled with strange and exotic ingredients lined one wall.

Cedric looked side to side, breathing heavily, as he recalled the nightmare he had encountered. The nightmare tormented him every single night for as long as he could remember.

"But this time it was different, he thought to himself, "who was the second woman? And why was I melting?"

He dragged himself out of bed, his brown hair in knots, as he stood up to greet the day. Still, in his sleep clothes, he left his room and plodded along the palace halls, eager to talk to the palace Divine Channeler, Ayelinthi.

The Ankariian palace was truly an architectural masterpiece. The white marble glittered in the sunlight pouring through the many majestic windows. Gold engravings and bas-relief sculptures of past rulers adorned the walls and the stairway railing was cloaked in jewels. Every window was dressed in a silk curtain, dyed a deep rich purple. Chandeliers covered in crystals dangled from the ceiling. Sunlight reflected to every inch of the palace.

Cedric's room was on the fourth floor where the guest rooms were located. No, Cedric was not royalty. He wasn't a noble or diplomat. After all, he was only sixteen years old. He was the talented palace wizard, who was brought to the palace when he was six years old. Cedric took the place of the previous palace mage, Sylvain Legrand, who was murdered mysteriously ten years before.

Cedric Maret was a magical prodigy. He wasn't a sorcerer. He wasn't born with his powers. He worked tirelessly, not because he desired power or fame. He simply found magic fascinating. He had a knack for it. However, such amazing power never granted him popularity. He spent his childhood on his own. He didn't have any friends. He didn't want them. He simply found happiness in his books and helping his father around the house.

He never met his mother, but never really questioned it either. His father simply told him that she died when he was very young. Despite not having a mother, Cedric had a happy, content childhood. Well, that was until one day.

Cedric's father would travel between villages delivering goods. "Cedric, I want you to meet someone," His father had said that day, as he walked through the door, after returning from his trip. Behind his father was a young kid, well, he was about eleven or twelve years old. His face was dirty and his clothes were in rags. His blonde hair was brown with mud. Cedric's father had wrapped his cloak around the boy, concealing his scars and bruises. Cedric had looked at the boy with pity but never took a liking to him until recently.