The silence that had followed her in the empty streets of Silvermoon at the late hour ever since her parting with Noraiel was not meant to last. The door of the great hall thundered behind her as she shut it, only to rest her palms flat on it and her form to fall on them, so she may rest of the goliath of stone. Yet not for long. The thin sound of a high-pitched scream suddenly echoed into the vast chamber, defeaning Celysiel's ears. The apprentice's bruised features twitched at that annoyance, her head began to ring, threatening with another case of vertigo, worse than the after-math of a Lightforged beacon.
Under the low light of the hall, the source surprisingly proved easy to find. It was Irathea, the impressive maid with the auburn hair of which Celysiel would be jealous if such thoughts had ever occipied her mind, but it had never been like her. The servant was holding onto the golden banister of the main staircase, with her mouth wide open, shrieking in fear, paralyzed. The sound escaping her lips was most irritating, thundering all across the estate. It would definitely alarm the rest of the staff and others would rush to define the source of the problem. Others would come.
Silence her.
The newly acquired power into her veins begged to be unleashed onto a lesser target, end the nuisance that so bothered her at that moment. Cinders danced at the end of her right hand, but Celysiel soon realised that felfire was not good enough. A curse, slow withering would give her greater joy.
No, she suddenly realised, eyes widening as the miasma of her coming spell turned to flakes of ash, falling to taint the clean, marble floor. This is not you.
Soon enough, the young elf became quite aware of the horrific image she presented. Adorned in the garments of the Burning Legion and bathing into dark, demon blood, she probably looked quite intimidating without sufficient lighting. Her right hand rose, brought to her temple, under the tangled, snowy locks, where most of the blood was her own. All she desired was the screaming to stop.
"Do not be afraid." the apprentice called to Irathea, taking a step forward. "It is me. It is Celysiel Ashfury. No demon, only me."
Subdued by Celysiel's words, the maid ceased that horrific sound she was emitting, though her eyes remained wide onto the girl, as if she had seen a ghost.
"Sun, you're alive! Why do you look like this?" The tone of surprise was easily replaced by one of disgust. "The master... The master, he must be notified at once."
"No." The word came sharply out of the girl's lips. Suddenly, she felt exhausted, drowning. The desire to see Theradrim again was great, but not like this. Not while the signs of her sufferings were evident on her body. Not with fel taint clinging onto her clothes. Not while she was not in control. "No." Celysiel repeated, stepping towards the stairs. Irathea's scandalized eyes followed her as she drew back, not wanting to be near the bloodied apprentice. "You will not tell anyone I am here. Do you understand?"
Be it because it served the maid to claim that the young elf had no desire to see her master, be it because she was surprised, or even fearful at the sudden lack of this passive demeanour that usually characterized Celysiel, she nodded and let the girl pass. As the apprentice turned onto the stairs, no longer in line of sight, she heard rushing steps towards the great hall from the servants' quarters, hushed whispers of voices both male and female, along with Irathea's distant reply. "I thought I saw a rat..."
Thankfully, the corridors were empty, allowing Celysiel to find her way into her room without being disturbed. Once she reached the door, guilty eyes gazed at the one in the other side, leading to Theradrim's chambers. For a moment, the Lord's apprentice found herself tempted to knock on his door and see if he was awake like several other late nights, resuming his studies. The burning of her head, however, made her painfully aware. Suddenly, all she wanted was to stay alone.
Her chamber gave away signs of abandonment. At least two months old, the pots of the lifeless roses still lay on the table, though the cages of the dead critters had long been removed. The rotting smell from the flowers, however, did not bother her. It reminded her of Mac'Aree and the dream that she had not had the chance to explore. Her fingers sought the locket around her neck, as if making a promise. One that was not entirely up to her.
Pieces of her clothing began to slowly fall into the floor, revealing the injuries that she had earned. Luckily, the burns were unlikely to leave lasting scars; they had forced the skin to part and bleed, now healing, mostly with Leyloriel's aid, and letting thin layers of white over the pink, a sign of healing. Finally no longer burdened by anything other than her locket, the girl fell to her knees, searching into her robes. The finding she so desired to hold was easily spotted. Celysiel raised her right hand, now holding the shadow sphere, bringing it to the level of her eyes, just like she had when she first found it on the upper terrace of the gardens of Arinor.
It was this sensation that she could not help, something balancing between sanity and paranoia, this tickling feeling that someone was looking back.
Slowly, without removing her eyes from the orb, she moved by her bed, where a small bronze chest, adorned with leaves of gold, hanging from metallic vines wrapped around the contained. It looked like a normal jewellery box. But it wasn't. As the lid was lifted, the apprentice did her best to ignore the small mirror that was showing her the barbaric marks Sherazel's wished had left on her through a friend's fists. Velvet in dark purple colour took over the bottom of the chest, comfortably hosting another sphere, much like the one found on Argus. Carefully, Celysiel set the new finding by the old one. Domynn's trapped soul would now have a friend, whatever may it be, power or soul, that resided within the second stone.
The girl gently brought down the lid of the chest, only to lock it and collect it in her hands, but this time, it was not left on plain sight. Celysiel slid on the floor, only to raise the draping blankets and pass the box there. A temporary hiding place. Soon after, she rose to approach her dropped clothes, collecting them in her grasp to drag them to the fireplace.
Why a fireplace would exist in a Thalassian estate was something that had eluded her until that night, but at that moment, its use became very evident. The worn scraps and vile metalwork adorning the felmancers of the Burning Legion soon joined the untouched logs, the darkness and the dust of the unused fireplace. Taking a deep breath, Celysiel brought her hands forth. Tendrils of neon green light danced at the end of her fingers, the power overwhelming as it rose to her palms and her wrists. It made her feel alive. Her intensely burning eyes joined the glow of the felfire as its torrent fell on the discarded attire, which was churning and blackening under the ill fire's might.
Slowly, Celysiel pulled her hands back, left only to observe, enthralled by the sight. The touch of fel, the ability to wield it, the temptation it could bring were nothing new for the apprentice, yet the thirst of youth had been subdued by the warnings of elders. However, now no word could cease it. No notice could put an end to the thirst burning in her veins.
Give in, whispered her mind, as blank, longing eyes looked at the flames, wanting to consume, destroy. But the source was not enough.
Give in, the desire whispered again, making the frail form of the apprentice shiver.
I will not, she thought. I will not be a slave again.
Give in. Give in.
No! Resist!
Give in!
Resist!
GIVE IN!
Verdant light caressed her features, an unspoken promise. As the cloth was easily consumed in its might, which could not be tamed, it could not be denied, the flamed eventually died, letting the world sink into darkness.
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