Bloom

After Thorne had left, Daron dared to move again.

He scanned the stone walls, each slab tainted with a different story of despair. He began tracing the uneven crevices behind him with his fingers, searching for a fault, a crack, a hole, anything that might yield a chance for escape. His cell was a relic from a bygone age, but still solid in its structure.

The clink of his chains broke the silence, a jarring reminder of his situation. He twisted his wrists, feeling the cold metal bite into his wounded skin as he inspected the shackles for weaknesses. The links were thick, forged from iron, no rust was noticeable. Daron's efforts bore no fruit; the chains held fast, indifferent to his growing desperation.

His heart began pounding faster in his chest, each beat echoing the ticking of time running out. His wounds ached, opening as he frantically searched. No secret compartments in the walls, no loose stones beneath the straw bedding—just the bleak reality of confinement. In the dim light, shadows stretched like fingers across the floor, taunting him with their freedom to roam.

"Think, think, think," he muttered to himself under his breath.

Escape felt like a distant dream, one slipping further away with every failed option to free himself. His once laid-back optimism now soured into frustration, leaving a bitter taste on his tongue. The cell seemed to close in around him, the air thick with the mustiness of decay. Desperation clawed at his mind, urging him to keep searching, to keep fighting against the inevitable. But hope was a flickering candle in the wind, easily snuffed out by the overwhelming darkness of his situation.

The silence was an unforgiving companion, mercilessly amplifying Daron's negative thoughts. Each one seemed to bounce off the walls of his cell, back into his skull and reverberate inside his mind. As he spiraled deeper into negativity, his thoughts grew increasingly bleak and hopeless.

Before long, the painful memories began to surface once again, breaking free from the sealed compartment Daron had locked them away in his mind.

So there was no purpose after all. No escape, no hope. He was supposed to just sit here and wait for his slow and painful death. Daron wasn't sure if he should laugh or cry. The absurdity of it all was almost amusing.

It was like a small crack that had been slowly widening until it finally shattered. Seeing the light disappear from his parents' eyes, feeling the pain of being tortured by that grotesque man, it all became too much for him to handle.

"I lost everything," he chuckled bitterly to the shadows, the words scratching at his throat.

How quickly the world had turned its back on him; how swiftly fate had snatched away his future. He had been a student, a son, maybe he would have even become a phenomenal magician in the future… it was all meaningless. All Daron had become was a prisoner, caged and powerless, the weight of his parents' unresolved murder a shackle as confining as the iron around his wrists. The knowledge he could never avenge them seemed to crush him.

A tightness seized his chest, sudden and fierce, drawing a sharp gasp from his lips. Daron's fingers curled into fists, nails digging into his palms, as if he could physically tear out the dread that constricted his heart. His breaths came in short, ragged pulls, the stone walls seeming to inch closer with every inhalation.

"Can't—can't breathe..." The words were barely audible, lost amidst the rush of blood in his ears.

Was it fear that was gripping him, or something more intense like a panic attack, that threatened to steal away his ability to focus?

The tightness in Daron's chest twisted into a sharp pain, a pain that seared through him with an intensity that eclipsed all thought. It was as if the very fibers of his being were being pulled apart, straining against some impending metamorphosis.

His mind, seeking for clarity amidst the terrible onslaught, latched onto a memory—a fragment from a life that seemed eons away.

He remembered the hushed awe of his peers during the magic instruction course as they heard the story of the blond girl's nexus bloom, the wonder he felt in that moment.

"At first, I was scared because my chest felt tight for a few seconds," the girl had said.

Recognition dawned on Daron with a jolt that rivaled the physical torment wracking his body. His eyes widened, not with fear now, but with the realization that he was undergoing that same change. The dormant bud of his nexus nestled within him stirred, waking from its slumber with a force that threatened to overwhelm his senses.

He instinctively clutched at his chest, fighting for air and trying to relieve the spasms. His hands felt a warm, sticky sensation between his fingers, and he knew it was blood with sickening certainty. His involuntary rough movements caused his wounds to reopen further, and the previously coagulated blood was now flowing freely once again.

Yet amidst the chaos of pain and fear, a singular thought blazed clear and bright in his mind: his Nexus was blooming, and with it, a chance—an opportunity to seize control of his situation.

A sudden, searing cold pierced through Daron's bones, like a frozen spear piercing his marrow.

"Should be… warm?" He gasped, his voice a fragile whisper. "Why...?"

The warmth he had been promised, he expected, was nowhere to be found. In its place, an icy tide surged within him, spreading through every vein and capillary with a relentless chill. He struggled against the creeping frost, feeling it slowly draining his strength and threatening to consume his consciousness.

The coldness grew further, gnawing at his bones, burrowing into the hollows of his being. Teeth chattering, limbs quaking, Daron clung to wakefulness by sheer will alone. He could not yield to the darkness that flirted at the periphery of his vision—not now.

"Stay awake," he urged himself, each word a shard of ice breaking off his tongue.

And then, as abruptly as it started, pain ebbed into numbness, a gentle reprieve from the icy assault on his body. A peculiar serenity enveloped him.

His gaze lifted, trailing over the grime-streaked walls of his prison. The shadows appeared…deeper. They seemed to move, rippling in an unseen current, resonating with the still-echoing drumbeat of his heart.

"Almost as if they are… alive," He wondered, then shook his head.

It must've been the exhaustion playing tricks on his mind. However, there was a sense of recognition in the darkness, as if it saw him as one of its own.

The thought soothed his mind, even though he knew it was just his imagination.

Daron's gaze drifted downward to his chest. Below, the stark contrast of a faint blue light against his white skin caught his eye—a soft glow emanating from his own chest. It softly pulsed, a gentle luminescence that ebbed and flowed with the rhythm of his own heartbeat. Baffled, he just sat there for a few moments, observing.

"Impossible."

Even though he knew it would happen eventually, he couldn't believe the moment finally came. His fingers moved, tentative as they reached toward the source of the glow. They hesitated before making contact, brushing lightly over an unscathed patch of skin where the light seemed to originate. As his fingers touched the source of light, he was surprised to find that everything felt normal, as if it had always been this way. It was like nothing had changed at all.

Daron's gaze traveled down his body, and he couldn't believe what he saw. A strange black liquid, a substance like ink, emerged from the shadows on the ground and crawled its way up his body, seeping into his wounds. It moved with purpose, filling the gaps left by the fat butcher, staunching the flow of blood that had painted his skin red.

"By the gods," he gasped, the sight both unsettling and miraculous.

The black liquid quickly solidified, forming scars as black as the night sky. Daron's eyes remained fixed on the eerie scene, his breath steadying out to a normal rhythm.

The once-dormant Nexus within him had awakened—no longer a mere useless thing to his body, but a blooming flower of potential. The implications unfurled in his mind.

He was a magician now. He didn't feel particularly different.

Sure, a mysterious substance just mended his broken skin, but other than that, he didn't feel like he could do anything… new, anything special.

Daron stretched out his hand, trying to summon a sharp wind to cut down his shackles. Nothing happened. Next, a flame, to burn down his cell… nothing happened.

"Figures" he said to himself, "Why would it be easy."

He pushed himself up, the clink of chains a stark reminder of his captivity. No matter. They held his body, not his spirit. Let them come, those who would use him, break him. Daron Lamb would not be cowed. With each pulse of blue light under his skin, determination steeled his spine. The walls around him grew less oppressive.

Suddenly he heard the familiar crying of metal on metal.

"Honey, I'm home!"

The cell door groaned, a slow creak of metal on metal. A sliver of light from the corridor sliced through the shadows on the ground, widening as the door swung open. Burge's hulking silhouette filled the frame, a mountain of malice stepping into Daron's confinement. The teenager stood motionless.

Daron's heart hammered, but this time, the fear wasn't as bad. He still didn't look forward to the torture Burge was gonna put him through, but finally, he had a ever so small possibility of escape. His newfound calm had settled into his bones, and with it, a clarity that cut through the haze of his prior despair. He observed Burge entering, noting how the man's piggy eyes gleamed with cruel delight, expecting to find his usual broken victim.

"Back so soon?" Daron's voice echoed in the small space, surprisingly steady, almost mocking.

There was no tremor of fear, no crack of uncertainty. Only the clear ring of someone who had glimpsed beyond their cage and had seen possibilities.

Burge sneered, the movement grotesque on his asymmetrical face. "Got a bit of a fight back, do ya? We'll see how long that lasts."

"Longer than you might think."

A cruel smile flashed on Burges face as he noticed the faint blue glow on the boys chest.

"Ah, look who's become an adult now, I'm feeling so proud. But pretty lights won't save you, kid," he grinned, pulling his metal cart in behind him.

This time, he left his knives behind and instead brought something even more fun: a large pair of pliers. Burge couldn't contain his delight as he stepped closer, the pungent odor of blood and sweat filling the air around him.