Escape

1272, Deireadh - A Storm of Magic and Memories (Margarita's POV)

The chill of the Deireadh prison cell seeped into Margarita Laux-Antille's bones, a constant reminder of her helplessness. Her magic, usually a vibrant current within her, was now a sluggish trickle, suppressed by the wards that hummed with malevolent energy. She huddled on the cold stone floor, her once elegant robes now tattered and stained, her thoughts a swirling vortex of fear and bitter regret. She had been a member of the Lodge, a powerful sorceress, respected and feared. Now, she was just another prisoner, awaiting Menge's judgment.

How could this have happened? she thought, her mind replaying the events that had led to her capture. The whispers of dissent within the Lodge, the growing unease about their direction, her own foolish attempt to… to what? To change things? She had believed she was acting in the best interests of the Lodge, of magic itself. Instead, she had been betrayed, exposed, and imprisoned.

A tremor shook the fortress, a jolt that pulled her from her bleak reverie. At first, she thought it was just another tremor, a common occurrence on this desolate island. But then came the roar, a deep, resonant boom that echoed through the stone corridors. It was followed by another, closer this time, and the unmistakable scent of fire.

Hope, a fragile butterfly she thought long dead, fluttered within her chest. Could it be…?

Suddenly, the cell door burst open, splintered by a powerful blast of magic. Standing before her, silhouetted against the flickering flames, was a figure in black robes, their face obscured by shadows. "Margarita Laux-Antille," the figure said, their voice low and resonant. "Come. We have no time to waste."

Margarita, stunned, could only stare. She recognized the power that radiated from the figure, a familiar magic, yet… different. Stronger. More controlled.

"Who… who are you?" she stammered.

"A friend," the figure replied, extending a hand. "Or perhaps… a liberator."

Hesitantly, Margarita took the offered hand. As she did, a surge of energy flowed through her, the oppressive weight of the wards lifting from her magic. It was like breathing again after being submerged for too long.

"We must hurry," the figure urged. "Menge's guards will be upon us soon."

Margarita, her mind still reeling, allowed herself to be led from the cell. As they moved through the corridors, she could hear the sounds of battle – the clash of steel, the crackle of magic, the screams of the dying. It was chaos, but it was a chaos that brought her a strange sense of hope.

She saw other mages being freed, their faces a mixture of confusion and disbelief, then dawning realization and fierce determination. They joined the fight, their powers now unleashed, turning the tide against their captors.

"Who is behind this?" she asked the figure in black.

"A… benefactor," the figure replied cryptically. "Someone who believes in… balance."

Margarita frowned. The word resonated with her. Balance. It was something the Lodge had lost sight of, she realized. They had become too focused on their own power, their own agendas, forgetting the delicate balance that held the world together.

As they reached the courtyard, the full scale of the battle became clear. The fortress was ablaze, the night sky illuminated by the flickering flames. Warriors in black clashed with Menge's guards, their movements precise and deadly. And amidst the chaos, she saw other mages, their faces grim, their magic blazing.

Sheala de Tancarville, her face streaked with soot and blood, was dueling a Temple Guard, her swords flashing like lightning. She was a whirlwind of motion, her skill and ferocity unmatched. But as Margarita watched, she noticed something was terribly wrong. Sheala's movements were jerky, her breathing ragged. Beneath the grime, her skin was an unhealthy pallor. Margarita could see the dark bruises peeking out from beneath the torn fabric of her tunic, and the way Sheala favored her left leg suggested a serious injury. Sheala was heavily injured, likely a victim of Menge's torturers. Despite her injuries, she fought with a desperate ferocity, fueled by adrenaline and sheer willpower. Margarita felt a surge of pride mixed with terror. Sheala, despite her fiery temperament, was a loyal sister, a fierce protector. But she couldn't last much longer in this condition.

"Sheala!" Margarita called out, her voice filled with alarm.

Sheala turned, her eyes widening in surprise and relief, but a grimace of pain twisted her features. "Margarita! You're alive!"

"Yes," Margarita replied, her voice filled with emotion. "We're free."

"We have to get out of here," Sheala said, her voice strained, her gaze darting around the chaotic courtyard. "It's not safe."

"Who… who is behind this?" Margarita asked again, her gaze searching for the figure in black who had freed her.

Before Sheala could answer, a voice spoke from behind them.

"The mages are being evacuated. Make sure you are among them."

Margarita turned to see Solomon. He stood amidst the chaos, his black robes unblemished, his expression calm and controlled. He radiated an aura of power, a quiet authority that commanded respect.

"You… you are the one who orchestrated this?" Margarita asked, her voice filled with awe.

Solomon inclined his head slightly. "I believe in… second chances," he said, his gaze meeting hers. "And I believe in… balance."

He then turned to Sheala, his eyes assessing her injuries. "You are in no condition to fight," he said, his voice firm but not unkind. "See that Margarita is safely evacuated," he instructed. "And then… report to me. We have much to discuss."

Sheala nodded, wincing as she moved. "Of course, Master Solomon."

Margarita stared at Solomon, her mind reeling. He was a mystery, a force of nature, a man who seemed to wield power beyond comprehension. She didn't understand his motives, his goals. But she knew one thing: he had saved them. And he had seen Sheala's injuries, recognizing her need for care.

As she was led away by Sheala, whose every step seemed to cause her pain, Margarita glanced back at Solomon. He was watching her, his expression unreadable. She felt a shiver run down her spine. She knew that their paths would cross again. And she had a feeling that their next meeting would be… even more significant. She worried about Sheala, hoping that Solomon would provide her with the healing she so desperately needed.