Bound By Chains: Act 1, Chapter 4

Consciousness returned to me with the peculiar clarity that follows profound mental exertion—not the foggy disorientation of ordinary sleep, but the crystalline awareness of a mind that has been fully engaged elsewhere. The damp chill of the cell greeted me first, seeping through the coarse fabric of my garments and etching itself into my bones with the patient persistence of water carving stone. The torch on the wall had burned lower, its flame now barely more than a guttering whisper that cast elongated, malformed shadows across the rough-hewn walls. In the small barred window high above, darkness had given way to the faintest suggestion of pre-dawn light—a subtle gradation from black to midnight blue that spoke of a world continuing its inexorable rotation regardless of my circumstances.

My rest had been extraordinarily efficient, if not precisely restful in the conventional sense. While my physical form had remained motionless against the cold stone wall for perhaps five hours—a fact I deduced from the progression of that distant square of sky—my consciousness had been vigorously active for what felt like thirteen hours within the expansive theater of my mindscape. This temporal discrepancy represented a resource of incalculable value, one that the stern-faced guards and even the formidable Captain Karresh remained blissfully unaware of. Within the confines of my own consciousness, I possessed a form of freedom they could never constrain.

The potential applications of this ability unfurled before my analytical mind like the petals of some exotic flower. My mindscape could serve as an infinitely expandable repository for memories—a living library where information could be cataloged with meticulous precision and retrieved at will. It offered a space to rehearse physical techniques without the limitations of muscular fatigue or the constraints of my current imprisonment. Most tantalizing of all, when I eventually freed myself from these arcane shackles, it would provide a controlled environment to experiment with magical disciplines without risking the catastrophic consequences Aric had so vividly described.

True, these mental simulations would lack the tangible feedback of genuine practice. I could not develop actual muscle memory, nor could I channel real mana within this constructed realm. Yet this limitation seemed trivial compared to the advantages. The ability to conceptually test various spells or techniques from different disciplines before investing actual energy and risking actual failure was an advantage that surely few practitioners in this world possessed. It was as though I had been granted access to an infinitely renewable simulation—a magical sandbox where mistakes carried no permanent consequences.

And then there was the time distortion effect—perhaps the most valuable aspect of all. In a realm where every decision might mean life or death, where every interaction with my captors represented both danger and opportunity, the luxury of extended contemplation was beyond price. I could spend what felt like hours analyzing a single conversation, dissecting motivations, planning responses, and envisioning contingencies, all while mere minutes passed in the physical world. With practice, I suspected I could extend this differential further—perhaps spending days in mental analysis during a single night's meditation. The discipline required to maintain such protracted mindscape excursions would be considerable, but the strategic advantage they offered made the investment unquestionably worthwhile.

I rose from my seated position, my joints protesting the prolonged immobility with a symphony of small complaints. Standing to my full height—which I noted with mild surprise seemed slightly greater than I recalled from my previous life—I extended my arms outward and upward in a comprehensive stretch that engaged every major muscle group in sequence. The satisfying cascade of pops and cracks that followed provided a perverse sort of pleasure, each small release of tension accompanied by a corresponding sigh of relief from my nervous system.

This was, I realized, the first genuine physical movement I had initiated since awakening in this strange new reality. The simple act of stretching afforded me the opportunity to take comprehensive inventory of this body that was simultaneously mine and not mine. The proportions were subtly different—my reach slightly longer, my center of gravity marginally lower, the distribution of muscle mass shifted in ways too subtle to immediately categorize but noticeable in aggregate. The sensations of movement were familiar yet distinct, like returning to a childhood home to find the furniture rearranged in ways that challenge muscle memory while maintaining fundamental recognition.

"I guess traveling to a different world changes one's body," I murmured to myself, a sardonic smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. The irony of such mundane physical differences in the context of my metaphysically extraordinary circumstances struck me as absurdly amusing. Parallel universe travel apparently came with complimentary physiological adjustments—a detail conspicuously absent from the science fiction novels I had occasionally indulged in during rare moments of leisure at Westlake.

I lowered myself back to the floor, assuming a cross-legged position that mirrored the meditative posture I had maintained during my mental excursion with Aric. My thoughts turned to the arcane concepts we had discussed—specifically, the tantalizing fragments of information regarding Words of Power and Enchantments. While Aric had explained the theoretical frameworks governing these phenomena with admirable clarity, there remained significant gaps in my understanding of their fundamental processes. The academic in me—the part that had driven me to exhaustively research topics far beyond curriculum requirements—found these lacunae intellectually offensive. I wanted not merely to know that these magical systems functioned, but precisely how they functioned.

I determined to develop theories that I could later present to Aric for confirmation or correction—a dialectic approach to knowledge acquisition that had served me well throughout my academic career. If I could identify the boundaries between what I understood and what remained mysterious, I could target my questions more effectively and accelerate my learning process.

I raised my shackled wrist before my face, examining the enchanted chain with newfound analytical interest. The metal was a peculiar alloy—neither the bright silver of steel nor the warm tone of bronze, but something with an almost bluish undertone that seemed to absorb rather than reflect the torchlight. The surface was covered in characters that defied categorization within any linguistic framework I had previously encountered. They were not the familiar Roman alphabet of English, French, or Spanish; nor did they bear any resemblance to the elegant complexity of Japanese kanji or the mathematical precision of Arabic script.

I strained to make sense of them, applying the pattern-recognition capabilities that had allowed me to master differential equations with unusual rapidity. Yet these symbols resisted such analysis completely. They did not appear to be constructed from repeating elements or to follow any discernible grammatical structure. Rather, they gave the impression of having been inscribed directly from pure concept to material form, bypassing the normal constraints of written language entirely.

The revelation struck me with sudden clarity: these were not words as I understood them, but rather the visual manifestation of intent made manifest. The enchantment that bound me was not written in any language meant to be read or comprehended by human minds; it was the crystallized will of a practitioner who had transcended ordinary modes of communication.

"Maybe that's the key?" I whispered, the chain clinking softly as I lowered my arm. "Enchantments are simply a benefit of reaching a specific level within a discipline, and therefore when moving to the next stage, you gain the ability to understand them inherently, and thus to apply them yourself."

If this hypothesis was correct, then my current attempts to decipher these symbols through rational analysis were fundamentally misguided—equivalent to trying to comprehend the mind of a deity through pure intellect. The symbols before me were not meant to be read but experienced, not decoded but embodied. They represented a mode of communication that transcended the limitations of human cognition, accessible only to those who had achieved specific transformative states through disciplined magical practice.

This would explain why Aric had not suggested attempting to break or circumvent the enchantment. For all his vast knowledge and experience, even he—once an Archmagus of the Third Circle—would find himself confronting a form of comprehension that existed beyond intellectual grasp. The enchantment binding me was likely the work of a high-ranking imperial practitioner, crafted with the backing of whatever existence governed their chosen pathway. Against such a working, conventional measures would be laughably inadequate; a modern firearm would make no more impression on these chains than a child's plastic toy.

Perhaps a lesser enchantment—one created by a practitioner of the First Circle, for instance—might present vulnerabilities that could be exploited through careful analysis and counteraction. But this shackle, designed specifically to contain potentially dangerous outlanders within the Empire's most secure facility, would naturally incorporate protections of the highest order. The arrogance of assuming I could defeat such measures through raw intelligence alone, without specific arcane training or access to my own magical capabilities, now seemed embarrassingly naive.

I traced one of the inscribed symbols with my fingertip, feeling a subtle vibration beneath my touch—not painful, but unmistakably responsive, as though the enchantment recognized my attention and adjusted itself accordingly. There was intelligence embedded in these bindings, a purpose beyond mere physical constraint. They were actively monitoring me, perhaps even learning from each interaction, adapting their functionality to counter any attempt at circumvention.

The thought was simultaneously intimidating and fascinating. What kind of consciousness resided within these enchanted metals? Was it a direct extension of the practitioner who had created them, a fragment of the existence that had empowered the working, or something more algorithmic—a set of predefined responses to specific stimuli? The possibilities expanded my understanding of what enchantment might entail, suggesting applications far beyond the creation of magical tools or weapons.

My contemplation was interrupted by a sound from beyond my cell door—the measured cadence of approaching footsteps, too light and regular to belong to the armored bulk of Captain Karresh, yet too purposeful to be the blue-skinned servant who had delivered my meal. These steps conveyed authority tempered with precision, an individual accustomed to moving with deliberate intent rather than casual confidence.

The Assessor had arrived.

I quickly arranged myself into a posture that suggested attentive wariness rather than calculated analysis—my back straight against the wall, my expression composed into what I hoped conveyed apprehensive curiosity rather than the strategic calculation actually occurring behind my eyes. First impressions would be crucial in this interaction, establishing the baseline from which all subsequent judgments would proceed.

As the key turned in the lock with that now-familiar sound of ancient mechanisms reluctantly engaging, I took a deep, centering breath. The coming evaluation would determine my immediate fate within this alien world. I would need every advantage—intellectual, psychological, and strategic—to navigate it successfully.

The door opened with deliberate slowness, as though the person beyond intended the gradual revelation of their presence to serve as prelude to the encounter itself. Unlike Captain Karresh's dramatic backlighting, this entrance was choreographed to allow full visibility—a tactical choice that spoke volumes about the visitor's confidence and purpose. They had no need for intimidation through theatrics; their authority was intrinsic rather than performed.

The Assessor who stepped into my cell defied the expectations I had unconsciously constructed. Where I had anticipated someone bearing the martial gravitas of Karresh or perhaps the clinical detachment of a laboratory scientist, the figure before me presented an altogether different aspect. They were of medium height and slender build, clad in robes of such deep indigo that they appeared almost black until the torchlight caught the fabric at certain angles, revealing subtle patterns woven into the material—constellations, perhaps, or arcane symbols too complex for my untrained eye to decipher.

Their face was neither youthful nor aged but seemed to exist in that curious state of maturity that could place them anywhere between thirty and fifty years by Earth standards. The features were balanced and harmonious without being conventionally beautiful—high cheekbones, a straight nose, and eyes of such pale amber they appeared almost golden in the flickering light. Their skin bore the warm tone of burnished copper, and their hair—worn in an elaborately braided style that incorporated small metallic beads—was a striking silver-white that seemed premature for their apparent age.

Most notable, however, was the complete absence of any visible weapons or restraints. The Assessor carried only a small leather-bound volume and what appeared to be a slender rod of some crystalline material, perhaps eight inches in length, suspended from a thin chain around their neck. This understated presentation conveyed absolute confidence—they entered the cell of a potentially dangerous outlander with nothing but their own capabilities for protection.

"Good First Light to you," they said, the greeting flowing with the practiced ease of ritual formality. The voice was melodious yet authoritative, each word precisely enunciated with an accent I couldn't place—vowels slightly elongated, consonants crisp and definitive. Though the words themselves were structured as a pleasantry, I could detect the evaluative intent beneath them; this was not merely a greeting but the commencement of assessment.

I noted their deliberate omission of any inquiry regarding my name or identity. The message was unmistakable: at present, I existed in a state of quantum indeterminacy, simultaneously potential asset and potential threat. Until the assessment determined which category would ultimately claim me, I was not worth the investment of personal recognition. My name—my very identity—hung in a precarious balance between existence and oblivion.

"And good First Light to you, Assessor," I responded, carefully modulating my tone to convey respectful acknowledgment without either the groveling submission of the truly cowed or the brittle formality of the internally defiant. I maintained eye contact but avoided any challenging intensity, presenting the demeanor of one who recognizes authority without being broken by it.

A flicker of what might have been surprise crossed the Assessor's features before resolving into a small, approving smile. "Ah, how pleasant it is not to have to teach outlanders to speak respectfully," they remarked, their tone warming slightly with what seemed genuine appreciation. "Trying to understand your means of pleasantries always seems so brash, but you seem to understand this, and have adapted. A good first start."

The subtle emphasis on "first start" confirmed my suspicion that this entire interaction would be meticulously evaluated, each word and gesture cataloged as data points in some complex algorithm of worth and risk. I inclined my head slightly in acknowledgment, calculating my response with the precision of a chess player visualizing multiple moves ahead.

The Assessor's apparent pleasure at my adaptability represented strategic information of significant value. It suggested that most outlanders resisted or failed to grasp the cultural norms of this world, presenting themselves as inherently oppositional or obtuse. By demonstrating immediate accommodation to local customs—however superficial—I had already distinguished myself from this presumed norm. In the evaluative framework I imagined the Assessor employing, such distinction would likely correlate positively with potential for controlled integration rather than necessitating elimination.

Furthermore, the Assessor's specific comment about not having to "teach" proper forms of address implied a certain weariness with the process—suggesting they had performed this evaluation numerous times before, often with frustrating results. This fatigue could be leveraged; humans (or near-humans, as the case might be in this world) invariably developed cognitive shortcuts after repeated similar experiences. If I could position myself as a refreshing deviation from the pattern of difficult outlanders, the Assessor might subconsciously categorize me more favorably from the outset.

"I find it easier to respect customs I don't yet understand than to demand others accommodate mine," I offered, the carefully crafted humility in my voice masking the calculated nature of the statement. This was the sort of platitude that would appeal to anyone tasked with integrating foreign elements into an established system—a declaration of willingness to conform rather than disrupt.

Internally, however, my thoughts raced along entirely different tracks. I speculated that outlanders must be relatively rare, each one representing a significant event rather than a commonplace occurrence. The Assessor's presence—clearly an individual of considerable rank and specialized training—would be wasteful otherwise. This suggested that successfully processing an outlander might carry substantial professional value, a potential promotion or recognition that could motivate the Assessor to find me salvageable rather than dangerous if given sufficient justification.

More intriguing was the implication of other outlanders—those "below" me, as my mental categorization had framed them. The phrasing suggested a physical reality rather than a conceptual hierarchy; perhaps there were lower levels to this dungeon complex, housing individuals who had crossed the Veil before me. Their fate might provide critical insight into the range of outcomes available to me, information I would need to extract from Aric when next we communicated in the mindscape.

"A refreshingly mature perspective," the Assessor remarked, breaking into my internal strategizing. They moved further into the cell with unhurried confidence, allowing the heavy door to remain open behind them—a calculated display of power rather than an oversight. The message was clear: they feared neither my escape nor any threat I might pose, and they wished me to understand this fundamental truth.

"May I know what I should call you?" I asked, the question carefully constructed to acknowledge my subordinate position while simultaneously asserting my personhood through the desire for mutual recognition. "Or is that not permitted at this stage?"

The Assessor paused, head tilting slightly as they regarded me with renewed interest. "An unusual question from one in your position," they observed, their golden eyes seeming to catalog my every microexpression. "Most outlanders demand to know where they are, why they are restrained, or insist upon their immediate release." A small smile touched their lips. "You continue to distinguish yourself in small but notable ways."

They gestured gracefully with one hand, the sleeve of their robe falling back to reveal an intricate pattern of metallic lines embedded directly into their skin—not tattoos but actual inlaid metal that caught the torchlight with subdued brilliance. "You may address me as Assessor Thelios. My full title is Assessor Prime of the Seventh Tier, Imperial Arcanum Division of Extraplanar Entities and Manifestations, but such formality would be excessive for our purposes."

This voluntary offering of identity represented a subtle but significant shift in the power dynamic between us. By providing their name, even if only a title and surname, Assessor Thelios had acknowledged me as an entity worthy of basic reciprocal recognition—a small concession, perhaps, but meaningful in the context of my precarious position.

"Thank you, Assessor Thelios," I said, inclining my head again in a gesture that straddled the boundary between respect and deference. "I appreciate the courtesy."

"And your designation?" they inquired, the formal phrasing revealing volumes about how outlanders were categorized in the imperial system—not as individuals with inherent identity but as entities requiring official classification.

I hesitated, weighing the strategic implications of various responses. Providing my full name might suggest transparency and cooperation, but it would also surrender a fundamental aspect of self-determination. Refusing might be interpreted as defiance, potentially undermining the compliant image I had carefully cultivated thus far. A middle path seemed wisest.

"In my world, I was known as Elias," I offered, deliberately omitting my surname and academic affiliations. This partial disclosure maintained some measure of privacy while still appearing forthcoming.

"Elias," Assessor Thelios repeated, the syllables flowing differently through their accent, transforming the familiar into something exotic. "A designation with resonant qualities. It will serve adequately for our purposes."

They moved to the center of the cell, the subtle patterns in their robes seeming to shift and realign with each measured step. From within a concealed pocket, they withdrew what appeared to be a small crystal similar to the one suspended around their neck, though this one emanated a faint luminescence that pulsed with a rhythm reminiscent of a heartbeat.

"We shall now proceed with your assessment, Elias of the Beyond-Veil," they announced, their tone shifting to a more formal register. "I would ask that you remain seated and make no sudden movements. The process itself is painless, though you may experience certain… sensations… as we progress. These are normal and not cause for concern."

The crystal in their palm began to pulse more rapidly, its light intensifying until it cast the entire cell in a pale blue radiance that somehow made the shadows deeper and more defined rather than banishing them. Assessor Thelios raised their free hand in a gesture that seemed both ritualistic and precisely calculated, fingers assuming a configuration that reminded me of certain mudras from yogic traditions I had studied during a brief but intense fitness phase at Westlake.

"First, we shall establish your basic resonant frequency," they explained, their voice taking on a detached, clinical quality. "This will provide the foundation for all subsequent evaluations. Please breathe normally and allow your thoughts to settle into their natural patterns."

As they spoke these words, I felt a subtle vibration begin in the hollow space beneath my sternum—the same location where I had first detected the second pulse that had led me to discover Aric's presence. The sensation was not painful but distinctly alien, as though some external force were plucking at strings I hadn't previously known existed within my body.

I maintained my outward composure despite the strange internal experience, breathing steadily and keeping my expression neutral. Inwardly, however, I experienced a moment of acute concern. If this assessment could detect resonant frequencies, might it also reveal the fragment of Aric Vondel harbored within my consciousness? The implications of such discovery would be catastrophic for both of us.

Yet even as this worry formed, I sensed a subtle shift within that hollow space—a withdrawal, a concealment so complete it felt as though that second presence had never existed at all. Aric, it seemed, possessed defensive capabilities I hadn't yet understood. He had withdrawn to some unreachable depth within our shared consciousness, rendering himself undetectable to whatever arcane probing the Assessor now conducted.

"Fascinating," Assessor Thelios murmured, their golden eyes widening slightly as they observed whatever data the crystal was providing. "Your resonant structure is remarkably… integrated… for one who has so recently crossed the Veil. Most outlanders exhibit significant dissonance between their native frequency and the ambient arcane field of Azmerith for at least several cycles."

They adjusted their stance slightly, the patterns in their robes seeming to ripple in response. "This suggests exceptional adaptive capacity at the fundamental energetic level. The implications are… significant."

I wasn't entirely certain whether this observation boded well for my prospects or represented a potential complication. Exceptional adaptation could mark me as valuable, but it might equally identify me as a greater threat. I decided that honest confusion was the safest response.

"I'm not sure I understand what that means," I said, allowing a hint of genuine bewilderment to color my voice. "In my world, we don't have… resonant frequencies. At least, not that I'm aware of."

Assessor Thelios regarded me with an expression that might have been sympathetic on a more expressive face. "Of course. The ignorance of outlanders regarding their own fundamental nature is one of the great tragedies of cross-Veil transition. You exist in your native environments like fish unaware of water, blind to the energetic currents that sustain and define you."

They made another precise gesture with their free hand, and the crystal's pulsing light shifted from blue to a warm amber that matched their eyes. "Every living entity possesses a unique energetic signature—a specific pattern of vibration that distinguishes it from all others. In most worlds, including yours, these signatures remain largely dormant, existing as potential rather than active expression."

The crystal rotated slowly above their palm, seemingly defying gravity. "When an entity crosses the Veil into Azmerith, that dormant potential becomes activated, attuning itself to our world's higher ambient arcane field. This process typically causes significant distress—psychologically, physically, and energetically—as the outlander's fundamental frequency adjusts to an environment it was never designed to inhabit."

They tilted their head slightly, studying me with renewed intensity. "You, however, display a harmonic integration that suggests either extraordinary inherent adaptability or… prior preparation of some kind."

This last observation carried a subtle note of suspicion that I couldn't afford to ignore. Without fully understanding why, I sensed that attributing my unusual adaptation to "prior preparation" would lead down dangerous investigative paths. I needed to redirect without appearing evasive.

"Perhaps," I suggested, careful to maintain an expression of thoughtful consideration rather than defensive denial, "it has something to do with why I was brought here in the first place? If there's a reason I crossed the Veil rather than someone else, maybe that same factor accounts for how well I seem to be adjusting?"

The question contained enough genuine uncertainty to mask its strategic intent, while potentially planting the idea that my unusual characteristics were intrinsic rather than acquired—a natural phenomenon rather than evidence of manipulation or conspiracy. It also implicitly accepted the premise that my transition had been purposeful rather than random, potentially aligning my case with whatever prophetic elements the Seer had apparently detected.

Assessor Thelios considered this possibility, the crystal hovering above their palm slowing its rotation momentarily. "An intriguing hypothesis. The Seer did speak of you specifically, which is unusual even among the relatively rare phenomenon of outlander arrival." They made a small gesture with their free hand, and the crystal resumed its previous motion. "We shall explore this possibility further as the assessment progresses."

They drew the crystal back into their palm, closing their fingers around it briefly before reopening them to reveal that it had transformed—or perhaps been replaced by—a small device that resembled a compass, though instead of a needle, it contained a droplet of what appeared to be liquid silver that moved with uncanny deliberation.

"We shall now evaluate your potential mana capacity," Assessor Thelios announced, holding the strange compass-like device toward me. "This is perhaps the most crucial aspect of the assessment, as it determines what pathways might be safely available to you should you prove suitable for arcane training."

The mention of pathways immediately captured my attention, though I was careful not to display any recognition beyond what an uninformed outlander might naturally exhibit. "Mana? Pathways?" I echoed, allowing my genuine curiosity about how they would explain these concepts to an ostensible novice to color my tone.

"Mana is the term we use for an individual's internal reservoir of arcane potential—the energy you can personally channel and direct," Assessor Thelios explained, their tone taking on a slightly didactic quality that suggested they had delivered this explanation numerous times before. "Think of it as spiritual muscle—it can be developed through proper training, but its base capacity is largely determined by innate factors."

The liquid silver droplet began to move more erratically as they brought the device closer to my chest, darting in precise geometric patterns rather than the random movements I would have expected from an actual liquid. "Pathways, in simplest terms, are the established methods by which mana can be safely channeled to produce specific effects. Each is associated with particular disciplines, traditions, and… patrons."

This last word was delivered with a slight hesitation that suggested political or religious sensitivities surrounding the concept—precisely as Aric had implied during our discussions of the existences that governed various magical disciplines. I filed this observation away for future consideration.

"And you're measuring how much… mana… I might potentially control?" I asked, deliberately framing the question in terms of measurement rather than judgment, presenting myself as curious about the process rather than anxious about its outcome.

"Precisely," Assessor Thelios confirmed, their attention now fully focused on the device in their hand, which had begun to emit a soft, high-pitched tone just at the threshold of audibility. "Though 'measuring' is perhaps too simplistic a term. We are evaluating not merely quantity but quality—the specific resonance characteristics that determine compatibility with various arcane disciplines."

The device's tone suddenly intensified, causing Assessor Thelios to raise one elegantly arched eyebrow in apparent surprise. The silver droplet had ceased its erratic movements and now pulsed in place, expanding and contracting in a rhythm that seemed deliberately synchronized with my heartbeat.

"Most unusual," they murmured, more to themselves than to me. "The readings suggest significant latent capacity, but with a peculiar… duality to the resonance pattern. Almost as though…" They trailed off, their golden eyes narrowing slightly as they adjusted something on the device with a precise movement of their thumb.

A chill of apprehension ran through me at the word "duality." Had the assessment detected some trace of Aric's presence despite his apparent concealment? I forced myself to maintain an expression of innocent confusion rather than the alarm I genuinely felt.

"Is something wrong?" I asked, the question emerging more naturally than I might have hoped—the genuine concern in my voice masking the specific nature of my anxiety.

Assessor Thelios seemed to recollect themselves, lowering the device slightly and regarding me with renewed intensity. "Not wrong, necessarily. Simply unexpected. Your mana signature exhibits characteristics I have encountered only rarely in my career—a capacity that suggests potential for multiple pathway alignment rather than the single specialization most commonly observed in outlanders."

They returned the device to a pocket within their robes and extracted instead a small crystal prism that captured the torchlight and scattered it in rainbow patterns across the cell walls. "This is most promising for your prospects, Elias of the Beyond-Veil. The Empire values versatility in its arcane assets."

The casual reference to "assets" rather than persons did not escape my notice, nor did I miss the implication that my unusual characteristics were being evaluated primarily in terms of utility to imperial interests rather than personal development or well-being. Yet I recognized the strategic advantage this assessment potentially offered; being classified as valuable would likely result in better treatment and greater freedom than being deemed merely average or, worse, threatening.

"What happens now?" I asked, deliberately introducing a note of cautious hope into my voice—presenting myself as someone beginning to see potential opportunity rather than continued imprisonment in my situation. "Does this mean I might be allowed to learn about these pathways you mentioned?"

Assessor Thelios raised the crystal prism to eye level, studying me through its multifaceted surface as though it revealed aspects of my being invisible to ordinary perception. "That depends on the final phase of our assessment—the evaluation of your temperamental suitability for arcane instruction."

They lowered the prism and fixed me with a direct gaze that seemed to penetrate beyond physical appearance to some deeper aspect of self. "Power without discipline is merely chaos waiting to manifest. The Arcanum has learned through bitter experience that temperament often proves more decisive than capacity in determining an outlander's ultimate classification."

With a smooth, practiced movement, they slipped the prism back into their robes and withdrew instead a small metallic disc, its surface engraved with concentric circles of minute symbols that resembled those on my shackle but arranged in a distinctly different pattern.

"This final evaluation is both the simplest and the most profound," they explained, holding the disc balanced on their open palm. "I will ask you a series of questions. You will answer truthfully. The disc will respond to the resonant harmony—or dissonance—between your stated answers and your genuine internal state."

In other words, I realized with a sudden chill, a magical lie detector—and potentially far more sophisticated than any polygraph from my world, which measured merely physiological responses rather than some direct assessment of truth itself. This presented a formidable challenge; I needed to appear cooperative while carefully navigating around certain realities that could not, under any circumstances, be revealed.