Darkness. Cold, damp, and suffocating.


    Lucan drifted between consciousness and oblivion, his mind sluggish, his body broken. The last thing he remembered was hands gripping him, fists striking him, voices shouting in fear and anger.


    And then—pain.


    Now, only silence remained.


    A dull, throbbing ache pulsed through his ribs. His wrists were heavy, bound by something rough and unyielding. The air smelled of rot and damp stone, the kind of place where men were forgotten, where light had long abandoned its duty.


    Lucan’s eyes fluttered open.


    Stone walls surrounded him, carved with dimly glowing runes, their light flickering like dying embers. A containment chamber. A prison meant not just to hold but to suppress.


    He was trapped.


    Slowly, the weight of reality settled upon him.


    The village had betrayed him.


    Not for a crime, not for a sin—but for knowing too much. For saving a life in a way they did not understand.


    A bitter chuckle escaped his lips. Knowledge is the greatest curse of all.


    But he was not alone.


    A voice—low and hoarse with age—echoed from the darkness.


    "Ah… another one."


    Lucan tensed, his head snapping toward the sound.


    A figure sat slumped against the far wall, half-shrouded in shadows. His hair was long and white, his face lined with the weight of years spent in suffering. His clothes, little more than rags, hung loose over a frame once strong, now wasted.


    But his eyes—they burned with something fierce, something defiant.


    A man who had lost everything—except his mind.


    Lucan exhaled. "Who are you?"


    The man tilted his head, a slow smile curling over his lips.


    "A ghost of a forgotten age," he murmured. "A prisoner of the present. And perhaps… your only chance of seeing the sun again."


    Lucan’s fingers tightened against his bindings.


    He could feel it—the weight of something deeper, something hidden beneath those words.


    This man was not just a prisoner.


    He was a secret waiting to be uncovered.


    The old man’s voice was quiet but firm, each word measured, each syllable carrying the weight of truth long buried.


    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    "This village," he said, "is not what it seems."


    Lucan listened, unmoving.


    "Eldermere is a parasite," the old man continued. "It lures travelers with kindness, with safety. A sanctuary, untouched by war, a place where no kingdom rules."


    His lips curled into a grim smile.


    "But that is a lie."


    Lucan’s chest tightened.


    "They do not let outsiders leave," the old man whispered. "They consume them."


    Lucan stilled.


    "They do not kill outright," the old man continued. "Not at first. No, they are far more patient, far more… insidious. They strip men of their freedom, of their will. They drain their strength, force them into bondage."


    Lucan’s stomach churned.


    "Slavery."


    The old man nodded. "But for those who have no use as laborers…" He gestured toward the runes carved into the walls. "They are bled for their Aether. Drained, piece by piece, their life force sustaining the fields, the wells, the people of this cursed village."


    Lucan’s heart pounded against his ribs.


    "They take Aether from prisoners… to power the village itself?"


    "Yes."


    A slow dread crept over him.


    Lucan clenched his fists.


    This village—this wretched place—had cast itself in the image of peace, yet beneath its surface lay a horror no less cruel than the Mageocracy itself.


    And he had walked straight into it.


    But he was not the only one.


    The old man studied him carefully. "You are different," he murmured. "I saw it the moment they threw you down here. The way you carry yourself. The way your eyes see things others do not."


    Lucan stayed silent.


    "Tell me," the old man continued, voice barely above a whisper. "Do you know of the Industrial Empire?"


    Lucan’s breath hitched.


    He had heard the name before. In whispers. In ancient texts his master once let him read.


    The lost kingdom, the one that had dared to rival Arcanis, not with Aethergems or magic—but with machines.


    Lucan nodded. "I know of it."


    A flicker of something—hope? Regret?—passed through the old man’s gaze.


    "Then you must also know," he said softly, "that they were destroyed."


    Lucan swallowed hard. "Centuries ago, yes."


    "Not all of them."


    Lucan’s pulse quickened.


    The old man leaned forward, the light of the runes casting harsh shadows over his worn face.


    "My name is Veylan, and I am one of the last remnants of that fallen empire. My family has spent centuries trying to free our prince—the man your master once was."


    Lucan’s breath caught.


    "Your master," Veylan continued, "was never just a prisoner of Arcanis. He was our lost heir."


    Lucan’s mind raced.


    His master—a prince? The son of the last great inventor, the one who had created the first artificial Aethergem?


    It all made sense now.


    The fear of the Mageocracy. The war waged against a kingdom that threatened to make magic obsolete. The reason why his master had been hunted, enslaved, bled for his power.


    And now, centuries later, that same fear was being used to justify Lucan’s imprisonment.


    Lucan exhaled slowly.


    This world had done everything it could to erase the Industrial Empire.


    But they had failed.


    Because here, in this forgotten prison, sat one of its last survivors.


    And here, in these chains, sat a man who would finish what they started.


    Lucan lifted his gaze.


    "Then help me escape," he said.


    Veylan smirked.


    "You’re more like him than you realize."


    He leaned back against the stone wall, closing his eyes for a brief moment.


    "Listen carefully, boy," he murmured. "If you want to survive this place, you’ll need more than strength. More than knowledge. You’ll need power."


    Lucan’s brow furrowed. "I don’t have an Aethergem."


    Veylan’s smile widened.


    "Who said anything about magic?"


    A glint of something metallic flashed in his hands. A tiny device, barely functional, but radiating the remnants of something long forgotten.


    "The world thinks magic is the only path to power," Veylan said. "But my people knew better."


    Lucan stared, realization dawning.


    "You mean…"


    Veylan nodded.


    "I’m going to teach you how to infuse Aethergems into machines. And when we’re done—"


    His grin turned razor-sharp.


    "—Eldermere will regret ever laying hands on you."


    Lucan’s eyes burned with new fire.


    This was not where he would die.


    This was where he would begin.