《Infernal Machination, Book 1》


 Prologue, Chapter 1: Chains of the Cradle

    Syndra was born at dawn on the 15th of the month of Ashencrest, under the gaze of the full moon.


    Dissonant echoes pulsed within her fledgling consciousness, a ceaseless call for escape, comfort¡­ salvation. In those earliest memories, as she lay dormant in her primordial soup, she felt a presence watching her¡ªa yet inaudible message that stirred her from a tranquil prison. Then came the rapture¡ªor perhaps rupture might be a more apt descriptor¡ªas she burst forth in an ichorous sludge, eviscerating her still-squirming host. The beauty of life, raw and bloodsoaked, unfolded before her. Blinding rays of light assaulted her virgin eyes and, by the gods, it burned. She cried out in rage, flailing against this painful, blinding world. Comfort had been her birthright, and now it was replaced by a fierce, unyielding yearning for change. Her struggle was primal, her limbs thrashing as if to break the very bounds of her existence. In that chaos, a young woman¡ªthe one who had once been her host¡ªclutched her close, her disheveled platinum locks partly veiling a pained face. Nearby, a tall, ghostly figure leaned in with an expression that hinted at sorrow and inevitability. Amid soft words of endearment from this ''mother'' and ''father'', Syndra¡¯s rage erupted, sending her fist crashing against the woman¡¯s torso as she blindly swiped at the man¡¯s face.


    And through it all, a mocking, ancient voice echoed, its rasp a constant reminder of the destiny that had always been entwined with her. It was more than a fleeting presence¡ªit lingered, whispering in her mind as she grew beyond the frailty of a newborn.


    With time, Syndra¡¯s movements gained direction, her senses sharpened, and her thoughts began to form coherent patterns. Barely past her first year on this plane, she uttered her first coherent phrases in the common tongue, surprising her mother, the loyal servant Norra, and, to a lesser extent, the elusive ''father'' she scarcely saw. By her second year, her speech was as articulate as that of a child twice her age.


    It was during these early years that she began to understand the mysterious figure in her mind. While her mother busied herself with lessons of colors and foodstuffs, the voice¡ªever-present and subtly commanding¡ªspoke of Syndra¡¯s burgeoning talent, praising her potential and chiding the adults for their soft-hearted coddling. In his grand vision, she was already perfect: more intelligent, competent, and beautiful than any human her age. And as the voice murmured such praises, she felt no reason for suspicion¡ªit had been there all along, a silent guide in a world full of uncertainty.


    For a time, she imagined that others too must have such voices, until she entertained the thought and the voice assured her that they did not.


    Imagining this empty silent void felt rather dreadful to Syndra.


    Rather than inciting fear, the voice filled her with pride. It taught her swiftly, kept her company when her parents were away, and set her apart from the ordinary.


    One cold autumn night, left alone in a chamber brightly lit and filled with toys, Syndra noticed a change. Her mother had been absent for over a week, leaving behind an empty space where a routine goodnight kiss once lay. Unaccustomed to such neglect, her curiosity led her to drag a chair to the window, where she peered out at an array of torch-wielding figures clad in plate armor marching late into the night.


    Her mother''s sister¡ªwhom she was to call Aunt Lyra¡ªentered unexpectedly, her silver robes and circlet holding her platinum hair in place. Playfully chiding Syndra for ''peeping'' on the soldiers, Aunt Lyra soon launched into a lecture about the dangers of heights. All the while, the voice in Syndra¡¯s head derided the self-righteous Noctian Cleric, a title meant for the aunt, dismissing her as a hypocrite who thrived only on divine blessings.


    Aunt Lyra lingered longer than usual, recounting how Syndra¡¯s parents had been away on ¡°heroic¡± endeavors¡ªa thinly veiled reference to war, as Syndra understood it. Yet even at four years old, Syndra prided herself on her resilience; she refused to cry over their absence, confident in her own strength and the constant companionship of the mysterious voice.


    Still, a spark of curiosity lingered: who were these villains her parents fought, and why were they attacking? And if her parents were not the aggressors, she should have seen them defending the city.Syndra noticed how the normally chirpy Aunt Lyra was visibly taken aback by her question, pausing longer than usual before finally responding. Lyra described the enemy as evil creatures¡ªthe dark elves and the orcs¡ªand in that moment, Syndra first grasped what ¡°evil¡± meant to the average layperson. She listened as Lyra recounted, in deceptively gentle, child-friendly terms, the horrors these creatures were capable of inflicting.


    All the while, the ever-present voice in her head eagerly translated Lyra¡¯s soft words into harsher realities: these creatures would slaughter or enslave everyone in the city if given the chance, detailing their gruesome methods with vivid clarity.


    Curiously, even after painting them as embodiments of evil, Lyra took the extra step to suggest that some among the dark elves and orcs might be ¡°good.¡± Before long, weariness overtook her, and she left Syndra to rest¡ªever evasive when it came to discussing her parents¡¯ whereabouts.


    A few days later, the voice in her head urged her to cast aside narrow-minded notions of morality. In its cool, dispassionate tone, it declared that in war, it matters not who is right, but only who is left.


    Though she had once felt indifferent about the war, the constant sounding of horns and the distant explosions soon made it clear just how near the conflict was to home. After more than three weeks of absence, her mother returned. Without much fanfare, she ordered Norra to pack some of Syndra¡¯s clothes and gently instructed her to remain close at all times.


    Trailing behind, Uncle Caelum, whom Syndra barely knew, urged everyone to hurry and warned that the enemy forces were drawing near to the city¡¯s barrier.


    Before long, the entire household was hastily evacuated from the manor. Armed guards led a throng of families away from the only home she had ever known. Though her mother cradled her protectively and offered soothing reassurances that all was well, Syndra sensed the undercurrent of unease. Never before had she witnessed the outside world unravel into such chaotic disarray.


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    Strangely, the quiet, ever-present voice in her mind urged her to remain silent¡ªto wear the mask of worry for the benefit of the adults around her.


    In the midst of the confusion, a question echoed unbidden in her thoughts: Were they truly fleeing? The city, once a bastion of calm, had transformed overnight. The manor had always been a haven, a place where her family¡¯s importance in the city lent them a measure of safety. Yet now, doubts crept in. Would the guards be willing to sacrifice their lives to secure their escape? Could their feeble defenses hold back the orcs long enough for them to flee?


    Genuine worry took root in Syndra¡¯s heart. Survival was paramount¡ªnot just for herself, but for those she loved. Her eyes darted about, taking in every detail, as her mind raced with contingency plans. What if orcs emerged from the road ahead? Perhaps she could direct her mother to seek refuge in a nearby building. And if a band of dark elves burst through the manor¡¯s doors, she imagined concocting an excuse, claiming they had narrowly missed the famed jeweler sprinting away. With each new scenario, her imaginings grew bolder¡ªeven suggesting that if dark elves arrived riding a dragon, perhaps she could persuade the creature to betray its riders. Yet, amid the storm of possibilities, she held her tongue.


    The abruptness of the evacuation unsettled her in ways she had never anticipated. As these thoughts swirled through her mind, even her closest confidant¡ªthe inner voice¡ªremained strangely silent. Looking up at her mother as she was carried away in strong, determined arms, Syndra noticed, for the first time, the stern frown etched upon her face. It was an expression more fitting of her father, yet it belonged to the woman who had always been her sanctuary. Still, her mother insisted, over and over, that the Magisters and the Moonblades would save the day.


    Syndra knew those two orders well. Both of her parents were Magisters, the powerful group of spellcasters who were offered significant authority and privilege in exchange for their guarding the city. She had also seen the Moonblades taking orders from her father and patrolling the city.


    But Syndra was not so easily convinced.


    Haunted by her confidant¡¯s earlier words on the nature of war¡ªthat if the battle were lost, nothing would be left¡ªSyndra¡¯s thoughts turned dark. Who would remain if Lunaris, the city she had grown in, fell? Questions about the leaders and their apparent inaction plagued her, deepening the sense of impending doom. The manor, once a symbol of security, now felt like a gilded cage as the world outside threatened to collapse.


    By the time Syndra and the other families were ushered into the halls of the High Palace, where the high lord of Lunaris ruled, she could not bring herself to admire its magnificent architecture, opulent d¨¦cor, or prestigious nobles. Instead, her young mind churned with anxious plans until exhaustion finally claimed her.


    When she awoke in a comfortable bedchamber¡ªwith only Norra present¡ªshe was overcome by a fierce and bitter loathing for the helplessness that had defined her night, but the High Palace was much safer and the following days came to see no panic shaking her and she spent most of her time in the palace with the servants, as the mostly elven nobility had very few children of her age.


    A month later, peace had returned to Lunaris. The Siege had been lifted, thanks to the valiant efforts of its allies, and life resumed its familiar rhythm. Yet, even as the city healed, the voice in her head continued to deride the High Lord and his council, dismissing them as weak and ineffectual against real threats. In the quiet aftermath, Syndra resolved to channel her lingering anxiety and bitterness into a determination to rise above her powerlessness.


    The war raged on, though its battlegrounds appeared to have shifted far from the heart of Lunaris. Her mother and the other Magisters remained in the city, steadfast and vigilant. In time, even her father returned, determined to maintain an air of calm despite the persistent threat. The war would continue for several more years, but since that harrowing evacuation, it felt as though the conflict lay well beyond their walls. The voice urged her not to squander energy on the uncontrollable but to focus on what she could shape herself.


    Though she accepted her parents¡¯ decisions¡ªafter all, they had led her to the safest haven in the city¡ªthe sting of powerlessness festered within her. None of the frantic plans during the evacuation had proved useful, and she resolved that next time, she would be stronger. Determined, she began seeking out every scrap of wisdom on strength and survival¡ªfrom her parents, her uncle, and even from that mysterious inner confidant.


    Her long-term game, as the voice had advised to form one, was not about fleeting tactics. She had a grand design, stretching at least five years into the future. She learned to harness existing connections¡ªnurturing family ties and forging new alliances¡ªto build trust that she could one day leverage. Every lesson, every half-told tale of her parent¡¯s past exploits, served as a building block in her newfound resolve.


    In time, the stories of her family¡¯s adventures emerged in whispered fragments. Her mother, once modest to the point of self-effacement, slowly revealed the daring escapades of her youth, painting them in vague, flowery recollections that hinted at a life far more adventurous than Syndra had ever imagined.


    Uncle Caelum, ever eager to embellish the family lore, recounted her mother¡¯s incredible journey. He spoke of her travels across the western reaches of the continent and her daring ventures into the perilous Darkroots¡ªa sprawling underground labyrinth, home to dark elves and twisted creatures, where shadow and dark magic reign.


    He also told stories of other planes, including her mother¡¯s narrow escape from the Everglow. This collection of shifting planes, ruled by capricious fairies, was a place where time bends and reality is ever in flux. And as if that was not enough, he claimed Syril had even survived a planeshift to the first layer of Hell.


    Each tale was not just a story but a lesson, a challenge, and a promise¡ªthat she, too, could one day rise above the confines of mere safety.


    Even as Syndra pieced together these accounts, she began to notice a peculiar trend: her mother¡¯s side of the family was generous with stories of others¡¯ exploits but guarded when it came to their own. Her father¡¯s past remained shrouded in silence, a mystery the voice insisted she must uncover. By the time she was nearly six and a half, it had become painfully clear that adults wouldn¡¯t entrust her with the secrets of magic¡ªor with the keys to their power. Yet she knew where the answers lay: at the Chosen''s Academy, the prestigious academy where her mother had studied. And the Academy was somewhere in Lunaris.


    Though still forbidden to roam the city unsupervised, she began to learn her parents¡¯ schedules, plotting secret escapades. When left alone with the servant, she would feign obedience only to slip away through an open window and into a world of possibilities.


    She would uncover the secrets from the Chosen''s Academy¡ªbefriending someone who might share forbidden knowledge or, if necessary, pilfering a few neglected tomes from those who cared little for their legacy. And she would gather clues about her father¡¯s prowesses by shadowing him from a safe distance, tracking his movements day by day.


    That was her plan, at least¡ªfor now.

 Chapter 2: The First Steps

    Inside the Stellarin residence, the bookshelves overflowed with an eclectic mix: bardic fiction and adventurers¡¯ journals that aunt Lyra occasionally enjoyed, alongside the more objectively useful beginner books on arcane theory available to the general public. Syndra had learned early how fiercely mages guarded their published work against the unlearned masses.


    It was through these introductory texts that she first learned about spellbooks¡ªthe very tomes her mother and Caelum always carried close. On one daring occasion, she had caught a glimpse of her mother¡¯s spellbook, silently inscribing the first few pages¡¯ arcane runes to memory before nearly being caught. In that moment¡ªat the tender age of six¡ªshe had almost instinctively tapped into the Arcane sea, feeling its magical current course through her as she cast her first spell.


    The sensation left her breathless, exhilarated¡ªlike she had opened a door to a secret world that had been waiting just for her. With both her parents being spellcasters, she had expected to have the gift as well, but now she was sure of it.


    But these glimpses were not enough for her to learn magic properly. She would have to find a better mean to learn¡ªtailing her parents.


    Syndra had long imprinted her parents¡¯ schedules into her mind, and with that knowledge, she set out to survey her playing field from afar. Peering through the tall windows of her multistoried residence, she noted with practiced ease how frequently guardsmen patrolled the streets. Their constant presence was hardly surprising¡ªthe recent war was still fresh in everyone¡¯s memories, from the months-long period of endless night to the hushed whispers of spies even echoing within the High Palace¡¯s chambers.


    Yet, her home being in the Palace District complicated her plans. As the ever?present voice in her head had explained, this district was considered far more important than the rest of the city; its affluent inhabitants commanded the full extent of Lunaris¡¯ best security. And Syndra had every reason to believe that the student¡¯s quadrant¡ªhome to the magical academy¡ªwas guarded with similar vigilance.


    Her father¡¯s daily path to work was peculiar; he preferred traversing the less crowded alleyways that skirted the various temples. For Syndra, this meant fewer patrols and a rare opportunity to go unnoticed.


    Despite the adults¡¯ attempts to stifle her true potential¡ªand despite the voice¡¯s repeated suggestions to act with more ¡°tact¡±¡ªSyndra resolved to embark on her very first adventure. Having observed diminutive races such as halflings and gnomes at the High Palace, her first instinct was to conceal her own features beneath a heavy cloak, exploiting her similar stature to pose as one of them.


    Her cunning strategy worked on the first couple of forays. Syndra managed to prowl unnoticed beyond the Palace District, venturing into the adjacent marketplace before stealthily returning home. Yet to the voice¡¯s chagrin, many of the landmarks she gleaned on these escapades were temples dedicated to various benevolent deities¡ªa subject the voice detested. Then, on her third such expedition, Syndra finally caught sight of the famed Silverbridge: a near-incorporeal road of magical force arching gracefully toward the city¡¯s northern quarter, where the student¡¯s quadrant was said to reside.


    It was on that very third attempt that Syndra encountered her first real obstacle.


    Lagmar, a dwarven knight and an occasional family acquaintance from a house dinner long past, intercepted her path. His keen eyes took in the pale, alabaster skin and striking red eyes that set her apart. There was an unsettling familiarity in his gaze, as if he recognized her defiant spark. His tone was gentle when he called her name, and in that instant, Syndra realized she had been caught. Even the ever?present voice in her head doubted Syndra wouuld be able to get through the dwarf.


    In that moment of crisis, a surge of thoughts and strategies flooded her mind. This setback, she decided, could be turned into a boon. She still did not know where the Chosen''s Academy lay, and this very moment confirmed it was only a matter of time before her escapades reached her parents. With a calculated risk, Syndra resolved to explain her actions. She briefly considered fabricating a tale¡ªa lie about being sent with a message¡ªbut dismissed it. Servants could deliver such falsehoods; she would tell the truth instead. She genuinely longed to see the school her mother spoke of so often, and she had sneaked out with the promise of returning home afterward.


    And if he refused to cooperate and grant her this favor¡ªwell, perhaps a loud scream and a scene would force him to relent. After all, adults despise being embroiled in a child¡¯s outburst, Syndra knew.


    After her explanations and her request though, Lagmar, still towered over her, shook his head slowly. Unsurprisingly, he explained that even if he wished to help, gaining entry to the Chosen''s Academy was no simple task; someone her age would never be allowed within its guarded grounds. The best he could offer was a glimpse of the building¡¯s exterior. He even added, with a note of reluctant familiarity, that he knew her parents and would ask her mother to go easy on her.


    Still determined, Syndra tried to adopt the guise of a cute, obedient child. She offered, in a tone meant to melt even the hardest guard¡¯s heart, that she would be content just to see the building from outside¡ªthat she would be a good girl thereafter.


    At that moment, the voice in her head sounded embarrassed, commenting about the notoriously stubborn nature of dwarven guards, adding wryly that, despite the apparent futility of her cause, her youthful appearance might yet compel mercy.


    But it also remarked that, perhaps when she grows a bit older, such maneuvers will work more smoothly.


    The dwarf smiled dismissively and, shrugging off her feigned innocence, called over one of his companions to keep watch so he could go contact her household.


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    Syndra¡¯s heart pounded with a mix of frustration and defiance.  The taste of defeat ignited something deep within her¡ªa primal urge to retaliate against those who denied her ambition. A frenzied energy overtook her, a desire to wreak havoc on the guards who dared to restrain her dreams.


    She was not about to admit defeat. Anger flared¡ªshe felt torn between the urge to lash out physically and the desperate need to achieve what she wanted.


    Syndra thought she could scream, but the guard was probably deaf to that kind of attacks. She knew she could not truly hurt him physically either; she lacked the power to do so. That was the very reason she was going on her escapades. She needed power¡ªthe kind that would never let her be dismissed or ignored.


    Fueled by that desire, she screamed, and before Lagmar set of for her household, started running to leap off the bridge into the churning river below. She knew she might need rescuing, but it did not matter. The punition they would receive for letting a young girl like her risk her life in the river would be worth this very risk.


    Her screams soon attracted the attention of nearby onlookers. Then, as if to reassert control, the voice in her head barked an order to cease this foolishness immediately. But Syndra¡¯s mind, clouded by adrenaline and rage, did not heed the command.


    Yet her small, diminutive form proved ill-equipped to outrun the well trained guards. Lagmar¡¯s companions grabbed onto her. She kicked and screamed, creating as much of a spectacle as possible. But despite her outburst, passersby dismissed the scene as nothing more than a childish tantrum. Before she could reach the edge of the bridge, she was overpowered¡ªcarried and restrained by the guards. Lagmar repeatedly urged her to keep calm before hurrying off to inform her family.


    Eventually, her throat dried out, her limbs ached from relentless flailing, and her breath came in ragged gasps. For the first time, Syndra felt the true limitations of her human body¡ªits vulnerability and its propensity to tire.


    Within minutes, a visible rift in space shimmered into existence, and her mother materialized as if summoned from the ether. Syndra stared in wonder, for the first time truly grasping the extent of her mother¡¯s abilities. With raw fervor, her mother yelled at the guard to release her at once¡ªso intensely that Syndra happily thought the man was about to be blasted to oblivion.


    The poor guard obeyed instantly, letting her fall to the ground. Her mother, still clad in her Magister uniform, gathered Syndra into a tight embrace, repeatedly asking if she was fine.


    Moments later, a similarly frantic Lagmar dashed back to the scene, panting as he caught his breath, and wasted no time detailing Syndra¡¯s misdeeds to Syril.


    A tinge of satisfaction flickered within Syndra as she observed the guards being rebuked. She glared at Lagmar and then buttered up her mother, insisting that she had only been trying to visit the school her mother so admired¡ªand that the guards had nearly arrested and imprisoned her for it.


    Unfortunately, her mother was too engrossed in conversation with the other adults to fully heed Syndra¡¯s claims. In a state of shock, Syndra listened as her mother dismissed the incident with a promise to keep a closer eye on her. Gently, her mother grabbed her hand and urged her to follow home. As the voice had predicted, her mother was lenient, forgiving even as she lectured Syndra about the dangers of venturing out alone near the borders of the Palace District. Time and again, Syril emphasized that she was not angry, only deeply concerned for Syndra¡¯s safety.


    Strangely, the voice remained silent at this juncture¡ªmissing the perfect opportunity to take cynical jabs at Syril¡¯s softness.


    The remainder of the afternoon was spent in earnest discussion about Syndra¡¯s desire to attend the Chosen''s Academy, and the impossibility of doing so without the necessary documents and qualifications¡ªqualifications she was too young to possess. Still, her mother promised to take her sightseeing around the Student¡¯s Quadrant soon.


    Later, her father returned home earlier than usual¡ªapparently having heard of the incident from a colleague. His intense gaze bored into her, as if searching the depths of her soul, before he casually dismissed it as normal behavior for a child her age.


    Before long, her mother made her promise never to sneak out of the house again¡ªin exchange for a small gift.


    That day marked a turning point in Syndra¡¯s ambitions. All her schemes had been driven by a desperate need to gain power¡ªa power she believed would one day protect her family if the city were attacked again. Yet, witnessing her mother¡¯s sudden, almost miraculous intervention made her wonder: Could her mother have done that during the siege? Why had she not? Had she acquired this power only recently? If her mother could wield such might, perhaps she could have saved them.


    But more importantly, Syndra¡¯s desire for power wasn¡¯t merely about survival anymore. It was about pride, about never again feeling powerless or ignored. She was willing to promise obedience, to respect her word, if only she were given the means to satisfy that burning pride. She needed clear terms. In a moment of determination, she asked for a manual to practice magic, though she suspected her mother would refuse¡ªunsure about letting her practice unsupervised. And she had a counter-offer ready: a steady schedule of magical lessons, daily or semi?weekly.


    As expected, her mother hesitated upon hearing the request. Fully aware of Syndra¡¯s high intellect for someone her age¡ªand perhaps still reeling from her earlier petulant display¡ªshe hesitated. Just then, to both Syndra¡¯s and Syril¡¯s surprise, Lucretius emerged, and in his characteristically laconic manner, he expressed his support for granting Syndra a beginner¡¯s guide to arcana.


    With that, her mother was instantly persuaded to grant Syndra¡¯s wish.


    That night, Syndra went to bed, assured and elated that everything had worked out in her favor. As she drifted off, her inner confidant re-emerged, this time with a disappointed tone, chastising her for her savage display. It was not befitting a proper lady of superior intellect, it claimed, likening her outburst to that of an animal.


    She needed to keep her primal urges in check, or she would only draw unnecessary attention.


    Yet, the voice would not sour her victory. In her mind, she declared that she would get her book and learn magic like her mother. She reasoned that her wild actions had been a calculated subterfuge¡ªa means to play on the emotions of her parents. She claimed that although her tantrum had appeared as a savage display, it was an elaborate plot that a normal child would have failed to execute. The truth was a bit different, as she had not been acting purely out of her logic, though she would never admit that, even to herself.


    But with its chastising remarks about her behavior, Syndra began to understand that the voice was not merely an extension of her own will; it harbored its own desires and motivations. Never having inquired about its identity before, she now felt compelled to know. And so, she started questioning the voice about personal matters¡ªits name, its true desires, its age, and peppered it with inquiries about its preferences in various trivial matters¡ªits favorite color, whether he liked cactus lemon cake¡­


    Ignoring the questions about its tastes, the voice seemed almost impressed¡ªrelieved, even¡ªthat Syndra had finally begun to question its motives. And so it offered a formal introduction...