Remain calm, control your emotions, and formulate a plan.
Three: Assess your mental state. Isahn felt fine—enraged at being held captive—but fine. He could work with rage.
This whole thing had to be Peros’s doing. That weasel would be going down as soon as Isahn got free. But hewasn’tfree—a major problem. Cold hands of panic clawed at his heart as reality closed in.
I’m going to die here. Fuck.
As fear coursed through Isahn, tightening his muscles, he fought to keep his breathing soft and steady.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.He was going to be murdered in fucking Gramenia. Solaelia would never know what became of him. Sure, she’d suspect Peros was behind it and likely be right... but—
Fuck!Isahn clenched his fists and flinched when points bit into his wrist.
Come on. Remain calm. Control emotions. Formulate a plan.
He breathed slow and deep.
Four: Assess your surroundings. A sharp sound, like steel on rock, echoed around him, like he was sitting at the mouth of a mine. He could also make out distant, muffled voices, a few of them—at least four different people—bickering.
Remain calm, control emotions, formulate a plan.
Inhaling slowly, he frowned. In spite of the metal biting into his flesh, there was no smell of blood. If anything, the air was earthy and fragrant, like he was in some sort of greenhouse. He sniffed again just as a putrid odor wafted through.A greenhouse with rot.
Creaking his swollen eyes open, Isahn blinked, taking in the strange surroundings. He wasn’t where he expected to beatall. Sitting in a chair, he was shackled; he couldfeelthat. He could hear a mine and the workers. He could smell the strange mustiness of an abandoned garden around him. But he could see that he was standing in the crook of an enormous tree, surrounded by quaking leaves and vibrating branches. A powerful wind whipped around him but didn’t brush his skin. He should’ve been able to feel the breeze.
Nothing matched. Was he dying?
On a whim, Isahn sent out a fine thread of water vapor from the tip of his little finger. If others were in the room, they wouldn’t be able to see the mist, but he could use it to feel.
He pushed the vapor toward the tree trunk beside his head. It went straight through the bark with no resistance whatsoever.Mirage.It was a bloody mirage, he should have known.
Clenching his fist, he grimaced as metal bit back. Isahn urged his water vapor to trail down over his wrists to explore the shackles.
What felt for all the world like cold manacles with horribly serrated linings were not that at all. He was shackled, but his magic told him his flesh was unharmed. The inner rings of the bands around his wrists and ankles were smooth and harmless. The knowledge his pain was a phantom dulled his reaction significantly.Odd.
Reality was clearly different from what his senses claimed, but he couldn’t wrap his mind around precisely what was real and what was false. He’d experimented with some of the morecolorfulvarieties of mushrooms back when he was a student. Who hadn’t?
This wasn’t the same at all.
Fucking Domossan mindmages.
Isahn bit his tongue in frustration, the taste of blood sharp and immediate, grounding him in reality, however painful. Aroundhim, the room’s scent changed to a briny, balmy air replete with a hint of seaweed.A scent mage.
He sat with that for several minutes, fighting through the knowledge the sea smell was false. Then the tree around him shifted, and he found himself sitting at a fine dining table in a chamber fit for a king.Sight mage.
Mind just coming to terms with his incongruous setting, his shackles became snakes; cold and slithering, they wrapped tightly around his limbs.Touch mage.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Why did life throw the dumbest shit his way? Savoring—in some sick way—the blood in his mouth, he reminded himself he could handle this. Something would shift or change and carry him along to his next destination. Life was funny like that. All he needed to do was wait it out, avoid drawing unnecessary attention to himself, and get out. Easier said than done, since he had no idea where he was or who was holding him.
There were mindmages who could manipulate each sense—five types in total. He’d picked that up, and what other information was available, from the Institute, the military, and his brilliant friend, Kas. But Domos kept its secrets well. Rumor had it that a full group of five could melt a man’s brain, but he wasn’t sure he believed the veracity of those tales. While the need for caution wasn’t lost on him, a desire for answers drove him forward.
With his eyes closed to block out the confusing and changing scenery, he produced a thin stream of water and pushed it slowly toward the voices in the distance. His magic hit a solid surface, the ceiling, and he willed the liquid from his finger to his ear. It was far less discreet than holding his hand up, but then again, he’d already thrust a cord of water through the room around him. If anyone were currently looking, they’d see his magic.
“This is fucking insane, Mira,” a frustrated woman ranted, muffled through the water.
A second woman with a raspy voice replied with something inaudible.
