The Mage

Chpt 8: Story

(Henry’s POV)

The chapel smells of wax and old stone. Lamp light falls in thin bars across the floor, making everything seem forgiving if you only let it. I sit on the cold bench and fold my hands because folded hands are easier to hide behind. They are the hands that signed the note, the hands that wrote the marginal H, the hands that learned to obey. For years, I told myself obedience was protection. For years, I told myself silence was a shield. I was wrong.

Dark magic isn't acquired in just one lesson. It's a slow decay, with a patient teacher waiting for grief and fear to do the work. I noticed the warnings in Magdalene’s margins and believed they were for others — people chasing power for vanity or cruelty. I didn't realize then that the greatest temptation is the one that promises to fix what’s broken. My father didn't seek control; he wanted a return. He longed for our mother back. He tried to undo the thing that hurt him most. Grief makes bargains feel like prayers.

The scrap I kept from Magdalene's book is a page I tore out, bearing the warning: Do not open, for you will not find power but a great end. It sits heavy in my mind like a stone. Her name is on that scrap — my sister's name. It is a name that anchors my soul, filled with deep regret. Our father bound her to that book in a blind rage, but he always kept his secrets far away. He made me keep a promise, asking me as a man asks a son to trust in a vow. He asked me as a man who believed he could bear the burden alone.

He lied by omission. He didn’t tell me what the cost would feel like. He didn’t tell me that a soul could be lost, gone before you even realize it. He didn’t tell me that the captor's memory frays at the edges — that the world begins to look like something seen through a lens. He didn’t tell me that the price might be more than just a single soul — that it could be a piece of yourself trapped, buried beneath darkness.

I remember the sound of his voice when it wasn't quite his, layered with something older and colder. I remember shadows that moved like living creatures, reaching out, taking, and leaving only ash behind. I remember the book on the floor, black and smoking, and the emptiness where my sister and father had been. The air smelled of iron and old promises. I remember kneeling, feeling the leather under my fingers, wanting to open it and throw it into the abyss right away.

He never came back. The darkness that took him ultimately consumed him. The funeral was small and somber; people spoke the right words and then left. After the candles flickered out and the last hymn faded, I started to hide. I buried the books where no one would find them — deep beneath stone and darkness, in a bricked-up corridor. I learned the staff's schedules and saw that the castle's basement stayed undisturbed — that's where I hid the secret. It became the silent guardian of a danger I had helped create.

Guilt is a patient thing. It takes root and settles deep in your bones. I nourished it with silence. I convinced myself I was protecting the kingdom. I told myself I was honoring his last wish to keep the knowledge from those who might misuse it. I lied to myself a thousand times because the truth was too heavy to bear.

I thought about my daughter, Serenity, and her innocent curiosity about Magdalene's work. I shuddered at the thought of what she might discover. My sweet Serenity wouldn't understand that darkness should not be tampered with. She trusts too easily, just like she trusts Peter. I wanted to tell her everything: the book, the sealed corridor, the scrap with Morgan's name — and then I tried to run. I wished I could tell her I had buried the secret because I loved my father and was afraid of him, that I had hidden the books because I believed secrecy would keep us safe, that I was a coward and a fool. Instead, I kept the past hidden to protect her.

There are still things I believe in. Magdalene’s prophecy speaks of a new era, a darkness to be unleashed, and a heroine to save us all. They do not promise forgiveness; they promise a price. I have learned to recognize the costs in names and in the small things that make a life recognizable. I have learned that some bargains cannot be undone without paying what they demand.

Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I still see him as he was before the books: laughing at a clumsy joke, teaching us to balance our magic with his soft, gentle voice, and smoothing my hair when I was small. Those memories are like light through a cracked window — broken but real. They are the reason I kept the secret for so long. I thought I was protecting those pieces of him, preserving the man I loved from the change he had become.

Protection is a selfish word when it conceals harm. I kept the books because I feared what might happen if they were discovered. I kept them because I feared my father’s shame, his ruin, and the fall of the family name. I kept them because I believed I could contain the damage, and I was afraid to make a different choice.

The corridor where the books rest is a place I visit like a penitent. The brick archway remains undisturbed; no one enters or leaves. Behind it, the air feels different — more extraordinary, older, as if the stone remembers things the living have forgotten. I go there at odd hours when the castle is quiet, and the lamps are dim. I run my fingers along the mortar and listen for the small sounds that mean the world is still whole: the distant hum of magic from the lamp light, the soft shuffling of the books as they wait for another reader.

I have a key that fits a hidden lock. It’s a small, ugly object, worn smooth by my hand. I keep it in a pocket I never show anyone. When I turn it, the bricks shift, revealing a narrow staircase yawning downward. The air smells of old paper and something else I can't name, the residue of spells never meant to be spoken aloud. I go down, standing among the boxes and bound volumes, thinking of my father's painful memory.

There are dozens of books down there. Some are small, leather-bound volumes with neat handwriting and careful seals. Others are thick and black, with covers scarred as if by teeth. I have cataloged them in a journal of my own — a private list I keep folded and hidden. I write the titles, the dates, and a single word next to each: greed, l**t, death, shadow. The act of writing is a small mercy. It is a way to make the chaos legible.

At night, I dream of pages turning on their own, of ink crawling like ants across vellum. I wake with the taste of ash in my mouth and the memory of a voice that is not my father’s but speaks in his cadence. Sometimes I wake and think I hear my sister laughing in the hallways, and for a moment, the world rights itself. Then the memory slips away, and I am left with the book, the key, and the knowledge that I am the one who chose to hide what should have been destroyed.

These books that surround me embed such painful memories deep within my skin. I wonder every day how these books came to be as I go down to that dread-filled basement. Dread stems from the fact that each book stored there has once taken a life, twisting its owner's mind until they become something they have forgotten. These books were not made for this world or for the faint of heart. Messing with them only brings more pain and suffering.

The key to the library — would it be wiser to throw it into the abyss? Maybe, but in a strange, messed-up way, its presence comforted me because I knew where it was and that I could control it. Seeing it also reminded me of the past, of my responsibility. I knew unburdening myself would be easier, but knowing I could check there now and then to make sure no books were taken gave me some relief.

My actions will probably lead to punishment, and sharing them with someone will make that worse. I cannot deny that it’s going to happen because the secret can't stay hidden forever. It needs to be concealed or erased so the books can vanish. I realize I will face harsh punishment, especially when I keep secrets from others. A leader who hides secrets and spreads lies isn't genuine leadership; it's manipulation. As much as I dislike hearing this, I have to accept the consequences for the future; I must end the fear of the prophecy once and for all.