The Mage

Evil in our lives is always present; temptation to sin will always be brought before us. But what we do despite this determines the way forward. God shall lead us with grace and mercy, even if we walk in the depths of darkness and despair. “But God, who is rich in mercy, because of the great love he had for us, even when we were dead in our transgressions, brought us to life with Christ (by grace you have been saved).” - Ephesians 2:4-5 (Morgan’s POV) Darkness isn't just the absence of light; it's a presence that presses in and shapes you. It knows your breath's rhythm and the small lies of your hands. In the dark where I live now, fragments of the life I once had drift like ash. They come unbidden, and every time I reach for one, it burns. I remember Father's voice as if it were a nightmare, always turning toward what he wanted. I recall how he praised my brother, Henry, as if every small success of his proved that the world still made sense. Henry's smile came easily to him; mine did not. I learned early that my worth was judged by how little I disturbed the order he preferred. I tried to please him. I practiced my posture until my shoulders ached, rehearsed speeches until my throat was raw, danced until my feet bled. His words were like a drumbeat: "You are not trying hard enough. Do it again." I did it again and again. The repetition drained me until I couldn't tell where I ended and the expectation began. There is a night that still haunts me. The castle was restless; corridors whispered as if people were told to keep their mouths shut. Lanterns cast long, accusing shadows. I ran because running felt like the only honest thing left. Father's footsteps followed — not shouting, not begging, only the steady, inevitable sound of someone who has decided the world will end. I entered the library because it was the only place that smelled like other people's thoughts. Shelves stood like walls; the air tasted of ink, dust, and a small, stubborn hope that words could hold things together. I pressed myself against the far wall and thought for a moment that I might slip through the cracks and be somewhere else. He found me there. His eyes weren't his own; they were black, calm, and filled with a triumph that didn't belong to him. He didn’t raise a weapon and didn’t need to. The air thickened around his hands, and shadows seeped from his fingertips like smoke. Symbols appeared in the air, runes that pulsed with a rhythm matching my heartbeat. "You were never enough," he said, but the voice was layered, with my father's tone wrapped around something older and colder. The words were less an accusation and more a verdict. The spell tightened. Shadow etched itself into the floor and wrapped around me. I tried to scream, but the dark swallowed the sound. The shadows wrapped around my wrists and ankles; they felt cold and burning at the same time. I felt myself split, threads of me pulled loose and woven into something that wasn’t me. I remember Henry in the doorway, small and still, his hands folded as if in prayer. He did not move. Later, I would learn why: Father had taught him that silence could be protection, that obedience could be mercy. Father confined me in a vessel, a void of a book. Sometimes, I could hear it shuffle, the pages scraping against a hardwood surface. I also listened to the occasional lifting of a nearby book and the sound of flipping pages. The way a page wobbled as it turned, creating sound waves. The crisp, hard thunk of closing a good book signaled its end. Other volumes are handled; mine is left untouched. That tells me two things: someone knows better than to touch it, and someone close to the castle keeps my silence as if it were a favor. Fragments of whispers drift through this darkness, words from a ghostly presence I didn’t understand at first. I don't know whether those words were meant for me or for what I have become. I only know they coil around me like a second skin, causing my mind to slip away from reality and pounding at my ears in a way that begs me to scream. I could not; I could only feel my soul being slowly consumed. I have felt that price in the slow erosion of myself. I do not know what I will become if the book is opened. The void reshapes me, filling me with a hunger that is not mine and a coldness that is. Each day, I lose more of the girl who laughed in the gardens and loved the smell of our kingdom's air. What remains is something sharpened by pain and bound by a curse older than memory. There is a memory that still haunts my mind, clearer than the rest: Henry's face as he watched. He didn't stop Father. He didn't speak. He learned to look away because Father taught him that keeping the secret would protect us, that silence could serve as a shield. Father was a master at turning loyalty into obedience; he made Henry believe that hiding the truth was a form of mercy. Henry carried that silence like a stone in his chest, holding onto it because he loved us and was afraid of what the truth might do to the family; he wanted to stay whole. The book should stay closed. Maybe the world is safer with me hidden away. If someone opens these pages, they won't find the daughter my father scolded. They won't see the sister Henry loved. They'll uncover something else — a creature born of darkness and memory, a beast that knows how to hunger. When that day arrives, when the seal breaks, when the pages are opened, and when the binding is undone, I don't know if I'll be able to stop what I have become. I don't know if anyone will.