Adon woke with a slow, dawning awareness that something fundamental, irrevocable, had shifted within the core of her being, like a river diverted from its course. The familiar gray morning light filtering through her window seemed unnaturally sharp, etching the edges of the opulent furniture with stark clarity. Outside, Fischholme, the largest port city in the known world, was stirring – the distant clang of shipyard hammers down by the River Maeve, the cries of gulls wheeling over waters soon to be choked with ships from across Lysandril and beyond, the low thrum of a global hub coming alive. But here, inside the quiet luxury of her chambers, the shadows pooling in the corners seemed deeper, richer, possessed of a texture she hadn't perceived before. They felt… welcoming, resonant, like a familiar cloak she hadn't realized she was missing. A fleeting fragment of a dream lingered – endless white bandages swirling in icy darkness, a cold, ancient voice whispering promises and demands inside her skull. Mine…

  She sat up, the fine, almost weightless Clestran silk sheets rustling around her, the sound surprisingly loud in the morning stillness. The air itself felt different, thinner, charged with a static hum only she could perceive. Instinctively, her eyes went to the inside of her right wrist. There it was – the faint, shadowy sigil, less a mark on her skin and more like a window through it into a deeper darkness. It seemed to absorb the light, barely visible against her pale elven skin, easily unnoticable. Yet, she could feel it as surely as her own heartbeat: a low, resonant hum of power poised just beneath the surface, dormant but undeniably present. It felt like holding a tightly leashed predator – sleek, silent, dangerous – its potential energy vibrating against her bones. It was a brand signifying ownership, a key to unlock power, a connection forged in a place beyond mortal understanding, linking her irrevocably to the entity known as the Bandaged One.

  Beside her bed, resting on the polished surface of the nightstand, lay the ring. A simple, elegant silver band, held a single, teardrop-shaped gem of deep, pulsating blue. It seemed to capture and hold the ambient light, swirling with internal storms like trapped clouds or a single drop of ocean eternally falling through crystal. A gift from her new Patron. A tool? A focus? Or perhaps just a leash. She hadn't yet found the courage, or perhaps the recklessness, to put it on. The memory of the absolute, soul-deep cold that accompanied the pact was still too fresh, a phantom ache in her bones. She left it by her bed, eager for some distance from it.

  Later that morning, bathed and dressed in the fine but practical attire befitting the daughter of a merchant baron – a deep blue tunic over dark riding trousers – she descended the grand staircase. The familiar routine of the manor felt subtly altered, viewed now through the lens of her secret knowledge. The portraits lining the gallery wall, depicting stern-faced Resha ancestors and one achingly absent brother, seemed to watch her with different eyes. She saw Elf Montray in the main hall, overseeing the arrangement of fresh flowers – vibrant Eulatrian lilies – delivered from the market. Clad in his immaculate black butler’s uniform, he moved with the quiet, precise efficiency that characterized his decades of service. His bronze scales, usually catching the light with a warm metallic sheen, seemed duller today, absorbing the light rather than reflecting it. Or perhaps that was just her perception changing along with everything else.

  He turned as she approached, his posture perfect, his expression impeccably composed. "Good morning, Lady Adon," he rumbled, his deep voice the familiar, tone that had been a constant in the house for years. It held the usual deference, but was there an edge to it? “Cook has prepared the spiced river-fish you favor, using the last of the Veil pepper shipment. Will you be taking breakfast in the small dining room?"

  "Yes, Elf," Adon replied, her voice steady, carefully neutral. She met his gaze directly, searching those reptilian yellow eyes for any sign, any acknowledgment of the profound events that had transpired beneath this very house. Was that a flicker of something deeper, a shared, dangerous understanding beneath the placid surface of perfect servitude? Or was it merely the play of light on scaled lids? If there was recognition, it was flawlessly masked. He simply inclined his head, a gesture of polite compliance.

  "Very good, My Lady. I have also laid out the morning dispatches. A packet arrived late last night from our agent in Dross," he added, his tone matter-of-fact as he adjusted a lily in its vase. "Standard reports on Thureman shipping movements across the bay. Their patrols remain active, seemingly searching for specific contraband near the usual smuggling routes." He straightened. "I shall inform Cook you are ready." He turned, moving silently towards the kitchens, leaving Adon to ponder the mention of Dross, the Thureman Empire's capital built on slavery and ruthlessness. It sat smugly across the wide bay that separated the two capital cities of two nations uneasy with one another. Was Elf subtly reminding her of the kind of world she operated in, the kind of power needed to survive against such neighbors? Or merely reporting the news? With Elf, the line between butler and handler had rapidly blurred.

  The training began that evening, in the damp, echoing depths of the manor’s oldest wine cellar. The air hung cold and still, thick with the scent of damp earth, aging wood casks bound in verdigrised metal, spiderwebs thick as burial shrouds, and the ghosts of spilled vintages from generations past. Far from the bustle of the household, far from listening ears, it was a place steeped in shadow and silence. Elf dismissed the cellar staff early, citing a meticulous inventory of the dwindling reserves that required absolute privacy. Lit only by the single hooded lantern he carried, its yellow light casting long, dancing shadows that made the racks of dusty bottles look like rows of waiting coffins, the space felt both claustrophobic and vast.

  Here, surrounded by stone and shadow, some of the butler’s rigid formality dissolved, replaced by the aura of something more dangerous. Even with his perfect butler posture, somehow he stood straighter, his imposing Dragonborn physique seeming more pronounced, less constrained by the tailored uniform. "The power granted by the Master," Elf began, his low voice vibrating in the stillness, "is not a hammer to shatter stone, Lady Adon. Not yet, at least. It is the creeping vine that cracks the foundation unseen. It is influence. It is shadow. It is the subtle manipulation of perception and fear. It stems from the hidden currents, the potential that exists between heartbeats, between truths and lies. It answers not to brute strength or shouted commands, but to will. Your will, honed sharp as your dirk, and directed with precise, unwavering intent. It will manifest in each of us in different ways as per the Master's desires. That said, one of the most basic uses of his power is to channel it into a magic beam of destructive power.

  "Stand near the center of the room, close your eyes, breathe the cold air, and reach inward for the connection." Adon obeyed, stepping to the center while forcing herself into a state of calm focus that felt alien when juxtaposed with the wild, cold energy within her. She reached for it, tentatively at first, then with more assertion. It was there, a vast, frigid ocean beneath a thin sheet of ice. She tried to draw upon it, not with force this time, but with careful intent, following Elf's guidance. She visualized a simple thread of that cold energy, drawing it down her arm, focusing it through her outstretched palm, willing it to coalesce into something tangible – a wisp of shadow, a flicker of dark energy.

  She felt the power respond, a trickle of icy awareness flowing towards her hand. It felt like static electricity building, making the fine hairs on her arm stand on end. The air around her fingers seemed to thin, to waver, the shadows nearby deepening almost imperceptibly. She concentrated, pouring her will into shaping that nascent manifestation. Form. Strike.

  Fzzt. A tiny, audible crackle, like a single spark leaping a gap. A brief, dislocated ripple in the air before her hand, a momentary deepening of the shadow on the pillar opposite, so faint it might have been imagined. And then… gone. The power subsided, retreating back into its reservoir, leaving only a lingering coldness in her hand and a sharp smell in the air like during a thunderstorm. She tried again, focusing differently, trying to persuade the energy rather than command it. The result was the same: a fleeting, almost nonexistent effect, a sense of near-contact followed by failure. It was like trying to grasp smoke.

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  "It resists direct manifestation," Elf observed calmly, his head tilted slightly. "Perhaps its nature, or your current understanding of it, favors subtlety. This is not the fire magic of wizards, eager to erupt, nor the structured light of clerics, given form by faith. This is old magic, pact magic. It may require… resonance. A proper vessel or conduit." He paused, his gaze thoughtful. "Or perhaps the Master requires you to prove your grasp of nuance before granting access to cruder expressions of power. Focus on what you can perceive. The way the shadows deepen around you when you reach for it. The heightened awareness it grants you, even now. Understand the foundation before attempting to build the tower."

  Adon lowered her hand, frustration a bitter taste. She was Adon Resha, the Specter of the Docks, accustomed to tangible results from quick blades and quicker wits. This elusive, internal power felt foreign, frustrating. Yet, the potential she sensed within it was intoxicating. "So I have this power, but I cannot wield it?"

  "You wield its passive aspects even now," Elf corrected. "Your senses are sharper in darkness. Shadows cling to you more readily. Fear may falter before your gaze when you truly channel your will. And," his gaze flickered meaningfully to her bare fingers, "you possess the gift. Have you explored the ring’s properties yet?”

  Adon's mind went to the sapphire ring sitting on her nightstand. She hadn't wanted to put it on yet, unsure of the effect it would have on her. "I'll go get it as soon as we're done," she snapped. "I want to try again." Adon pushed past the memory of previous failure, forcing herself into a state of calm. She reached for the power, that vast, frigid ocean. She felt it respond, a trickle of icy awareness flowing towards her hand, more readily this time, perhaps sensing her changed approach. She didn't try to force it into a beam; instead, she visualized a simple tendril of shadow, like ink dropped in water, extending from her fingertips towards the pillar.

  She felt the power surge, the cold ache in her hand, the vibration in the air. The shadows near her hand deepened, writhed, seemed to flow outwards… and then dissipated, collapsing back into potentiality before extending more than a few inches. It was closer, a more tangible nearness to manifestation, but still fundamentally uncontrolled. She tried again, focusing on a feeling of quiet command rather than forceful demand. Again, the shadows stirred, thickened, reached… and faded.

  "Closer," Elf observed, his voice neutral. "You begin to understand its nature. It is not eager, like fire, nor easily shaped, like clay. It is patient. It responds to subtlety, to alignment with its inherent qualities of shadow and deception. Continue to practice sensing it, guiding it gently. Mastery is a long path."

  Adon suppressed a sigh of frustration. This Warlock power felt like wrestling fog, while her Rogue skills were sharp, reliable steel. But the potential she felt humming within her, the sheer scale of it, kept her focused. This power, once mastered, would dwarf anything her blades could achieve.

  Discouraged by her lack of progress with direct evocation, but spurred by Elf’s reminder, Adon retreated to her chambers after training. The ring lay on her nightstand, the blue gem pulsing with its soft, internal light. It looked like a drop of dark sky trapped within crystal. She picked it up. The silver band was cool, but the gem itself radiated a distinct, noticeable warmth. Hesitantly, she slid it onto her finger. The ring settled on her hand, its warmth spreading, feeling strangely comforting against the background chill of the Warlock pact’s energy. It felt… alive. Connected.

  She needed to test it, to understand it’s powers. She pressed her thoughts into it, hoping for a clue. As she peered into the depths of it’s deep blue facets an impression formed inside her. Manipulation. Control. It was feint but definitely there. This alignment resonated with Adon’s persona and purpose, but what powers did it actually hold? Did it heighten her abilities of persuasion and deceit or was is more? An idea sparked. She rang the small bell for a night servant, ostensibly for a glass of water. A young footman entered nervously, avoiding her gaze. As he poured the water, Adon lifted her hand and touched the gem lightly as if playing with the ring. The footman finished pouring but then his eyes were drawn to the sapphire. His face grew slightly slack as he stared at it. Adon didn't try to channel the Warlock power, but instead spoke a simple idea, laced with desire: *It would be helpful if you checked the doorway for drafts before leaving.* Then she lowered her hand and tucked it under the covers.

  At it's disappearance the footman shook his head as if shaking off tendrils of sleep, then turned towards the door. He paused, brow furrowed slightly, then meticulously began checking the edges of the doorframe, running a hand along the floor near the threshold. "Just ensuring there are no drafts tonight, My Lady," he murmured, his voice slightly flat, his eyes unfocused. "Wouldn't want you to catch a chill." He spent a good minute on the task before finally seeming satisfied, bowing awkwardly, and departing.

  Adon stared after him, a slow, calculating smile spreading across her face. It worked. Not mind control, not overt compulsion, but a subtle nudge, an implanted suggestion that the target accepted as their own reasonable thought. She touched the gem again, feeling its faint warmth. Another tool. Another way to ensure her will was done. She would need to experiment further, discover its limits, its nuances.

  The potential applications… staggering. Influencing negotiations, planting doubts, ensuring loyalty, extracting information… It was a weapon perfectly suited to her needs, far more elegant than a failed beam of raw power. She needed to learn its range, its limitations, how many people she could affect, how complex the suggestions could be. The Bandaged One gave tools suited to his servants.

  She snuggled deeper into the soft Clestran silk covers. The sapphire ring’s lingering warmth felt oddly comforting against her skin, the pact’s chill now distant. The successful test with the footman echoed—the ease of influence, the staggering potential. Satisfaction warmed her. The experiment was done for tonight; time to rest. She idly considered taking the ring off, returning it to the nightstand. Her fingers twitched beneath the covers, readying to remove the jewelry.

  But the intention faltered. It was less a conscious decision than an abrupt silencing of the thought itself. Cold certainty washed over her, an internal nudge away from the idea, subtle yet absolute. Alien.

  Adon paused, frowning in the darkness. Strange. She focused her will, picturing the ring, forming the thought: Take off the ring.

  This time, the resistance was undeniable. Not a physical inability, but a profound wrongness from the connection between the ring and the cold sigil on her wrist. It felt like pushing against an invisible, unyielding barrier around her intent. The ring’s warmth felt less comforting, more possessive—a brand claiming ownership. The pact was not just potential power; it was a bond, a two-way conduit that resisted being casually set aside.

  The unease coalesced, sharp and terrifying. Leashed. A fine, cold chain, invisible but real, ran from the sapphire, through the shadowy mark on her wrist, anchoring deep within her will, held by an unseen, ancient master. The control she had wielded over the footman felt like mockery, borrowed power used only at the sufferance of the entity holding her reins.

  Tightness seized her chest, stealing air. Her breath hitched. The familiar shadows of her luxurious room seemed deeper, menacing, pressing in. The realization crashed down—the true price wasn't future service or potential danger, but this fundamental loss of autonomy, this violation of self. The Bandaged One could ask anything of her and she would have to obey.

  "What have I done?" The words escaped as a ragged gasp. Panic, cold and overwhelming, seized her. No, not now. Can't panic. Be strong. But the litany offered no defense. Her control, her ruthless pride, evaporated before the weight of her irreversible choice. Hot tears sprang to her eyes, blurring the opulent room into meaningless shapes. Her throat tightened, choking off breath, swallowing sounds.

  She hadn't felt this raw, this powerless, in years—not since those first months after adoption by the Resha’s. A child from the streets overwhelmed by unfamiliar spaces and unspoken grief. Being a homeless young elf was terrifying, but strength was necessary to survive. Moving to the safety of the ancestral Resha home gave her little heart space to breath and process. With it came moments of panic, processing her former suffering and vulnerability. Those panic attacks had been regular torment then, a shame, a frustration, one of the first challenges for her new parents. Now, the beast she thought dormant clawed back with terrifying force. Sobs wracked her small frame, raw, broken sounds muffled only when she buried her face deep into the pillow, as she had done years ago. Clinging to the silk that represented the life she’d fought and killed for, Adon Resha cried herself into an exhausted, uneasy sleep.