"I know you said I could help, so I was ready to follow you into the dungeon while you searched for materials… or whatever it is you collect," Lux said, her eyes, sharp and steady, fixed on Agnellus. He sat across from her at the rough-hewn wooden table, his arms folded, his face tilted towards the dying light filtering through the apothecary's window. The setting sun caught the pale skin of his closed eyelids, casting an almost angelic, warm glow across his metallic bronze features, a stark contrast to the darkness that seemed to cling to him.
A steaming plate of mutton stew and a generous hunk of crusty bread sat between them, the humble meal a temporary truce in the simmering tension. They'd returned from the dungeon not long ago, and conversation had since drifted from the mundane into far sharper, more probing territory.
"But you didn't look like you needed help out there," she added, her voice dropping to a low, challenging murmur.
Earlier, Lux had asked, her question blunt and direct: "Why did the Baron send you to me? You were the only one who saw my face, the only one with any reason or motive to meddle in my path, to steer you towards me."
Agnellus hadn't answered directly. He'd only offered a subtle, knowing smile, as if the question itself were a delightful riddle with a punchline he wasn't yet ready to share. Instead, he'd countered with his own:
"You can manipulate mana, Lux. You're qualified to be a truly fine mage, perhaps even a formidable one, given time and training. But you can't cast any spells. Is that… a result of trauma? A blockage, perhaps, from something you'd rather forget?"
Now, it was Lux's turn to be steeped in silence. A deep frown tugged at her mouth, the memory of her frustrated attempts at spellcasting, and the underlying pain, resurfacing.
Rumi, sensing the shift in atmosphere, had quietly slipped out to buy more supplies, leaving them largely alone. Only Bernie remained nearby, her ancient, woody presence a silent anchor, quietly shuffling herbs in a corner, their dry rustle the only sound besides their breathing.
Agnellus shrugged casually, his movements fluid and unnervingly relaxed. "Anyway. Whether by design or circumstance, I'll teach you some spells. You've already got mana perception down—you can feel the world's energy. What's left is simple mechanics: focus and precise hand gestures. Spells are just instructions, after all. Instructions that, when executed correctly, subtly alter or shape the world. Straightforward, no?"
As he spoke, his half-eaten plate of stew, seemingly of its own volition, rose smoothly off the table. It hovered in the air directly in front of him, followed by a spoon that floated up, scooping stew with eerie precision and delivering it to his lips. There was no visible effort, no strained muscles.
Lux gasped, wide-eyed, her jaw dropping slightly. "How did you do that?! I didn't sense any mana distortion, no ripple in the air, no shift in energy!"
He swallowed the stew, a faint smile playing on his lips as he opened his dark, fathomless eyes, meeting her stunned gaze. "Haha. That's because it wasn't mana I used, Dragonling."
Bernie, the ancient tree spirit, sighed heavily from her corner, a sound like wind rustling through old leaves. She finally spoke up, her voice a deep, resonant rumble that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards. "Open your eyes, girl. What's the point of the ability I gave you if you're not using it?"
"Huh?" Lux blinked, confused, then narrowed her eyes at Bernie. It had taken her ages to learn how to control the specific eyes that let her see spirits—a gift from Bernie herself, given some months ago—and lately, she'd stopped using them altogether, finding them more distracting than helpful in her mundane life.
"Haha, my trick's been exposed," Agnellus said with a sheepish, yet utterly unrepentant, laugh, his one hand waving dismissively at Bernie.
Lux, still bewildered but intrigued, took Bernie's cryptic advice. She concentrated, allowing her spirit-sight to unfurl, pulling back the veil that separated the mundane from the ethereal. As the world shimmered, transforming with a subtle, unearthly glow, it all clicked into place with horrifying clarity.
No wonder Rumi was always tense around him, her elven senses likely screaming warnings. No wonder Bernie, ever the cautious elder, kept her distance and observed from the periphery.
Before Lux could even form the deluge of questions that threatened to burst from her, Agnellus continued, his voice softer, yet more chilling for its casualness.
"I told you I made a deal with a demon. A pact, if you will. What I gained was one-tenth of his power. A tithe," he clarified, the word resonating with a sinister weight. "That includes foresight… the ability to glimpse fragments of past and future, shattered reflections of time—but always at a cost, of course." He stirred his stew lazily, the spoon still floating, as if he hadn't just dropped a divine bombshell that rattled the very foundations of her understanding of magic. "It's how I found you, how I knew you were the one I needed. As for my most misunderstood ability? It's not telepathy like they think, not some paltry trick of the mind."
He leaned back, his smile cool and distant, his black eyes holding ancient, terrible secrets.
"I was given command of ten percent of the force beneath him." He paused for effect, letting the words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating. "Roughly thirteen thousand demons. At my disposal, should I choose to call."
The air in the apothecary chilled, not from a draft, but from the sudden, visceral horror of his revelation. The mundane warmth of the stew faded.
Lux's eyes flicked to his right side, to the empty sleeve, the void where his arm should have been. He looked like he needed help—his body worn, his strength seemingly diminished. But the truth slammed into her with brutal, undeniable clarity, reshaping everything she thought she knew about him.
He didn't need a hand.
He had thirteen thousand.