Shadows of the Eclipsion

Days blurred into nights in the camp, though the Eclipsion made it impossible to tell the difference. Time was measured in pain, in the crack of whips, and the screams of those who could no longer endure. Elyra's days were spent in backbreaking labor, hauling heavy stones and digging trenches under the watchful eyes of the guards. Her nights were spent in the cold, damp cell, huddled beside Lira, who had become a fragile beacon of hope in the darkness.

But hope was a dangerous thing in a place like this.

Elyra's magic, once a faint and unreliable spark, had become a volatile force. The Shadow Hunters had discovered her potential early on, and they wasted no time in exploiting it. She was dragged from her cell one night, her body still aching from the day's labor, and taken to a large, circular chamber deep within the camp. The air was thick with the scent of blood and burnt magic, and the walls were lined with strange, glowing runes that pulsed with a malevolent energy.

In the center of the room stood a man—tall, gaunt, and clad in robes as black as the void above. His face was obscured by a mask carved to resemble a twisted, screaming face, and his hands were adorned with rings that glowed faintly with stolen magic. He turned to Elyra as she was forced to her knees, his voice a low, guttural rasp.

"You are special," he said, his masked face tilting as if studying her. "Your magic… it is raw, untamed. Perfect for our purposes."

Elyra's heart pounded as two guards forced her arms into iron restraints bolted to the floor. She struggled, but their grip was unyielding. "What are you going to do to me?" she demanded, her voice trembling despite her efforts to sound brave.

The man in the mask didn't answer. Instead, he raised a hand, and the runes on the walls flared to life. Elyra felt a searing pain in her chest, as if something was being ripped from her very soul. She screamed, her body convulsing as her magic was forcibly drawn out of her. It manifested as a swirling, chaotic storm of light and shadow, swirling around the room before being absorbed into the runes.

When the pain finally subsided, Elyra collapsed, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The man in the mask stepped closer, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "You see? Your magic is a gift. One that we will use to fuel our conquest."

Elyra glared up at him, her vision blurred with tears. "I'll never… help you," she spat.

The man chuckled, a sound that sent a chill down her spine. "You already are."

---

The sessions in the chamber became a regular occurrence. Each time, Elyra's magic was torn from her, leaving her weaker and more broken than before. But it wasn't just her body that was suffering—it was her mind. The more her magic was used, the more she began to hear them: the whispers.

At first, they were faint, barely audible over the sounds of the camp. But as the days passed, they grew louder, more insistent. They spoke of anger, of revenge, of power. They urged her to fight back, to unleash the full extent of her magic and destroy everything in her path. Elyra tried to ignore them, but they were always there, lurking in the corners of her mind.

One night, as she lay in her cell, the whispers became unbearable. She pressed her hands to her ears, but it did nothing to block them out. Lira stirred beside her, her small face creased with worry.

"Elyra?" the girl whispered. "Are you okay?"

Elyra forced a smile, though her hands were trembling. "I'm fine," she lied. "Go back to sleep."

But sleep was impossible. The whispers grew louder, more demanding, until they were all she could hear. She felt something shift within her, a dark, primal force that threatened to consume her. She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms as she fought to keep it at bay.

---

The next day, during a work detail, Elyra's control finally snapped.

A guard had been particularly cruel, striking Lira with the butt of his whip when the girl stumbled under the weight of the stones she was carrying. Elyra saw red. The whispers roared in her ears, and before she could stop herself, she lashed out.

Her magic erupted in a burst of raw energy, slamming into the guard and sending him flying. The other slaves froze, their eyes wide with fear and awe. The guards shouted, raising their weapons, but Elyra was beyond reason. She turned on them, her magic swirling around her like a storm. The whispers were deafening now, urging her to destroy, to kill.

But then she saw Lira's face—the girl was terrified, not of the guards, but of her. The sight was like a bucket of cold water, snapping Elyra back to reality. She stumbled back, her magic dissipating as the guards closed in.

Kael, who had been working nearby, stepped forward, his voice low and urgent. "Elyra, stop! You'll get yourself killed!"

The guards seized her, their hands rough as they dragged her away. Elyra didn't resist. She was too exhausted, too broken. As they threw her into a solitary confinement cell, the whispers faded, leaving only silence.

But the damage was done. The other slaves now looked at her with fear, and even Kael kept his distance. Elyra curled up on the cold floor, her body shaking with sobs. The whispers were gone, but the darkness they had left behind remained.

She was losing herself, piece by piece. And she didn't know how much longer she could hold on.