Chapter 7: Echoes of a Tragedy

Chapter 7: Echoes of a Tragedy

Confinement was a special kind of hell. Chase’s room in the spire was comfortable, a minimalist space of brushed steel and grey synth-fabric, with a window that offered a panoramic, mocking view of the two Camelots. There were no bars on the window, but he knew they were there. The real prison was etched onto his skin.

The Lex System glowed with a placid, neutral blue. After the drone had finished its repairs, it felt… heavier. More present. He could feel the ghost of Sir Kay's authority nested within its code, a digital Sword of Damocles hanging over his head. If you lose control again, I will be the one to switch you off.

He paced the length of the small room, a caged animal. He craved the burn of whiskey, the familiar haze that would sand down the sharp edges of his thoughts. But Regulation 14 was absolute. He was trapped in here with no distractions, no escape, nothing but the echoes of the battle and the ghosts they had stirred.

The creature’s whispers played on a loop in his mind. Killer. You ran.

And Kay’s final word, a venomous, parting shot. Ash.

Ash.

The word was a key, turning a lock deep inside him that he had spent five years trying to rust shut. He sank onto the edge of the bed, his head in his hands, the scar on his palm burning with a cold fire. He couldn't fight it anymore. The walls he had built around the memory were crumbling, eroded by the whispers of a shadow and the scorn of a knight. He closed his eyes and let the tide of the past pull him under.

---

The workshop didn’t smell of stale whiskey; it smelled of ozone, burning sage, and melted copper. It was his sanctuary, a chaotic mess of arcane diagrams, half-finished enchanting matrices, and scavenged magical components. It was where he felt most powerful, most himself. Sunlight, real Terran sunlight, streamed through the grimy windowpanes, illuminating dancing motes of dust. He was twenty-three, arrogant, and brilliant. He believed he could rewrite the source code of reality itself.

"Are you sure this is safe, Chas-ey?"

Lily’s voice was a bright, silver bell in the dusty air. She was perched on a tall stool, her legs kicking back and forth, her grey eyes—his eyes—wide with a mixture of awe and nervousness. At sixteen, she was all sharp angles and boundless curiosity, the only person in the world who looked at his volatile magic not with fear, but with unadulterated pride.

"Safe?" he had scoffed, a confident grin plastered on his face. He was drawing a complex stabilization rune on the floor with powdered silver. "Lil, this is beyond safe. This is revolutionary. The Collegium mages spend years learning to weave a single elemental thread. I'm going to braid them. Earth, air, fire, and water, all held in a perfect, harmonious state. A true elemental matrix. It'll be beautiful."

"It looks complicated," she said, craning her neck to see the intricate patterns.

"The best things are." He stood up, wiping silver dust on his jeans. "Ready for the show?"

She clapped her hands together, her smile a beacon. "Always."

That smile was his undoing. He wanted to show off for her. He wanted to prove to her, to the world, that he was more than just a magical prodigy with shoddy control. He was an artist. An architect of miracles.

He stepped into the center of the circle, closing his eyes and extending his hands. He reached for the Itch, the chaotic wellspring of power within him. But this time, he didn't let it run wild. He carefully drew four distinct threads of power from the well. He could feel them—the solid, grounding energy of earth; the light, swirling currents of air; the fluid, yielding coolness of water; and the hot, hungry crackle of fire.

He began to weave.

For a moment, it was perfect. A sphere of shimmering light materialized between his palms. Inside it, a miniature mountain of brown earth floated serenely. A tiny cyclone of air swirled around it, while a ribbon of pure water orbited the cyclone. At the very center, a tiny, contained star of fire burned brightly. It was a perfect microcosm, a world in his hands.

"Chase," Lily breathed, her voice filled with wonder. "It's… it's beautiful."

His chest swelled with pride. He pushed a little more power into it, wanting to make the colors brighter, the details sharper. He wanted to make it perfect for her. That was his mistake. He got greedy.

The thread of fire, always the most volatile, began to pulse erratically. He tried to rein it in, to strengthen the watery containment field around it, but he had woven the matrix too tightly. Pushing on one thread pulled on all the others. A tremor ran through the sphere.

"Chase?" Lily's voice was uncertain now. "Is it supposed to do that?"

"It's fine," he gritted out, sweat beading on his brow. "Just a little… feedback."

But it wasn't fine. The Itch, sensing his loss of control, began to surge. The carefully separated threads of power started to bleed into one another. The harmonizing runes on the floor began to glow an angry red. The air grew thick and hot.

He knew he should release it, let the spell collapse. It was the safe thing to do, the disciplined thing. But his pride, his damned, arrogant pride, wouldn't let him. He could fix this. He just needed more power.

He wrenched open the floodgates.

It was like trying to patch a leaking dam with a tidal wave. The raw, chaotic magic slammed into the delicate matrix. The sphere of light between his hands didn't just dissipate; it detonated.

The explosion of elemental force was instantaneous and absolute. It wasn't just fire or force; it was a wave of pure, uncreation. A torrent of raw magic stripped of all purpose and intent beyond dissolution. He felt an agonizing, searing pain as the out-of-control spellslag tore through his left palm, branding his failure into his flesh. The blast threw him back, slamming him into the far wall. His world dissolved into a cacophony of shattering glass, splintering wood, and a high-pitched scream of tearing reality.

When his vision cleared, the workshop was gone. The wall he was slumped against was the only one still standing. The rest was a smoking crater. And in the center of the room, where Lily’s stool had been… there was nothing. Nothing but a single, smoking black shoe and a pile of fine, grey ash that was already being scattered by the wind.

As he stared in numb horror, he felt something else. A residue. The magical energy left in the air wasn't clean. It wasn't the signature of fire, earth, air, or water. It was something else, something new. It was the energy of grief, of failure, of a soul-deep agony given violent, physical form. A primal, chaotic force born from his own tragic mistake.

---

Chase gasped, his eyes flying open. He was back in his room in the spire, his body trembling violently, drenched in a cold sweat. He was clutching his scarred left palm so tightly his knuckles were white. The memory was as fresh and raw as if it had happened five minutes ago.

But this time, something was different. After five years of reliving the horror, a new, chilling piece of the puzzle clicked into place.

The energy.

The residual magic he had felt in the workshop that day… the signature of raw grief and chaotic power that had turned his sister to ash…

It was the same energy he had felt radiating from the shadow creature in the ruins.

It wasn't just similar. It wasn't a resonance. It was identical. The same fundamental texture, the same malevolent frequency, the same soul-deep cold.

The creature hadn't just been whispering his regrets to him. It had been speaking its native tongue. The rot seeping from Old Camelot wasn't just some ancient, impersonal evil. It was a darkness that wore the face of his own sin. It was a contagion, and five years ago, in a dusty workshop, he had been Patient Zero.