CW: Depictions of violence

Nothing mattered in a place like this. Her life was scheduled. Sterile. Monotonous. Even the screams from down the hall were expected and habitual at this point. It was only a matter of time where she would be one of those banshees that haunted the halls of the magician's asylum of the Southern Isles. But even then, there was a routine involved.

The nurses and doctors and researchers were nice to her, with their plastered smiles and gentle words. She smelled their fear regardless. Maybe it's because they knew exactly what she could do, or maybe it's because of what she'll end up being. Or maybe it was because they'd seen this story countless times before and didn't want to have to see another failure, no matter how much they medicated and counseled and treated their charges.

They still called her by her name, even though the stack of papers that they had in front of them only had numbers to identify her. Dorit Szaera - Patient #408. A direct descendant of the same Clara Szaera who wrote "Magic and Humanity: A Comprehensive Guide." Dorit was a researcher herself before having to admit herself as a patient into the institution a year ago.

Perhaps she was still a researcher, in a way. She was giving them first-hand accounts of her experiences to her colleagues. Former colleagues. One year. One year since she realized her hopes to reverse the madness were fruitless. Twenty years old, and her life was already over.

There were days where she related more to Patient #408 than Dorit. Like today.

She sighed and leaned into her chaise that looked out the window to her apartment — cell — that overlooked the landscape. The only window allowed to a resident.

The sun was rising over the wheat field that supplied the institution's grain for the patients, the gold stalks waving in the breeze, the barely there dawn-light glowing over their seeding tops, the young beams catching on her vanity mirror, giving her room a small bath of yellow. It was during this relative quiet where the screaming and ordered chaos was nearly nonexistent, as if the inhabitants of the building still revered the changing of night into dawn, into day; the madness that cloaked the atmosphere of the place, drawing away to give stillness center stage.

Or more likely, the magic could sense when one of its children was roaming free from this dismal place at this hour.

Right on cue, the figure of a man emerged from the forest surrounding the wheat field, crossbow strapped to his back, auburn hair dancing along with the grain stalks. There was blood on his arms and there were similar smudges along his chin and cheeks, along his clothes. For however many months, she'd seen the mysterious man. His gait and his equipment suggested that he was a hunter. Or a murderer.

Whichever the case, he was special.

The man's face swept over the field, the building, the sky. He outstretched his arms as if giving the heavens an invitation. His expression was neutral, but Patient #408 could see the aura of sadness that clung to him, a cloak that she knew would smell of storms and ocean and mildew. And she knew he would come here for a moment's respite from that shroud.

She waved her hand, coaxing the surrounding aura to move.

The sadness was stubborn. Much more stubborn than normal, which was troubling; but after extra finesse, she grabbed hold of it, reining it away from him with one of her magical leashes. The aura immediately sought its progenitor, the emotion naturally drawn to the man like a magnet. Normally in this case, she would let it go, knowing that ripping emotions from someone that needed them was doing more harm than good.

Except for this man. This man was special.

The heavy quilt of sorrow had gone with her help. The man more-or-less lit up Dorit's magical senses. He was a prism of many emotions that bubbled underneath, a swirling tapestry of color like the streams of paint leaving an artist's brush in a jar of water before it all muddied into one palette of grey, the prism of emotion fading into mere transparency.

It was only then when he lowered his arms back to his sides, small sparks and motes of light trailing around him.

He brought his hands together, and suddenly his soiled and bloodied clothes and crossbow were gone, replaced with pristine clothes fit for royalty. More trails of light followed his hands as he raised them up, conjuring a faceless but equally well-dressed woman in his arms, their hands poised for a waltz. A flash of light, and the wheat fields were gone, the floor to a ballroom in its place, and a large gathering of fancily dressed party-goers filled the stage.

He moved with practiced grace that Dorit knew was not a part of his magic, dancing with the illusion-woman in his arms. The colorful mirage of dancers circled around him, all swaying and spinning to music that wasn't there. He let go of his dance partner and swapped to another woman as the rest of the dancers shuffled in time and tempo to dance with someone else. Another turn of the waltzers and the man halted in his steps, everyone around him pausing as well as if he interrupted them.

A sword manifested in his hands, and his dance partner backed away.

Dorit held her breath. This was... different.

He struck.

His sword slashed into the abdomen of his dance partner, bright red blossoming from her core, and he turned to strike at the others nearest to him. The imaginary ballroom guests all scattered, scrambling to get away from him. He felled a few more before all the party-goers that could get away disappeared from the scene. Surrounded by bodies, he looked around himself, his sword covered in scarlet. A man, an apparition that looked just like him, faded into existence next to him. The apparition said something. The man responded.

He swung his sword again and lopped off the head of his doppelgänger; the apparition crumpling to the floor like a marionette having its strings cut.

Dorit exhaled a shaky breath, having seen enough. She let go of his sadness; the aura rocketing back to its owner, melding with his other emotions again.

Sorrow clinging to him once again, a little bird of fire alighted and landed before the man, another conjured image. He knelt down, offering it a finger to hop onto, and the miniature phoenix obliged.

His aura brightened. The light and sweet tang of happiness peeked through his sorrow, fresh and delicate. The ballroom of his carnage dissolved into the reality of the wheat field, his clothes back to what he wore when he first appeared, his sword gone and the crossbow on his back. The bird faded away like a phantasm of smoke.

A mosaic of shapes and colors and light danced around him, playful and chaotic like a swarm of fairies. The stalks of wheat all glowed and glittered in all the wrong shades and hues that belonged to another world. Light faceted the nearby trees like gems and crystal glass. The mirror at the vanity in her room flashed an intense light as strong as lightning in the dark sky, quick and sudden.

Dorit caught a brief whiff of panic before the man pulled out a knife and cut into his forearm. The happiness was gone and hatred took its place, and in an instant the otherworldly phenomenon around him stopped. He stared at his wound, knife still in hand. There was no emotion stirring within him.

The sun crept higher into the sky, the full awakening of the world creeping into the bones of the world's living creatures. Right on schedule, like everything else in Dorit's life in the asylum, the man disappeared into the woods, likely to continue hiding his powers like all other magicians have done before they get exposed.

His shameless display of his powers was unlike anything she'd ever seen before.

Inspiring. Beautiful.

Chaotic. Twisted.

Such was the duality of magic.

This man was special. He could evoke both sides of it so easily at the same time.

It was awful.