Chapter 10: The trial
Ava stood in front of the heavy stone doors leading into the secured chamber of the Department of Mysteries. Their surface was smooth and gleamed faintly under the dim magical light, runes etched into the stone glowing a faint silver-blue. Two Unspeakables flanked the entrance, their expressions unreadable beneath hooded robes.
"Professor Blackthorn," one of them intoned. "The warded chamber is ready for you. The artifact… is waiting."
Ava inclined her head, her expression schooled into calm focus. "Understood."
Her heart, however, was not as calm. It beat steadily, heavily against her ribs as if her body understood the danger before her mind fully did. The walk to the Department of Mysteries had been surreal—labyrinthine halls twisted in impossible ways, whispers echoing faintly through the walls. The Unspeakables moved like shadows, silent and efficient, their presence both reassuring and unnerving.
But nothing compared to the moment the doors slowly creaked open, and Ava stepped into the chamber.
The room was vast and circular, its walls lined with shimmering wards that pulsed faintly like a heartbeat. At the center of the room sat the Aetherial Prism, suspended in a hovering stasis above an intricately carved pedestal. It was smaller than Ava had expected—roughly the size of a large apple—but its surface was crystalline and fractured, as though it might shatter at any moment.
And it glowed.
A soft, unnatural light emanated from its core, pulsing in time with Ava's own heartbeat. The sound of her boots echoing on the stone floor was drowned out by a faint hum—a sound that seemed to vibrate in her very bones.
Ava stopped several paces away, her breath caught in her chest. The Prism felt alive, its presence pressing into the edges of her consciousness. It tugged at her—not physically, but deeper, pulling at something primal within her, something tied to blood and history.
"Is the containment stable?" Ava asked, her voice cutting through the hum.
An Unspeakable standing at the ward perimeter nodded. "For now. But the Prism has grown volatile. It reacts to magic near it, amplifying it. The containment wards are straining."
Ava exhaled slowly, rolling her shoulders to steady herself. "Then we shouldn't waste any more time."
Ava knelt beside the pedestal, pulling parchment, ink, and her wand from her satchel. She placed an array of runestones on the floor, forming a careful alchemical circle. The Prism seemed to watch her as she worked, its glow brightening faintly whenever she drew close.
Focus, Ava reminded herself, shaking off the chill crawling up her spine.
She whispered an incantation under her breath, tapping her wand against the edge of the circle. The runes flared to life, silvery light spiraling up and encasing the Prism in a faint shimmer. Ava began to chant softly in rhythmic Latin, her voice calm but deliberate.
As the first stabilizing spells wove into the artifact, the hum in the room deepened. The Prism's glow intensified, pulsing brighter, sharper. A faint pressure built in the back of Ava's skull, like invisible fingers pressing against her mind.
Visions flickered at the edges of her perception—blurred faces, echoing voices. Blood calls to blood…
Ava blinked hard, her pulse quickening. "No," she murmured under her breath, forcing the voices back. "Not now."
She focused on the runes, pouring magic steadily into the alchemical patterns. The energy crackled faintly in the air, but the Prism resisted, its light lashing out like a beast backed into a corner.
Hours passed, though Ava had lost track of time. The chamber was stifling, her body aching from holding the flow of magic steady for so long. She pushed through, but the visions returned—stronger now.
She saw flashes of her ancestors, their faces sharp and twisted with power. One was a regal woman in dark robes, her hand outstretched toward an identical Prism. Another was a man with hollow eyes, his voice rasping "Control it, or it will control you."
The visions made Ava's chest tighten, sweat beading along her brow.
"Professor?" came a voice behind her—one of the Unspeakables, concerned.
"I'm fine," Ava snapped, her voice sharper than intended. She straightened, steadying her hands.
But as the Prism pulsed, Ava knew she was lying—to them, and to herself.
Days blurred together into an endless cycle of effort and exhaustion. Each session within the chamber drained Ava Blackthorn further, her magic fraying at the edges as though the very air around the Aetherial Prism siphoned her strength.
The artifact fought her every step of the way. The runes she painstakingly carved into the stone floor flared briefly before the Prism overwhelmed them, warping her spells with its volatile energy. She began to feel as though she were battling not an object, but a living force—a will far older and far more cunning than she had anticipated.
And then, the whispers began.
It started as faint murmurs at the edge of her perception, threading through the low hum of the artifact. Ava ignored it at first, thinking it a symptom of her exhaustion. But as the days stretched on, the whispers grew clearer, more insistent.
"You are one of us…"
The words rippled through her mind as she worked late into the night, her wand shaking in her tired hands.
"This is your birthright. Why do you resist?"
Ava froze mid-spell one evening, the whispers twisting into a low, melodic voice that seemed to rise from the Prism itself. The artifact glowed brighter, its fractured surface pulsing with a rhythm that matched her heartbeat. Ava's breath hitched as her fingers faltered over the runes.
"No," she whispered under her breath, sweat beading on her forehead. "I'm not here to claim you."
"But you could."
The voice was more distinct now, almost… familiar. A sharp jolt shot through her skull, and she stumbled back. Images flashed across her vision—her ancestors, twisted with power, their hands hovering over artifacts not unlike the Prism. They looked at her through the haze of memory, their eyes burning with the same pulsing glow.
"You are strong, but you waste it. Take this power. It is your heritage. With it, you could command the world…"
Ava's hands curled into fists. The tug of the Prism was no longer subtle—it clawed at her mind, threading through her magic with an allure she struggled to resist. The more she pushed back, the stronger its hold seemed to become.
Her breathing quickened. For a terrible moment, she felt herself faltering, her own magic dimming as though the Prism was leeching it away. What if I took it? What if I could master it? The thought slithered unbidden through her mind, dark and tempting.
The Prism's glow swelled, the room awash in shimmering light. Ava stumbled to her knees, her strength waning as the whispers grew deafening, shaking the walls of her resolve.
"All you have to do is say yes…"
Her vision blurred, her body trembling as the weight of the artifact pressed down on her like a storm. Ava's lips parted, her voice nearly giving way—when suddenly, another voice broke through.
"Be careful. Come back in one piece."
The memory of Juniper's voice rose faintly in her mind, a whisper of warmth cutting through the crushing cold of the Prism. She could see Juniper's face, her green eyes wide with quiet worry, her fingers curling gently against Ava's arm.
Ava gasped sharply, the tether to reality snapping her back.
"No!" she snarled, her voice ringing through the chamber. She raised her wand with shaking hands, gritting her teeth as she forced her magic to surge through her veins, severing the Prism's grip.
The whispers broke off with a harsh screech, the light in the chamber dimming abruptly. Ava collapsed onto her hands, panting heavily, her body wracked with tremors. The floor beneath her was damp with sweat, her robes clinging to her skin.
For several moments, she didn't move. Her magic felt frayed, like a rope pulled too taut and ready to snap. But the room was quiet now. The Prism sat pulsing faintly on its pedestal, its energy subdued for the moment.
Ava pushed herself shakily to her feet, wiping her brow with the back of her hand. The temptation still lingered, like a dark echo in the corner of her mind, but she shoved it aside, locking it away with all her strength.
"That's enough for today," she murmured, her voice hoarse. She staggered toward the chamber's exit, each step heavier than the last. "I'll finish this tomorrow."
Ava didn't speak to the Unspeakables as she left the chamber. She barely noticed their concerned glances or the murmur of their voices. All she could focus on was getting back to her quarters, away from the artifact's influence.
When she finally collapsed onto the small cot in her assigned room, her mind spun with exhaustion and frayed thoughts. The Prism had nearly claimed her—it had spoken to her—and for a moment, Ava knew she had been dangerously close to succumbing.
But she also knew something else: the Prism was afraid of her.
It had fought back, lashed out to tempt and drain her, because it sensed she was close to breaking its hold.
Ava closed her eyes, forcing herself to breathe deeply. She thought of Juniper again—her voice, her face, the quiet strength that Ava had come to admire. Come back in one piece, Juniper had said.
"I will," Ava whispered into the darkness, as though promising herself. "I will finish this."
Tomorrow, she would return to the chamber. Tomorrow, she would end it once and for all.