The Black Room

But this happiness was not to last. As he neared his belongings – his blade – Agathor felt that something was amiss.

He moved swiftly and reached for the Marezen Sword that had been resting beneath his armour, but to his horror, it was no longer there.

In an instant, the candlelight that kept the darkness at bay disappeared.

Darkness surrounded Agathor. Along with this darkness came nausea. It felt as if his soul had been ripped from his body.

He cried out.

"MARIANNE!"

There was no response.

His eyes quickly adjusted to his new surroundings. Being an accomplished practitioner of the Marezen and Hatalian techniques, his eyes had developed the ability to somewhat see in the dark.

He turned to where Marianne had been; to the bedroom he had just exited. But where he remembered a doorway there was now a stone wall.

He was no longer in Marianne's chambers.

He looked around and saw that he was in a large room made of some unknown black stone.

But where was this room?

What was this room?

Why was he here?

How was he here?

Where was his sword?

And where was his Marianne?

Ten thousand questions ran through Agathor's mind.

His first instinct was to punch through the stone with his great strength. To pummel it into dust. He was one of the strongest beings in Oros, and even without his sword, what room could hope to hold him?

And so, he swung his fists. Again and again, until his hands were bloodied. With every punch, he howled in rage. He felt that time was his enemy. Every moment spent in this room was a moment where Marianne could be in danger.

But it proved to be pointless. With every strike, the dark room came alight with mystic symbols that seemed to dance along all four walls. These symbols seemed to absorb the strength of Agathor's punches, leaving the walls unharmed.

He wailed in frustration.

"If only I had the Marezen Sword I could carve through these walls like butter."

Anxiety took hold of him as the reality set in that this was not going to be an easy escape.

"What the fuck is going on."

He muttered.

He had been in the Royal Palace at Aberle, one of the safest and most fortified places in all of Oros. How had he been transported to this unknown place by some unknown force?

He began to repeat himself.

"What the fuck."

"What the fuck."

He had to escape from here and return to Aberle, to make sure that Marianne was safe. She had been only a room away. Agathor agonised over what might have happened to her.

Not to mention, if there was something with this ability who could sneak into the Royal Palace,, the whole of Aberle, gods even the whole of Oros, could be at grave risk.

As he thought more about this predicament those unanswered ten thousand questions and worries quickly grew.

Agathor tried to analyse the symbols that appeared as he made contact with the walls. He knew that they possessed some answers as to why he was here. And maybe even some clues as to how he could escape.

While he was sure he could not read them, Agathor felt that he had seen them before. Somewhere.

He racked his brain.

And eventually, he remembered.

He remembered the battle at Qhenha Plains and the greatsword of Nathuh.

He remembered the symbols that moved across the blade.

While those symbols had a different form, colour and movement to the ones in this accursed room, Agathor felt they were related. Knew they were related.

He spat.

"Demons…"

"But how could a demon achieve this?"

"And why wait until the demons had been annihilated and their king slain?"

Agathor furrowed his brow and tried to concentrate.

However, he was soon interrupted as some of the black stones on one of the walls began to shift and transform into the shape of a door.

Agathor entered a battle stance. He was ready to rip the head of whatever being walked through that door with his bare hands. He would not be taken by surprise this time, he promised to himself.

Another broken promise.

As soon as the door swung open, Agathor was immediately hit by a succession of powerful blows by a man wearing an azure mask. These were not sparring blows. Behind them was a murderous intent. An intent to kill.

Despite the frightening power of these strikes, Agathor absorbed them with gritted teeth.

But instead of charging toward his enemy, Agathor froze in place. His muscles tensed up and his mind went numb.

He recognised those strikes. He had seen them a thousand times before.

Moreover, he recognised the sword in front of him that delivered them. The Thorn Sword.

He worried that he also recognised his masked enemy. There was only one man in Oros capable of wielding that sword and delivering those strikes.

Seizing on Agathor's hesitation, the masked man continued his offensive. Agathor, unarmed and shocked, put up little defence. Though even had he not hesitated, without his sword, he could not have done much.

Soon Agathor was hunched over, bloodied and broken, resting against a wall. Most bones in his body had been broken. His right arm had been sliced off. His left eye was missing. Much of his blood and left his body in favour of smearing itself across the rest of the room.

The masked man stood over Agathor.

With what strength he had left, Agathor looked up and stared with his remaining eye at the cloaked man. His gaze seemed to pierce through the man's now-blood-soaked mask.

Agathor began to speak. It was his first opportunity to do so since that door opened.

"Gatmore? Is that truly you… why?"

It was difficult to discern the words uttered as blood quickly filled Agathor's mouth.

The cloaked man remained still. A few tears traveled from the slits in his mask and fell to the ground below.

He whispered.

"I am sorry."

That voice. Agathor, straining, went to speak again. He wanted answers. He needed answers. But before he could do so, the masked man lunged forward with his blade and sliced out Agathor's tongue.

Agathor screamed and writhed in pain as tears poured down his face. The masked man, with a tongue still resting atop the edge of his blade, turned and left out of the door from which he came.

However, Agathor was not alone in the darkness for long. Once that masked man left, two other cloaked figures entered. One tall and the other short.

They carried between them a wooden table, large enough to fit a man on it and, among other things, a closed box caked in crusted blood.

They placed the table in the middle of the room and dragged Agathor's bloodied and mute body onto it. Agathor could only howl in protest.

Soon, the smaller of the two began to chant and the symbols that at times covered the walls began to faintly dance around once more. Meanwhile, the bigger of the two opened the box and drew from it a collection of sharp instruments.

It was then that Agathor's greatest torment began.

For the next few days, though Agathor could not keep count of them, he was subjected to torturous experimentation by these foul monsters.

From what Agathor overheard during bouts of consciousness, they seemed to be intent on investigating the relationship between some form of 'Eborian magic' and those who wield the 'Swords of Moonoria.'

Though what those terms meant, Agathor had no idea.

And with that thought, Agathor's mind returned to his present circumstances. To the chatter of the tall one.

"Cannot have these binds weakening on you now can we? Even in your current state, and without that absurd white sword, one can never be too careful. Who would have thought this little room had such powerful Eborian glyphs? Or what is it you humans foolishly call it – demonic, was it?"