Letter from a Librarian
The old church was dusty and decrepit, just as old and run-down as my memory hinted it should be. The pew seat was hard and unforgiving, but the air was warm and welcoming. Faint groans of discomfort drifted over from the infirmary side of the building, joined by my own as the priest took my slender shoulders in his hands.
"Regeneration," he cried.
As he chanted, a series of magic circles sprang into the air around me. They were weak and flawed, as all magic based on the inefficient chants was, but it was a fifth-circle spell regardless. I sighed as the soft, green Life Magic flowed over me, soothing the countless aches, bruises, and lacerations afflicting my flesh. It was the first time in months I'd been free of the constant sting of the whip, fist, or any of the other assorted instruments they used to discipline slaves. Through my refusal to accept Masters-no, Byron's-advances, I had tasted them all.