Micah - 3.2

"Identification!" one of the soldiers commanded, his voice stern and unyielding.

"We did not bring any." Uncle said, his tone authoritative but pleading. "We have been sent for aid from Gwydion for Aetherhaven!"

Ignoring Ulysses' words, the soldiers advanced, their weapons gleaming menacingly in the light. Panic surged through me.

He said coldly. "You expect us to believe you're here asking for help without any proof?"

"Listen to me!" Ulysses insisted, his voice a mix of desperation and authority. "We don't have time for this. If you delay any longer, countless lives will be lost. You must take us to someone in command."

"Enough!" the lead soldier barked. "Restrain them!"

The magicians among the guards were already weaving mana, their hands moving in intricate patterns. Bands of shimmering energy formed around the wings of our gryphons, binding them tightly. The majestic creatures thrashed and roared, but the magical restraints held firm.

"I implore you! Listen to us!" Uncle Ulysses tried to plead again, his voice rising in desperation. "Aetherhaven is—"

Another mage finished his spell. He flicked his wrist, and bands of mana snapped around our arms and chests. I glared at our captors, my frustration boiling over. 

"I'm under orders from the Grandwarden to bring aid! My lapel-" I begged as I looked toward my chest, but my eyes widened in surprise when I found my coat missing.

Bands of mana snapped around our mouths, silencing any future arguments. I struggled against the restraints, but it was futile. The soldiers paid no heed to our plight, their expressions set and determined.

"Bring them to the spire," the lead soldier commanded.

The magicians control descended upon our restraints, pulling us forward, forcing us to walk toward the city's center. The last time I was in Caer Elara, I strutted among the crowds; the people made way for our family to pass through the streets. I looked upon the populace with disdain as Grandfather led me through the markets.

Today, civilians parted before us, lining the edges of the streets, their eyes following our every move. The faces in the crowd painted with a tapestry of emotions—ridicule, mistrust, and the occasional glimmer of sympathy when they realized that I, a child, walked among the detainees.

Now, the crowd parted for me once again. The citizens made way for us as we were escorted toward one of the tallest spires in Gwydion.

A young boy, no older than I was, clutched his mother's hand as he stared at me with wide eyes. His mother pulled him closer, whispering something in his ear that made him nod solemnly. 

The soldiers continued to push us onward, the grip of the magical braces firm and unyielding. The crowd's murmurs grew louder, a cacophony of suspicion and fear. A man spat at the ground near my feet, his face twisted with anger.

"Get them out of here!" he shouted. "We don't need their kind bringing trouble to Gwydion!"

Uncle Ulysses, walking beside me, shot the man a fierce glare, but his bindings prevented him from saying anything in our defense. I could see the frustration in his eyes. If this were the capitol, everyone would have recognized him. Everyone there knew Ulysses, patronned his personal shop. 

A girl with a basket of flowers paused as we passed, her eyes lingering on me. She hesitated, then took a step forward, only to be pulled back by an older woman.

"Stay away from them," the woman warned, her voice filled with fear. "They're dangerous."

The girl looked back at me, her expression one of confusion and pity. I held her gaze, trying to convey with my eyes what I couldn't with words—that we weren't the danger they thought we were. That we were here for the military.

Inside, the spire was even more extraordinary. The interior was impossibly vast, far larger than it appeared from the outside. Flying books darted through the air, familiars ferried notes and packages between mages of all breeds, and the concentrated ambient magic made my skin tingle. It was a hive of magic and miscellanea, as much vibrant as chaotic.

As we approached the towering spire of Caer Elara, the crowd thinned, but the weight of their judgment lingered in the air. The spire loomed above us, its grandeur both awe-inspiring and intimidating. The soldiers pushed us through the massive doors, and the murmurs of the crowd faded behind us, replaced by the hum of magical activity within.

The guards pushed us forward, urging us to keep moving. My eyes darted around, trying to take in the wonders of the place even as we were herded like cattle. The gryphons struggled behind us, their mighty wings straining against the magical bindings. The mages strained as they pulled in our mounts within a floating chamber, their roars of defiance echoing through the spire as the cage sealed.

Inside, the spire was a whirlwind of energy—flying books, familiars darting about, and mages of all breeds moving with purpose. The sheer intensity of the magic in the air was almost overwhelming.

The guards did not pause, did not allow me to marvel at the wonders around us. They marched us through the grand halls, past countless curious and indifferent faces, until we reached the detention wing.

Pascal tried to speak, but the bands muffled his voice beyond recognition. The soldiers ignored him, their expressions resolute and unempathetic.

Our captors led us down a series of winding stairs, the magical ambiance growing thicker with each step. The walls seemed to hum with power, the air crackling with unspent energy. 

I felt the mana around me wane.

I yelled through the faltering binding, "We need to explain our situation to the Council," My voice grew more urgent, "This is a matter of life and death!"

"Silence!" barked one of the mages, reaffirming the mana band around my mouth. 

Finally, we reached a set of heavy iron doors, which creaked open to reveal a row of detention cells. The cells were lined with runes that glowed faintly, a testament to the enchantments inlaid upon the stones.

One by one, we were shoved into separate cells. The doors clanged shut behind us, the sound final and foreboding. The bands of mana around my mouth and arms dissipated, leaving me free to speak but trapped within the confines of my cell. I rushed to the bars, gripping them tightly.

"This is a misunderstanding!" Ulysses shouted, his voice filled with frustration. "We must be released. Micah must be allowed to speak with the Council! To deliver an order from the Grandwarden!"

The wardens outside our cells exchanged looks, their faces unreadable. 

I sank to the floor, my mind racing. We had come seeking help, but instead, we were imprisoned, our pleas for aid now pleas for release. The spire's magical wonders now felt like a mockery, their beauty and power indifferent to our plight. I had to find a way to make them understand the danger Aetherhaven faced. All those the men, women and children depended on us.

Minutes turned into what felt like hours as I sat there. The cell was cold, the stone floor unforgiving. I could hear the distant sounds of the spire's activity—voices, footsteps, the occasional hum of magic.