Released from the mirror, Caleb’s mind did not seek the nuanced formulas or complex spells; he used his fists, looking like a wild man attacking the imposing interloper with only visions of his own personal torment clouding his sight. Ikithon.
Ikithon’s hands. Ikithon’s words. Those honeyed words woven into a cloak of righteousness and self-importance. How serving him was to serve the Empire. How earning his favor was to be sought above all else...
By the time Caleb was pulled off the older man, his once-handsome features were battered beyond recognition, & Caleb’s hands were cut and bleeding from making contact with his teeth. He turned on who had pulled him away, ready to fight whoever was next, only to be met with Essek’s hands cupping his face. Essek’s words, his voice low & calming, guiding him towards clarity rather than continued fervor.
Essek.
“Come, let us wash that all away.”
And Caleb believed that he could.
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