Page 30 of What Beats Within the Tunnels

“Should I touch it?” I ask, unsure of what to do.

“Only if you believe you can handle what it may show you.”

I want to roll my eyes. I study the crystal, which looks harmless enough. The moment I clasp the cold crystal, it feels as if the world collapses in on itself. Everything around me disappears, and I’m plunged into a swirling darkness. A whirlwind of emotions tugs at my very being: fear, exhilaration, curiosity. The darkness subsides, an ethereal landscape taking shape around me.

I’m standing at the edge of a green meadow bathed in silver moonlight. Tall grasses sway in the night breeze. From the distance, the low hum of a chant drifts closer. Drawn to it, I step forward and notice figures emerging from the tree line.

A procession of cloaked individuals, their faces obscured, move solemnly through the meadow. Maybe these are the sorcerers who followed the last dark Sorcerer. They gather in a circle, and at its center a tall, imposing figure appears, veiled in shadows. This is him. I can feel it in my very being. This is the last dark Sorcerer. His silhouette, ever elusive, prevents me from seeing his true form, but there’s an undeniable magnetism to his presence.

He raises a hand, and from the ground water begins to pool, forming a pristine silver pond. With another gesture, the water rises, and images start to take shape with its liquid form. A village ravaged by drought, children on the brink of starvation. With a mere flick of his wrist, rain begins to fall upon the village, bringing relief and hope. I can’t explain it, but I can feel the relief and gratitude emanating from the reflections.

But the vision shifts. Now, the scene is one of chaos. Flames engulf a once vibrant town, people running and screaming in terror. The same tall figure covered in shadows stands atop a hill overlooking the destruction, arms outstretched, drawing power from the very fires he’s set. Cries of despair echo, and the shadowy figure’s laughter reaches me at the same time the heat from the flames does.

Suddenly, a bright light pierces the scene, and the ground starts to shake as a group of people appear dressed in radiant robes. They start to circle the dark Sorcerer. I think I see Drew and someone next to her who resembles Nyx and could be Callum. A sizzling sound spreads across the sky, and an epic battle ensues. This must be when the Luminary Council kills the dark Sorcerer. Magic collides, and bright white flashes nearly blind me, only to be drowned out by the shadows. The council, united, chants an incantation, trying to strip him of his power, but he resists, his strength evident in the way the shadows continuously morph, trying to outmaneuver the luminescent chains attempting to bind him.

I can feel the desperation in the air. Every strike, every spell cast feels like a weight on my chest. The sorrow of the lost village, the hope of the saved one, and the unyielding hate and determination of the Luminary Council… It’s overwhelming.

When it seems the dark Sorcerer might be subdued, he lets out a deafening roar, releasing a force that pushes the council members back. The very ground splits apart, creating chasms that swallow the light, turning the landscape more treacherous.

But then, from the chasms, a hand reaches out, followed by another and another. Souls bound to the Sorcerer’s bidding, climbing, crawling, desperate to shield their master. The council huddles together, and as the two forces converge the vision begins to blur, becoming unstable.

Before it all fades, I catch a glimpse of the dark Sorcerer’s eyes. Even in the shadow, they’re piercing, black and silver, filled with a mix of fury, pain, and determination.

With a jolt, I’m back in the room, the crystal drops to the table, and I pant, trying to catch my breath. It’s clear the dark Sorcerer battled with good and evil. I recount everything I saw to Athalda, and she takes notes while I talk.

“I don’t understand how this was helpful at all,” I say, crossing my arm, my headache worse after that.

“You silly girl, can’t you glean anything from that vision?” Athalda scolds.

I take a deep breath before replying, “I saw that the dark Sorcerer performed both good and bad actions, which further proves that dark magic itself isn’t inherently evil. It’s about the wielder’s choices, control, and balance. But I already knew that.”

Athalda nods, seemingly deep in thought. “The Luminary Council’s attack on the dark Sorcerer is a prime example. It should show you how fear and misunderstanding can lead even those with noble intentions astray. Others might perceive and react to you differently once you inherit your dark magic. It’s crucial for you to communicate and show your true intentions.” She meets my gaze, her statement heavy with implication.

I ponder that. “You will have many moral dilemmas ahead, girl. When you possess such power, you’ll be faced with critical decisions you’ll have to grapple with,” Athalda continues, watching me intently.

“What do you mean by that?” I ask.

She leans in closer, her voice low and intense. “I mean, when you’re the most powerful one in the room, you must decide whether to use your power to intervene, dominate, or remain passive.”

I study her, especially the unique hue of her eyes. “You said earlier that your eyes turned black from being in Zomea, but I haven’t seen anyone else with black eyes. Did they turn black from using dark magic? Will my eyes change too? Will the color be permanent?” My questions tumble out one after another.

Athalda sighs, her expression unreadable. “Practicing dark magic in Zomea for many years changed my eyes. I can’t predict exactly what will happen to you, but I suspect it will largely depend on the choices you make.”

“If you’ve practiced dark spells all this time, why not show me how it’s done? Wouldn’t teaching me about dark magic be more beneficial than giving me twisted visions from a crystal?” I ask, glancing around the room at all the magical artifacts.

“We’ve discussed this. It’s not the same—”

“I get it. If you have light magic but attempt dark spells, they can never be as potent as when someone with dark magic performs them,” I say.

“Interrupt me again, girl, and I’ll let your father drop you back into that maze simulation,” she warns. I bite back a retort, reminding myself to keep my temper in check and listen to what the old lady has to say.

She explains, “When you possess dark magic, you don’t need spells. The dark spells detailed in grimoires are meant for sorcerers with light magic. Dark magic is an entirely different entity. Zomea holds all the magic, and when you come of age, it’s released to you. That’s how it’s always been for Sorcerers, a design set by the gods. It’s not immediately passed down through generations like Fae magic.”

I nod for her to continue.

“Dark magic resides within you. It’s dormant in you even now, but once you come of age and your magic awakens, it will become a part of your very soul, Lyra. You won’t need to learn spells; that’s not how it operates. You’ll be able to bend things to your will. Have you ever wondered why your mother never enrolled you in any ritual classes, why none of your tutors taught you spells, or why she was so distant?”

I always assumed my mother’s behavior was a punishment, a result of her misery after my father’s death. Later, I blamed it on Silas.