Chains and Broken Magic
Copyright© 2026 by Rachael Jane
Chapter 12: Elenora: The Power of Magic
The weeks blur together. Not because they are peaceful ... nothing about this place is peaceful ... but because they are the same. Every day. Every hour. Every breath.
Wake ... Obey ... Be drained ... Work ... Rest (barely) ... Repeat.
Vespera calls it training. I call it what it is: extraction.
The sphere sits on its pedestal like a second sun ... translucent, pulsing, alive. It glows brighter with each session, filled with the magic she pulls from me. My magic. My breath. My strength.
Every morning, she lifts her stave. Every morning, the thread of gold and white tears free from my chest. Every morning, I feel myself hollow out. And every morning, I survive.
Today is no different.
“Sit,” Vespera says, already turning toward her notes. She doesn’t even look at me any more. She doesn’t need to. She believes she has broken me. I sit. The chair is cold. The air is colder. The sphere hums softly, as if eager.
Vespera lifts her stave. A thread of magic rips free from my chest. I gasp, gripping the arms of the chair. The world tilts. My vision blurs. The sphere brightens, drinking greedily. Vespera inhales sharply, her eyes fluttering shut as she feels the surge of power.
She isn’t intentionally cruel. But she is greedy. And greed is its own kind of cruelty.
When she finally releases me, I slump forward, chest heaving.
“Good,” she murmurs. “Your output is stabilizing. You’re becoming quite useful.”
Useful. The word tastes like ash.
“Go tidy the shelves,” she says once she’s finished draining me of magic.
I rise on shaking legs. My limbs feel heavy, my head light. But I move. I always move. Because movement earns respite. Because obedience buys time. Because time is the only thing I have. I sort jars. I sweep floors. I polish crystals. I dust shelves.
But during these respites, something else happens. The sphere starts to leak magic. Not visibly. Not loudly. Not enough for Vespera to notice.
But I feel it. A faint warmth brushing my skin. A whisper of gold returning to my veins. A flicker of strength where there should be none. My magic is finding its way back to me. Slowly. Quietly. Desperately.
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