A Traitor's Path: The Scrolls of Azbel Book 3 by John Mangold

Author:John Mangold [Mangold, John]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Barking Cur
Published: 2023-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

32.

Prisons of the Mind

Since his initial transformation, Volo struggled with the nature of his senses. His projection served as his eyes, ears, and hands whenever necessary. This was particularly true if he put enough mystical force into his incantation to give himself a solid form. Recently, he had even learned to project himself in multiple places at once, effectively giving himself several bodies, each able to interact with the world as they saw fit, or he saw fit…in each body. It boggled the mind. His mortal reasoning still had trouble grasping this new form of existence, sometimes feeling like he was embracing insanity.

No moment since his first waking defined this better than where he now found himself. The last he remembered, he was piercing the hull of a Vanquilian Corvette, just as he and Maluem had planned. Then, nothing. Blackness. He had no idea where he was or even if he was. He could blink to test the blackness in his mortal body or exhale to hear his own breath. But did he really have eyes anymore? Did he breathe? He was a projection. There was no flesh to perceive light or require air. With nothing to guide him, he couldn’t tell if he was awake, asleep, alive, or dead! As he thought this, the darkness seemed to move in, threatening to swallow him whole, scattering his mind into the ether.

“Ahhh!” Volo screamed, just to hear his own voice.

There was nothing, not even an echo. Where was he? A closet? A tiny cave? The bottom of the ocean? A coffin? As each thought brought more disturbing images to the fore, he felt his sanity unraveling. If he could not perceive the world, how could he negotiate it? How could he call himself alive if he could not move through the world? How could he even prove he existed? Madness clawed at his consciousness, tearing pieces away, dissolving what little he was as the ocean disintegrated a clod of mud. He had to get out of here. He had to escape! Volo started running or thought he was running, given he had no legs and no way to sense movement. He had no idea where he was going, but anywhere had to be better than here.

Wham, wham!

Alright, Volo thought as he inhaled what felt like a calming breath. That proved four things. First, I’m not dead. The dead can’t run into walls. Second, I’m projecting enough to have a physical form, as that wall stopped me hard. Third, wherever I am, it has a floor, and it’s solid. Lastly, even for a projection, running into a wall hurts. Bad. Glad I can’t bleed, I think.

Dabbing distractedly at his nose, Volo slowly pushed himself back onto his feet, his free hand gently probing the surface before him. The wall was hard, cold, and somehow abrasive, unlike an unfinished board or the rougher side of a whetstone. This was different. His fingers glided across the unseen surface effortlessly. Yet something within snagged his skin, tugging from just below the surface.

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