For the first time in what seemed like decades, I began to hear a sound. Initially, it was faint, elusive, like a whisper carried by the wind. No, surely it must be my mind deceiving me. Yet, as moments passed, the sound grew, incrementally louder, until it became discernible. It was a voice, though its words were garbled, incomprehensible, as if spoken in an unfamiliar tongue.

  I struggled to grasp its meaning, feeling perplexed by the erratic stream of words. Perhaps it was another language, one beyond my knowledge. Just then, a chill coursed through me, spreading swiftly across my body. Cold. The realization of feeling anything at all filled me with an odd sense of relief. Following the chill, my sense of smell returned, detecting an acrid, chemical odor mingled with something more ominous, reminiscent of scorched plastic overlaid with the stench of decay. Was I in a hospital? Had I survived, only to be trapped in a catatonic state? My thoughts raced, the excitement of regained senses nearly causing me to forget the rage that once burned in me—a resolve to purge humanity from existence. Yet, as my mind wandered, I grappled with questions. What is a hospital, and why does the word ‘vegetated’ resonate so strangely?

  Before I could untangle my thoughts, my hand twitched—a spark of movement after an eternity of stillness. Seizing the opportunity, I attempted to open my eyes.

  I was met with the sight of a dimly lit chamber, its uneven stone ceiling looming above. Immobilized, I lay upon a cold, unyielding surface. In my peripheral vision, I observed the rugged ceiling slope downwards, merging with similarly uneven walls, adorned sporadically with glowing mushrooms. The soft, bluish light emitted from the fungi bathed the space in a muted glow, casting deep shadows across the room and making the scene both eerie and oddly serene.

  The realization that I was on a stone altar came to me as my eyes adjusted. My attention was soon drawn to the voice, now intelligible and commanding. A gruff male voice echoed through the chamber.

  “Your name shall be…” He uttered a long, complex name in a foreign tongue, a series of syllables strung together that took several moments to enunciate. “…and you shall call yourself Keeper. Now, rise!”

  Compelled by the command, my body obeyed involuntarily, and my vision shifted to behold the source: an ancient, stooped man with an impossibly long beard trailing to the stone floor. His robe, brown and tattered, exuded an unpleasant mix of sweat, chemicals, and other indefinable odors. His light gray hair and countless wrinkles spoke of a venerable age, though his deep blue eyes glimmered with a disconcerting vitality, hinting at some hidden intent.

  “What is your name?” he demanded.

  “Keeper,” I responded, the word slipping from my tongue before I could grasp it.

  A jolt of confusion surged within me. That’s not my name… Yet, when I tried to recall my true identity, it eluded me, replaced by an eerie, blank void.

  “Hey, old man, what have you done to me? Why can’t I remember my name?” I questioned, my voice trembling with a mix of fear and fury.

  The old man’s eyes narrowed, a smirk barely visible beneath his beard. “Hmm, interesting… very interesting indeed.”

  My anger flared. “Hey! Answer me when I’m speaking to you!” I lunged, intending to seize him, only to find myself unable to move. It was as though invisible chains had bound me.

  “Why can’t I move? Hey! Answer me—”

  “Silence!” he commanded.

  My voice vanished at once. I seethed inwardly, unable to move or speak, watching as he muttered to himself, ignoring my plight. A moment later, he cleared his throat and resumed in a tone tinged with authority.

  “My name is Maleck. I bestowed upon you your true name, Keeper, in the ancient tongue, binding you to my will. As for your forgotten name, it is inconsequential, for you have spoken your new name already. And you cannot move because I will it so. You are forbidden from harming me or disrupting anything within this chamber.”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  He gestured for me to test his assertion, and indeed, though I could move, I remained unable to touch him or any object around me. Frustration coursed through me. My first potential victim stood before me, yet I was powerless.

  “Now, chant a simple light-creation spell for me,” he instructed.

  I stared blankly. A spell? Magic? His irritation grew as silence stretched between us. He sighed, exasperated.

  “You are allowed to speak,” he snapped.

  Even with permission, words failed me. The concept of magic seemed unfathomable.

  “What are you waiting for?” he barked.

  Uncertainly, I raised my hands and mimed a simple gesture, one resembling a parlor trick where a thumb appears dislocated. For a brief moment, Maleck’s eyes widened in disbelief before darkening with rage.

  “What nonsense is this? Are you mocking me?” His voice boomed.

  “No, I…” My reply came out as a fearful squeak.

  “Tell the truth!” he thundered.

  “I swear, it was the only trick I knew!” I stammered, terror palpable in my voice.

  Maleck sighed, irritation fading to a resigned amusement. “A trick indeed, but not magic. This is magic.”

  With a simple motion, he conjured a flame in the palm of his hand, a ball of fire that radiated intense heat. I recoiled, almost collapsing backward, my body stiffening in an unnatural bow. Panic set in as I realized I could not move.

  “Help…” I managed to croak.

  Maleck smirked, barely stifling a laugh. “Say, ‘Master, please,’” he commanded.

  I resisted momentarily, pain shooting through me. “Master… please,” I choked out.

  A smirk confirmed his victory. “Good. You may move,” he said with satisfaction.

  I fell, sprawling onto the table and sending papers and vials crashing to the floor.

  “What do you say?” he prompted.

  “Thank you, master,” I muttered, humiliation coursing through me as I clenched my fists.

  Satisfied, Maleck directed me to clean up the chaos, muttering to himself as I moved with reluctant obedience. He soon disappeared through a door I had not noticed before, leaving me to ponder my fate in a chamber both foreign and unnervingly familiar.

  Reluctantly, I began to tidy the chaos. The room was a cave, carved from muddy brown stone, the air thick with the smell of damp earth and decay. An altar stood at the center, adorned with strange symbols and littered with broken glass. Tables lined the walls, cluttered with vials, open books, and dissection tools—an unsettling labyrinth of remnants.

  As I picked up the shards of glass, I caught sight of my reflection in a polished surface. A pale-faced youth, no taller than five feet, stared back. Silky gray skin glistened under the dim light, and ruby-red eyes shone with a strange intensity.

  This was me?

  Suddenly, Maleck entered, dragging a heavy wooden chest behind him. He struggled to open it, his old bones creaking, muttering in frustration.

  “Keeper, open it!” he ordered.

  My body obeyed, the chest swinging open with an eerie ease. Inside lay an array of weapons, glinting menacingly in the low light.

  “Pick one,” he commanded, his tone casual, as if it were a game.

  “Why? Are you not afraid I will use it against you?”

  He ignored my question, muttering about my incompetence as I rifled through the chest. My fingers brushed against a crossbow, its wood cool and familiar. I didn’t know how, but the urge to test it was irresistible.

  I pulled the trigger, the bolt flying wildly through the air, ricocheting off walls like a furious animal. My heart raced with adrenaline—was this my chance?

  But no, the arrow collided with an invisible barrier, clattering harmlessly to the ground. Maleck turned, his icy glare piercing through me, and I flinched under the weight of his fury.

  “Stand in the circle!” he ordered, pointing to a strange pentagram drawn on the floor.

  I complied, placing the crossbow aside. As Maleck murmured incantations, the air crackled with energy, and metals from the chest floated upward, forming a swirling mass of ore. The sword flew at me, slamming into my chest with a painful thud.

  “Brutes with no brains should wield weapons suited to their kind.”

  I staggered but remained standing, feeling a strange pull towards the glowing symbols beneath me.

  “What am I?” I asked, the question spilling from my lips unbidden.

  “Had I known you’d be such a hassle, I wouldn’t have summoned you,” he sighed.

  “You are the pinnacle of chimera-topology. You are an Aberration, a creature born of many. A guardian demon or evil spirit, as folklore describes.” His voice dropped, a shadow flickering in his eyes. “But you are nothing like the tales. I am your master now, and you will obey.”

  “Now stand still! This will hurt... a lot.”

  With that, he began to chant. The pentagram glowed ominously, metals swirling around me, heating to a blistering red.

  I screamed as the molten metal flowed over my body, burning, searing every inch of my flesh. I writhed in agony, my voice a cacophony of pain.

  “Finished. This is my final gift to you,” Maleck declared, a twisted glee in his voice.

  A gift? I was encased in dark, skin-tight armor, every curve of my body visible beneath its surface. Smoke billowed around me, the smell of scorched flesh mingling with the damp air.

  “Move!”

  I collapsed to my hands and knees, gasping for breath, rage boiling inside me. One day, I vowed through clenched teeth, I would find a way to end Maleck’s twisted game. I would make him pay.