Chapter 101: Bethany's Change
Location: Doras Dagda, Scotland.
Inside the Kobold Sanctum.
Bethany trembled on the cot's edge in the Sanctum's crowded chamber, her breath shallow and ragged. Her hands clutched her tunic, knuckles bone-white, as the crumpled parchment—"Peerless Mage of Death"—lay discarded on the stone floor. Its title mocked her, seared into her mind like a brand. Death magic? Why her?
She whispered to herself, voice cracking. "Why did it have to be me?" Tears welled, and she pressed her trembling fingers to her face, trying to block out the Nuckelavee's rotting form, poison breath, cackling malice, that haunted her thoughts. Was she doomed to become like that monster?
The Sanctum chamber's air hung heavy, thick with the crowd's murmurs. Their stares, pity, fear, whispered judgment, burned her skin, twisting her gut. She didn't belong here, not with this curse. What if death magic chose her because her soul was already broken?
Her thoughts spiraled into darkness. What if her meekness, her plainness, hid something rotten? Death magic was unnatural, a curse that devoured its wielder, or so the whispers said. Curses didn't strike the innocent, did they?
Bethany curled tighter, forehead against her knees, dread choking her. She'd always been overlooked, but now fate had pinned her as a pariah. The Sanctum's walls seemed to leer, amplifying her panic. She was alone in this nightmare.
A shadow fell over her, and she flinched, bracing for scorn. Robert crouched beside her, his calm presence cutting through the chaos. He stayed silent, giving her space to breathe. His steady gaze held only concern, no trace of judgment.
"Bethany," he said softly, voice like a tether. "You're not cursed." Her head jerked up, tears streaking her face. "How can you say that? The Nuckelavee's death magic tore up Edinburgh, and now I'm stuck with it!"
Robert shook his head. "Magic's a tool, shaped by your choices. The Nuckelavee wasn't evil because of death magic. It chose to be a monster." His words were firm, a lifeline in her storm of fear.
"But what if I can't control it?" she choked, throat dry. "What if it controls me?" Robert's hand rested on hers, warm and steady. "You're stronger than you think. What you use the tool for determines if it's good or evil. If it was a dragon that destroyed Edinburgh, would you call fire evil, even as it warmed your house or cooked your food?"
"I've seen folks wrestle powers they didn't understand," he said. He was talking about himself, and how he struggled to kill the giant grub, and how it put him in a coma. "The ones scared of turning bad? They never do. You're afraid because you care. That keeps you human."
Bethany blinked, lips quivering. His certainty gave her a safe place to hope. Though fear still overwhelmed her thoughts, as it always had, she allowed herself to hope. Just a little bit. "You really believe that?" she whispered, voice barely holding.
Robert's faint smile carried conviction. "I do. And though I barely know you, I believe in you." His words sparked a deep-seated need to live up to his words. She couldn't help but wonder why he made her feel so much stronger, just by being encouraging.
A commotion erupted behind them, shattering the quiet. Chaucer flung himself at Hamish, arms wide, yelling, "D'AWWW! Robert's sooo NICE!" He clung like a barnacle, nearly knocking Hamish over. Hamish laughed, "Get off, ye mad wee beastie!"
Chaucer tightened his grip. "No way! Hug moment!" Hamish's protests echoed, sparking chuckles from the crowd. Bethany's lips twitched, a shaky smile breaking through her tears.
Robert glanced back, glad at Chaucer's ability to ease tension in even the most dire circumstances. Some moments healed without magic. It was just pure, dumb chaos. He turned to Bethany, offering a hand. "Come on, Bethany."
She hesitated, then grabbed it, his pull steadying her wobbly legs. Her cheeks burned as she tugged her sleeves, avoiding his gaze. Lillia skipped over, snagging Bethany's other arm with a radiant smile. Her emerald eyes twinkled at Bethany's gaze, and she patted her arm happily.
Robert nodded at them. "Bethany's first for the Spark," he declared, voice unwavering. "It'll show everyone what it means." The crowd buzzed, eyes locked on her, as he led her to a grassy patch. "Sit, cross your legs," he said, dropping into the pose.
"They used to call this 'Indian Style' when I was a kid, but that's negative now, somehow," he said. "Now, er, I believe the term is…" Robert hesitated, knowing it'd sound silly. "Criss-Cross Applesauce." The mage hopefuls stared blankly, like he'd spouted gibberish.
Robert sensed their confusion. "Right, just cross your legs as you sit." Bethany obeyed, mimicking him. Lillia patted her one final time and stepped back.
Robert closed his eyes, channeling Moira's magic. His hands glowed faintly, and the air turned cool and still. "I'm sharing the elemental aspect of magic we call 'death magic,'" he told Bethany. "I haven't used it yet, but Moira's shaping it for you. She'll guide you, and maybe you can teach me how it works later."
Bethany nodded wordlessly, still afraid but hanging on. A pitch-black beam spiraled into Robert's palms, crackling with raw menace. Bethany's stomach knotted. This was her magic being born.
He turned his hands outward, and the energy surged, wrapping Bethany in an inky cocoon. The crowd gasped as darkness swallowed her, thick and suffocating. She screamed, terror ripping free, but it faded fast. Her breaths rasped, shallow, as death mana pulsed, reshaping her core.
Robert stayed rigid, face etched with focus. The cocoon shimmered, speckled with star-like glints, swirling with hidden, deep colors. It sank into Bethany's skin, invasive, claiming every pore, flooding her with death magic's might while shielding her from its rot. She sat sweating, panting, shock locking her limbs.
Moira's voice whispered in Robert's mind, soft but firm. "She's not done… Bethany's peerless. Ask her what shape her mana core takes." Robert's brow creased, but he faced Bethany. "Moira wants to know… What form should your mana core take?"
Bethany's breath hitched, confusion clouding her face. "I don't understand," she stammered, voice thin. Robert patiently encouraged her. "Say what feels right. When you think about magic, what comes to mind, what will hold it?"
She paused, heart hammering, then whispered, "A book. Make it obsidian." As soon as she named her mana core, she slumped backward. Her body mimicked death itself, growing cold and rigid as if afflicted by rigor mortis. Her eyes rolled back, bones cracking as her skeleton reshaped with gruesome precision.
The crowd recoiled, horror rippling through them. A fiery-haired man shouted, "Robert?! What's the meaning of this? You're killing her!" Panic surged, voices rising.
Robert gestured sideways for silence. "Quiet. She will not come to any harm." His voice boomed with authority, deep and commanding. Weeks ago, Moira had promised to boost his leadership; this felt like a command word.
A notification flashed in Robert's vision, but he ignored it, focusing on Bethany. Black ichor oozed from her eyes, nose, mouth, rising like living shadows, reeking of decay. Her uneven facial features morphed into fair symmetry. Her frame stretched taller, pants now too short by inches.
Her lumpen features smoothed into an elven appearance, lean and attractively curved in the right places. Robert glanced at Lillia, who watched, transfixed. She met his eyes in wonder, waggling her eyebrows. Bethany was getting the full makeover, like Hamish's youth restored.
The magic was ruthless, strategic, rewriting her being. It rewrote her DNA, destroying faulty genetic pairings and replacing them with profound, beneficial traits. Science took years; magic did it in minutes. Bethany's transformation was a brutal spectacle.
The ichor gathered, hardening into a gleaming obsidian book, etched with a flawless bookmark. It hovered, pulsing with cold power. Bethany's eyes snapped open, pupils huge, rimmed with silver like a solar eclipse. She reached for the book, trembling, but stopped short.
She unbuttoned her blouse, baring her sternum, ignoring the crowd's awe. Chaucer muttered, "Wow, that magic fixed her up, huh?" Hamish's fist smacked his shoulder to shut him up, but agreement was plain on his face. The obsidian book descended, sinking into her chest, merging with her flesh.
A cool, quiet aura pulsed outward, followed by a black energy tide, fierce yet serene. Bethany's breath steadied, calm flooding her. She touched where the book had settled high on her cleavage, feeling whole. The transformation was complete.
Robert stood and extended a hand to Bethany. She sat up, gently taking it, staring at her slender, graceful fingers. Her arm was shapely, well-defined. She giggled, then laughed aloud, a melodious, infectious sound that eased the crowd's tension.
She pulled on Robert's hand, rising with his aid. He turned her to face the crowd. "What you just saw is the birth of magic inside Bethany," he said, voice echoing off DAVE's polished marble Sanctum. "Each Spark is unique, tied to your magic and soul."
He gestured at Bethany, now taller, sculpted, her uneven face replaced by classical elven features. For all the world she looked like she had stepped out of a Lady of the Rings novel. Her chocolate-brown hair fell in waves, skin flawless, eyes like shaded eclipses. She couldn't stop touching her face, new muscles tight.
Robert pressed on. "Bethany's pain and flaws? The magic fixed what life broke, aligning her with her true self." He paused, letting it sink in. "Your Spark will do the same, finding what you need to be whole. It'll banish congenital defects, eliminate disease, repair faulty genetics."
The crowd murmured, doubt flickering. "Need proof? Look at Hamish." Everyone did. Hamish scuffed his foot, blushing under the attention.
"Hamish, how old are you, really?" Robert asked. Hamish shot him a hard look but answered clearly. "I'm sixty-eight years old, Robert. On my life." The fiery-haired man gaped. "No bloody way! Yer barely old enough to be me own son, and he's twenty-four!"
The crowd grew louder, but Robert cut it short. "Still don't believe? You watched it happen." He gestured at Bethany bluntly. She looked out, aches of her old body gone.
She was nearly eight inches taller, unsteady but radiant. "It's still me, Bethany," she said meekly. "In the body God intended for me, but life had cruelly twisted through misfortune." The crowd stared, absorbing the truth before them.
Robert smiled at Bethany, warm and quiet. "Thank you, Bethany. Feel free to sit if you wish. Moira'll likely have a lot to talk about with you." She whispered gratefully, "Thank you," her hand on her chest.
Hamish leaned to Robert, grinning. "Nice speech, boss. Yer gettin' better at that." Robert snorted, amused. "Thanks, I guess?" Their banter eased the room's buzz of quiet discussion.
Robert waved the crowd to the portal. "Let's go outside, where sunlight and a soft grassy lawn await." They filed out, one by one. DAVE wished each by name, congratulating them and inviting them to train in his dungeons when ready.
Outside, Robert's tone sparked with excitement. "Everyone, sit. Leave space between you." Couples settled close, hands brushing, whispering hopefully. Potential mages murmured, eager for their change.
"This is huge," Robert said, voice steady. "Bethany showed what's possible. Your imaginations will carve your path." He raised his hands, calling, "Moira, you ready?"
Moira's voice rang out, bright in the earthly realm. "I am ready. I've charged the magic. They're prepared." Robert nodded, arms outstretched, pride warm in his tone.
"Congrats, all of you," he said. A radiant glow pulsed inside him, flaring bright. Multicolored light surged from the ground, racing through him like living rivers. Beams arced above, each hue seeking its target.
They swirled, merging in bursts of color. Gasps filled the yard as lights descended into each person. Reds, yellows, blues, greens, golden—some thick with mana, others pale but unique. Each carried gifts tailored to their human.