The Illusion Domain is one of the more enigmatic casting domains, concerned not with the shaping of the physical world but with the distortion of perception itself. Unlike the Evoker, who commands the elements, or the Abjurer, who fortifies against harm, the Illusionist does not alter reality—only the mind's interpretation of it.
At its core, the domain revolves around the precise manipulation of spira, the latent essence through which magic is wrought. By channeling spira into the senses of others, an adept Illusionist may weave sights, sounds, and even tactile sensations that have no true presence. A phantom flame may flicker, casting warmth where none exists; a whispered voice may slither into the ear, conveying falsehoods as if they were truth. The most skilled among them can craft entire landscapes, bending the perception of space itself.
Illusion is, in many ways, a domain of subtlety. While its effects can be grand in scope, the true artistry lies in the delicate balance between believability and deception. The mind resists what it finds implausible—an illusion too extravagant may break under scrutiny. Thus, masters of this craft understand the necessity of weaving truth into their falsehoods, anchoring their deceptions within the framework of reality. A soldier in the midst of battle will not believe he stands in a verdant field, but he may be fooled by the shimmer of steel where none is present or the fleeting shadow of an unseen assailant.
It is important to note that the Illusion Domain does not grant control over thought, only over sensory input. However, through the careful layering of multiple senses—sight, sound, even simulated pressure—an Illusionist can ensnare their target within a web of falsehoods so intricate that distinguishing reality from deception becomes an impossible task.
Despite its potency, the domain is not without limitation. It requires constant focus and a steady flow of spira to sustain complex illusions. Prolonged exertion risks overextension, and illusions left unattended unravel like a dream upon waking. Furthermore, those trained in the higher arts of magic, or possessing an innate resistance to sensory distortion, may see through such tricks with ease.
The Illusion Domain stands as a testament to the power of perception itself. In the hands of a master, it can turn the tide of battle without a single blade drawn, render the vigilant blind, and make the weak appear mighty. But for all its grandeur, it remains bound to the minds it seeks to deceive—a fleeting, fragile craft, ever at war with the simple truth.
Vengeance burned through Rell like a raging storm, an insatiable fury that left no room for doubt or hesitation. It consumed her, a smoldering blaze of intent that drowned out every whisper of reason, leaving only raw, focused clarity behind. There was a debt in the world. The scales were tipped, and the weight of loss pressed too heavily on her heart.
Someone had to pay.
The answers weren't all within reach—not yet. But she had a target, two, in fact.
Declan. Hammond Léveque.
They were tangled in this mess together, of that she was certain. The assassination had cleared the path for Hammond's rise to power—there was no doubt about that. But Declan? What was his role? Replacing Reverend Kempford, seemed pointless, a poor gamble that promised little in return. Why would anyone go to such lengths for so little? The pieces didn't add up, but the way their actions aligned, how their threads wove together, told her one thing: they were both involved, even if she couldn't see the whole picture yet.
And one of them was going to break.
Slipping through the corridors with a predator's grace, Rell slipped between shadows, her steps deliberate and quiet. The upper floors of the keep buzzed with activity. Servants scurried between rooms, guards stood watch at every entrance, and the nobles languished in conversation while lazily drifting about. Discovery was a much greater risk here, but she couldn't afford to care. Anyone who tried to stop her would regret it.
Her fingers tightened around the hilt of her dagger, the cold steel a familiar comfort. Pressing herself into an alcove, she listened closely, the sound of approaching footsteps growing louder.Two guards appeared, their voices low and uninterested. She caught snippets of their conversation—a few complaints about their uneventful posts and drunken nobles, their voices thick with boredom. They weren't paying attention.
This was her moment.
The second their backs turned, Rell was gone, slipping down a narrow side passage. As she climbed higher, the noise from the revelry grew louder—a cacophony of laughter, clinking glasses, and the rhythmic hum of music. They were celebrating. Dancing.
A sharp, bitter taste flooded her mouth. She had no patience for their charades, no tolerance for their hollow games—their endless indulgences, while the blood of the innocent soaked the ground beneath them.
If Hammond Léveque was here, she would find him. Tonight, she would uncover the truth—the kind that could be torn from his throat if necessary, delivered by the cold, unforgiving edge of her blade.
Rell ascended the next flight of stairs, so far luck had favored her—no interruptions, no guards stumbling around corners at inopportune times. The keep's layout was still fresh in her mind, drawn from past experiences and careful planning. The last time she'd infiltrated this place, it had been just to swap a document with the forgery. It was strange how much had changed in such a short span.
She reached the landing, pausing to peer around the corner. The ballroom unfolded before her—a glittering expanse of laughter, music, and the warm, golden glow of chandeliers overhead. But her focus quickly shifted to the guards stationed along the hallway, blocking her path. They weren't especially alert, but their numbers made slipping past impossible without drawing attention.
Rell's gaze hardened. With a quiet breath, she turned her back on the ballroom, her thoughts already focused on Hammond's quarters. She knew he'd return to his chambers eventually, and when he did, she would be waiting.
But fate, as always, had other plans.
Rell ascended another flight of stairs, rounding a corner into the hallway, only to come face to face with a familiar figure.
Noah Léveque.
The boy—just as she remembered him from her last covert passage through these halls—stood there, framed by the corridor's dim light. His posture was calm, but there was an unsettling depth to his gaze, something far too knowing for his tender years.
"I 'member you," he murmured, his voice soft but laced with an unnerving tranquility. "Are you gonna kiw me too...?"
The words struck Rell like a blow, sharper than she anticipated. Her breath hitched, and for a fleeting moment, guilt overwhelmed her like a tidal wave, leaving her breathless.
"No, I…" Her voice faltered.
She hadn't killed anyone—not directly, at least. But the aftermath—the destruction, the suffering, the broken families... she couldn't help but feel responsible. Even if she hadn't known, this child had lost everything, and that burden was one she couldn't ignore.
Her fingers twitched, drifting toward the dagger at her side before she stopped herself. What was she doing? What could she do? She had no malice toward him—no urge to harm him. But getting caught wasn't an option, and neither was hesitation.
Her decision was made for her as a pair of guards burst through a door at the far end of the hall. "Intruder!" one shouted, his voice cutting through the tense silence as he charged forward with terrifying speed.
Rell's heart raced. She cast one final, pained glance at Noah before turning toward the stairs.
She froze mid-step, the unmistakable sound of guards ascending from below echoed in the stone stairwell. Panic flared, and her eyes frantically darted wildly across the space until they landed on a door, slightly ajar. A guest room with a balcony. She'd searched it last time.
Without a second thought, Rell bolted through the door and slammed it shut behind her, the impact reverberating through the room. She dashed for the balcony, her feet skidding on the smooth stone. It offered little grip, but there was no time. She pulled herself onto the narrow ledge of the balcony and then clambered up to the roof.
Behind her, the sounds of pursuit swelled. The guards had stormed the room she'd just vacated, their frantic shouts mingling with the sound of armored footsteps. The roof might give her an advantage, but escape was the only way to survive.
Rell halted at the edge of the roof, scanning the shadowed expanse before her, weighing her options. Revenge was still possible,but only if she lived long enough to see it through. She should have left when she had the chance.
Her gaze landed on a tall tree behind the keep, its branches stretching outward like an invitation. Beneath, sprawled an overgrown hedge maze, its dense foliage offering both cover and a softer landing—if she could make the jump.
Steeling herself, Rell stepped back and drew a deep breath. She sprinted towards the roof's edge, every muscle taut with anticipation. The tree branch loomed ahead as she leapt, the gap closing with dizzying speed.
Her fingers barely found purchase, clutching the thick branch with desperate force. For a moment, she dangled, suspended in midair. Then, with a surge of strength, she hauled herself onto the branch, moving cautiously along its length. Spotting an opening below, she lowered herself slowly, one careful step at a time. After what felt like an eternity, she dropped into the maze, her fall cushioned by the dense hedge.
She hit the ground hard and rolled, absorbing the impact with her shoulder. Coming to a crouch, she listened for any sounds of pursuit or alarm. To her surprise, the area was empty—no guards, no patrols. Luck, it seemed, was still on her side—at least for now.
Rell straightened, eager to make her escape, but a voice—low and commanding—froze her in place:
"Stay where you are, or I shall have no choice but to strike you down."
The threat rippled through her. Reflexively, Rell yanked her bow from her back, nocking an arrow. She held her stance, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness while searching for the source. From the shadows emerged a tall, blond-haired man, a longsword sheathed across his back. His expression was hard, his presence radiating authority—and his armor bore an unmistakable insignia.
A warden.
This was bad. Regular guards were one thing, but a warden was a different beast entirely. Was escape even an option?
His voice sliced through the silence once more, cold and unyielding:
"I am Siegfried Albrecht, Third-Class Warden. Lower your weapon. You cannot best me in a duel."
The challenge hung in the air, like a gauntlet thrown at her feet. Rell's heart raced, but her resolve only strengthened. She wasn't backing down—not now, not ever. The dance for survival had only just begun.
"Are ya certain 'bout that?" she shot back, her voice steady despite the tension.
Before Siegfried could respond, she was already moving. In one fluid motion, Rell loosed the arrow, sending it flying toward his chest with deadly aim. The string twanged as she spun away, already in a full sprint. A moment's hesitation could be her undoing.
The sharp whistle of her arrow was drowned out by the frantic rhythm of her feet pounding against the stone path.The maze's twists and turns provided fleeting cover, but she could feel Siegfried's gaze on her, tracking her every step.
Her breath came in short, ragged bursts as she neared the maze's end. The cool night air hit her face, but it did little to quell the heat that burned through her veins. As she burst from the maze she went through her options. The main entrance, the obvious route, was a no-go. Too many guards, too many eyes. Could she climb the wall once more? It was steep and treacherous, but she'd done it before. Maybe, just maybe, she could pull it off again.
Rell dashed toward the stone wall she'd scaled earlier. Her muscles screamed from the exertion of running, but adrenaline pushed her forward.
Then she saw it: a shadow darting to the right, too swift, too erratic. Another intruder?
She didn't stop to check. If someone else was here, they could deal with the fallout. She didn't have time for extra complications. Whoever else was lurking didn't matter. She'd already stirred the hornet's nest—it was time to leave.