Chapter Text
He had been wandering across a vast desert by foot for longer than he could remember. He was naked for the entirety of his pilgrimage (where had his clothes gone?), and the sun bore down on his neck and back, scorching and flaying his dry skin. The upper layers of his skin curling away from his body, flaking off as he moved—he could feel it. Yet, he felt no pain.
He glanced down at his dark feet, which contrasted starkly against the sand. His bones stood out sharply under his skin, giving him a mummified appearance. Each step met burning red-yellow sand, and he knew he should feel burning pain in the soles of his feet—gritty, rough sand tearing at his skin. Hot air curling around his frame. If he stopped to imagine the sensations, he could feel some sort of phantom pain, but even his dehydrated body knew it was not even a fraction accurate.
Dehydration.
How long could a human survive without water? How long had he been walking? Had he cast a cooling charm on his body a moment before? Had he summoned water? He held a hand out, wordlessly calling for water.
Nothing came.
And then he remembered. He remembered the thousands of years he had spent, trapped in this prison of his own doing. The loneliness that formed the bars of his jail. The moments of clarity and the moments of obscurity. If he flexed his magic, he could feel himself contained, right up to the edges of the jewel he inhabited. If he paused, he remembered his name. The Dominion Jewel.
No. That wasn’t quite right.
He had fought, he had conquered, and he had lived. All before becoming the Dominion Jewel.
If only he could remember his name…
-x-
“Nakhti!”
In the central room of their noble house, twelve-year-old Nakhti froze in place at his mother’s call, a single finger outstretched towards the wall. Freezing in place did nothing to stop the magic from dancing out of his fingertips and soaring into the beige wall opposite him. Nakhti could feel his magic right up to when it collided with the surface. Beige bled into an obnoxious orange color, filling the whole panel, then continuing to the adjacent wall. Nakhti followed the trail of orange, a playful grin dancing onto his face as he lowered his hand. His eyes were beginning to water from the delightful brightness, but yet the wall still felt empty. He waved a second finger at the wall and a crudely painted ox blinked into existence, teetering back and forth before finding its balance. It snorted and charged off onto the next wall.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Mother was at his shoulder before he could blink. A strong hand gripped his shoulder, spinning him around. Nakhti gulped, staring down at the straps of Mother’s sandals. A coil of Mother’s magic whipped free and pulled his chin up. And there she was: Mother in all her imposing glory, stern glower in place. She was absolutely terrifying, even though to the outsider, she looked like a typical noble wife. She was clad in sheer, dainty linen that had been cut and hemmed to perfection. Her sleeves were pleated, and golden patterns were embroidered on the hems. She held no discernible weapon, which Nakhti thought was clever, if she wanted everyone to underestimate her. A large, round amulet hung around her neck, a glittering red gemstone set in the middle. Easily, this could be written off as expensive jewelry, albeit quite minimalistic, but Nakhti knew the truth. The amulet was Mother’s focus. She had (what she liked to call) refined magic that was difficult to channel sometimes. Similarly, Nakhti was supposed to get a focus when his magical education begun at five, when his magic manifested, but his magic was decidedly different. None of the magical foci could properly handle his wild magic, and he went through more than he could count. Some shuddered and cracked when he tried forcing magic through it. Others tried to wiggle out of his hand, and when finding his grip was too tight, burned him.
Nakhti did not like magical foci.
Mother’s eyes drifted away from his own and onto the snorting ox. With a sigh and a flick of her fingers, the walls turned back to the original color, “You must stop with that. Your father’s visitors are beginning to think they are receiving divine prophecies.”
“They are divine, coming from me,” Nakhti grinned. His mother remained staunchly unamused with her arms folded across her chest and an arched eyebrow. At this, his smile faded into a scowl of his own. “The pretenders deserve it! They come in, lying about their magic, and then order us around! So what if they see things?”
Mother sighed, the exasperation nearly tangible, “That doesn’t mean you can drive them mad, Nakhti.”
He really didn’t see the problem. They were considered mad by the public anyway. Or sacred. Whatever the difference was.
“You’ll be starting your training soon,” Mother placed a hand on his shoulder. Her fingers dug into his flesh, leaving crescent-moon-shaped marks on his skin. “I don’t want to hear that from your Master for this kind of behavior. Do you understand?”
Nakhti scowled at the tightening hand on his shoulder—the way his bones seemed to bend slightly at her grip. His mother could easily snap his bones and mend him, he knew—and she had before. It had been a painful ordeal, and she had commanded his silent obedience for five whole months afterwards.
If there was only one thing he hated, it was that Nakhti hated being controlled.
“Take your hand off of me, Mother,” he all but snarled, lifting his eyes to meet Mother’s. He could see his reflection in her dark brown eyes. He stared into his reflection’s eyes, injecting silent will into his words. He wanted the pain to stop—his bones to strengthen—his mother to let go.
Mother’s eyes, normally so dark that Nakhti had a hard time differentiating the brown from the black parts of her eyes, flared bright red—the same shade as the gem in the amulet around her neck—and she stepped back, hand dropping to her side.
Nakhti smiled. He was powerful, and he was going to do great things.