Read Fractured Minds free: the opening chapter

Fractured Echoes: The Empty Quarter

The rain smelled of rust and regret. It wasn't clean water falling from the sky, not in Dusthaven. It tasted of the iron ore dug from the nearby hills, mixed with the grime of a town that hadn't seen a proper cleaning in decades. I pulled my collar higher, wishing for a memory warm enough to justify the effort. A foolish wish. Warm memories were luxuries I’d traded away a long time ago.

The market was a crush of bodies, a tangle of stalls draped with faded cloth. Merchants hawked stale bread and bruised fruit. Beggars pleaded for scraps. And everywhere, the low murmur of requests. Not for coin, not usually. For forgetting.

I moved through the crowd, a ghost among the living. The remnants of my Inquisitor’s uniform, dark wool coat, worn leather boots, still commanded a measure of respect, or at least, space. People parted just enough to avoid bumping into me. Good. I didn’t need a scene. I didn’t need anything except a few silvers to see me through the week.

Old Man Hemlock’s stall was tucked away in a shadowed corner, a small square of chipped wood piled high with dried herbs and strange powders. He was hunched over a mortar and pestle, grinding something that smelled faintly of lavender and loss. Hemlock wasn’t a Weaver himself, just a supplier. He stocked the ingredients they needed for their… craft.

“Kaelen,” he rasped, not looking up. “Still chasing shadows?”

“Still selling oblivion,” I replied, my voice rough from disuse. “Anything interesting?”

“Interesting is a matter of perspective. Old Man Tiber’s wife. Wants to forget the fever took their youngest. Standard fare.” He scooped a pinch of grey powder into a small pouch. “Young Elara, the baker’s girl. Wants to forget a… disagreement with her father. Less standard.”

I leaned against the stall, watching him work. “Disagreements rarely require complete erasure.”

“Ah, but this wasn’t just words, Kaelen. A broken betrothal. A stolen kiss. Family honor. You know how it is.” Hemlock finally looked up, his eyes clouded with age and something else, something that looked suspiciously like pity. "You used to know how it was.”

I ignored the jab. Pity was another luxury I couldn't afford. "I need work, Hemlock. Something… discreet."

He chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. “Discreet is my middle name. Though I prefer to be called Barnaby. Word is, Lord Vorlag’s been sending inquiries. Wants a specialist. Someone who can… extract. Not just diminish.”

---

My gut tightened. Vorlag. The name tasted like ash. He was one of the principal lords of Veridia, a man obsessed with control. And ‘extracting’ memories wasn’t a gentle process. It was brutal, invasive. It left the subject a hollow shell.

“What kind of extraction?”

“Details are scarce. Something about a traitor. A former advisor. Apparently, the man knows too much. Vorlag wants it all. Every secret, every alliance, every whispered conversation.” Hemlock’s gaze was steady, assessing. “He’s offering a generous sum. Enough to keep you fed for a year.”

A year. A year of not scavenging for scraps, of maybe even finding a clean room. The temptation was strong. But Vorlag… working for him felt like selling the last piece of my soul. What little remained, anyway.

“And you think I’m the man for the job?”

“You were the best Inquisitor we had. Before… well, before you weren’t.” Hemlock didn't elaborate. Everyone knew the story. The botched investigation. The accusations of treason. The forced ‘retirement.’ My memories of that time were conveniently fragmented, a gift from the very institution I’d served.

“I’m rusty,” I said, knowing it was a weak excuse.

“Rust can be polished. Besides, desperate men do desperate things. And you, Kaelen, reek of desperation.”

He wasn’t wrong.

A young woman approached the stall, her face pale and drawn. She couldn't have been more than twenty. She clutched a handful of copper coins.

“Master Hemlock,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “I… I need something for my brother. He keeps seeing things. Nightmares, they say. From the war.”

Hemlock sighed. “The war leaves scars, child. On the land, and on the mind.” He began preparing a calming draught, a blend of chamomile and moonpetal. “This will ease his sleep. It won’t erase the memories, but it will dull the edges.”

The girl accepted the pouch with trembling hands. “Thank you.” She glanced at me, her eyes filled with a mixture of fear and curiosity. “He says… he says the Inquisitors used to do more than just calm nightmares.”

I turned away, pretending to examine a jar of dried beetles. The accusation hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. It didn’t matter that I’d been disgraced. The stain of the Inquisition clung to me like a second skin.

---

Later, I found myself standing before the imposing gates of Vorlag’s fortress. The structure was built of black stone, a grim monument to the lord’s ambition. It loomed over Dusthaven like a predator watching its prey.

The guards were heavily armed, their faces impassive. They barely glanced at me as I presented Hemlock’s token. They knew who I was. Or, who I had been.

I was led through a labyrinth of corridors, past stern-faced servants and silent sentinels. The air grew colder with each step. The fortress wasn’t just a stronghold, it was a mausoleum.

Finally, I was ushered into a lavishly decorated chamber. Lord Vorlag was seated at a large mahogany table, studying a map of Veridia. He was a tall man, with a shaved head and piercing blue eyes. He radiated power, and a quiet cruelty.

“Kaelen,” he said, without looking up. “I’ve heard… tales of your skill. Your dedication to uncovering the truth.”

“Tales are often exaggerated, my lord,” I replied, keeping my voice neutral.

He finally raised his gaze, his eyes locking onto mine. “Perhaps. But your reputation precedes you. I have a task for you. A delicate one.” He gestured to a figure chained to a nearby wall. The man was gaunt and pale, his eyes vacant. “This is Theron. He was my advisor. A trusted confidant. Until he proved… unreliable.”

“Unreliable how?”

“He possesses information that could destabilize my plans. Information that could threaten the future of Veridia. I want it all. Every detail. Every name. Every alliance.”

I approached Theron, examining him closely. He was broken, a husk of a man. Whatever secrets he held, they’d been well-guarded.

“And you believe I can extract them?”

“I believe you’re the only one who can. You understand the art of Remembrance. You know how to reach the deepest recesses of the mind. How to… persuade it to yield its secrets.” Vorlag’s lips curled into a thin smile. “I’m offering you a chance to serve Veridia once more, Kaelen. To redeem yourself.”

Redemption. Another luxury I couldn’t afford. But the offer was tempting. A year’s worth of coin. A roof over my head. A purpose, however twisted.

I looked back at Theron, at the despair etched on his face. This wasn't justice. It was torture. But in a world as broken as Veridia, justice was a forgotten concept.

“What’s the catch?” I asked, knowing there had to be one.

Vorlag steepled his fingers. “The catch, Kaelen, is simple. Complete discretion. No questions asked. And a willingness to do whatever it takes. Even if it means… sacrificing a little more of yourself.”

I met his gaze, my own expression unreadable. I’d already sacrificed so much. What was a little more?

“I accept,” I said, the words tasting like ashes in my mouth.

Vorlag smiled, a predatory glint in his eyes. “Excellent. Let us begin.” He nodded to the guards. “Prepare Theron. And bring me the instruments.”

As they moved towards the broken man, I felt a familiar hollowness in my chest. It wasn't the emptiness of lost memories. It was the emptiness of a lost soul. And I knew, with a chilling certainty, that this job would only deepen the void.

…deepen the void. The guards, brutish men with scarred knuckles and vacant expressions, wasted no time. They dragged Theron onto a crude wooden table, securing his limbs with thick leather straps. The instruments arrived quickly, not the gleaming tools of a surgeon, but the implements of a butcher repurposed for a more insidious trade. Scalpels, probes, and a strange, humming device crafted from brass and obsidian. Things designed to pry, not to heal.

I ignored the spectacle, focusing instead on the chamber itself. Lord Vorlag's stronghold wasn't opulent, but functional. Stone walls, reinforced with iron, spoke of defense rather than decadence. The air hung heavy with the scent of mildew and something else, something metallic and faintly sickening. It was the smell of broken minds, I realized. This wasn't the first time such… procedures had been carried out here.

“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” I asked Vorlag, my voice flat.

He didn’t bother denying it. “Necessity breeds innovation, Kaelen. Veridia faces threats on all sides. Sometimes, unpleasant measures are required to ensure our survival.”

Survival. The justification of every tyrant, every monster. I’d heard it all before.

I circled Theron, studying the damage already inflicted. The man was a mess. Years of courtly life had left him soft, unprepared for this kind of brutality. His mind, I suspected, was already fractured. Extracting coherent information would be like sifting sand through a broken sieve.

“He’s been… prepped,” I stated, stating the obvious.

“Efficiently,” Vorlag replied, a hint of impatience in his voice. “I expect results, Kaelen. I don’t pay for protracted examinations.”

“I work at my own pace, my lord. Rushing this will only yield falsehoods and fragmented memories. I need a baseline. A clear understanding of his mental state before the… interrogation begins.”

Vorlag conceded with a curt nod. “Very well. But be swift.”

I closed my eyes, reaching out with my Gift. It wasn't a glamorous ability. No bursts of fire or telekinetic displays. Mine was the art of Remembrance, the ability to touch a mind, to navigate its labyrinthine corridors, to retrieve lost memories, or, if necessary, to alter them. It was a skill highly sought after in Veridia. Not for the pursuit of truth, mind you. But for the manipulation of it.

Dusthaven, the market town I’d drifted into a few months prior, was a perfect example. A festering wound on the edge of the kingdom, it thrived on secrets and shadows. Smugglers, mercenaries, and exiled nobles rubbed shoulders with beggars and cutthroats. And everyone, everyone, had something they wanted forgotten. A debt unpaid, a crime committed, a love betrayed. I provided a service. For a price, I could erase those inconvenient truths, reshape memories to fit a more palatable narrative.

It wasn't a noble profession, but it paid well. And it kept me occupied. Occupied enough to avoid dwelling on the ghosts of my past. The memories I’d lost. The choices I’d made.

My reputation in Dusthaven was… complex. Some whispered that I was a miracle worker, a savior who offered solace and a clean slate. Others called me a charlatan, a peddler of false hope who preyed on the desperate. The truth, as always, was somewhere in between. I didn't judge my clients. I simply fulfilled their requests. Their morality wasn't my concern.

But this… this was different. This wasn’t about erasing a shameful indiscretion or a painful regret. This was about extracting information that could have far-reaching consequences. And the man on the table wasn’t a willing participant.

I touched Theron’s temple, my fingers brushing against his clammy skin. His mind was a storm of fractured thoughts and raw fear. I pushed past the chaos, searching for the core of his being. The man he once was. It was faint, almost extinguished, but it was there. A flicker of intelligence, a spark of defiance.

“He’s resisting,” I said, my voice strained. “He’s built up mental barriers. It will take time to break them down.”

“Then break them down,” Vorlag commanded, his voice like chipped flint.

I ignored him, delving deeper into Theron’s consciousness. Images flooded my mind, lavish banquets, political intrigues, clandestine meetings. Snippets of conversations, fragments of plans. But they were distorted, fragmented, like looking at a shattered mirror. The guards’ initial… encouragement… had done its work.

I needed to find the anchor. The key memory that held everything together. The one that would unlock the secrets Vorlag craved.

It was a difficult process, like navigating a treacherous maze blindfolded. Every step was fraught with danger. The mind was a fragile thing. A careless touch could shatter it completely. But I was experienced. I knew how to tread carefully. How to coax and persuade. How to… manipulate.

Hours passed. The chamber grew colder. The air thicker with tension. Vorlag paced restlessly, his gaze fixed on me. The guards remained impassive, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I found it. A single, vivid memory. A meeting between Theron and a delegation from the Northern Clans. A discussion about a potential alliance. An alliance that could threaten Vorlag’s control over the region.

“I have something,” I said, my voice hoarse. “An alliance. The Northern Clans. They’re planning to…”

But before I could finish, a searing pain erupted in my own mind. A jolt of raw energy that sent me reeling backwards. I stumbled, clutching my head, my vision blurring.

“What’s happening?” Vorlag demanded, his voice sharp with concern.

“Someone is interfering,” I gasped, struggling to regain my composure. “A mental intrusion. Someone is trying to block me.”

I focused my Gift, searching for the source of the interference. It was strong, powerful, and… familiar.

My eyes met Vorlag’s. And I realized, with a sickening jolt, that the true target wasn’t Theron. It was me.

He hadn’t wanted me to extract the information. He’d wanted to test my abilities. To see how much I could endure. To break me, just as he’d broken Theron.

A slow smile spread across Vorlag’s face. “Interesting,” he murmured. “Very interesting indeed.” The hunt had changed. I wasn't merely a tool. I was the prey.

The sample ends here.