Was that all it took? Was this how my reign ended? 

Those were the final thoughts that rang through Idris’s mind. In terms of ringing, everything seemed like it was ringing. Not just his thoughts, but his vision, his hearing, his feeling, all of it was out of sync. 

He began to laugh. A maniacal kind of laughter, as if he were the only one in the throne room to hear it. The wizards that surrounded him suddenly crouched down defensively, the noise sending their nerves on edge. They looked amongst each other, searching for who had the answer for what to do next. It wasn’t their choice to make, however, that belonged to the vampire. 

Idris’s eyes had lost their glow. The luminescent pink had dwindled to a deep magenta. His skin seemed even more pale. His black curls flopped forward, hanging limply. Even his beard has become a mangled mess. He steadied himself. Straightening up as he assessed his wounds. They were closing, that was good. But they weren’t closing fast enough, and he was running out of energy to continue healing himself. It was time to face the facts. It was his final stand. 

There was a bright side however. He knew that he wasn’t the only one on their last legs. He could see just how beaten and worn the wizards were as well. Their robes were disheveled, and their attacks were less in frequency as well as potency. He began to wonder how much damage they would dish out before he dropped. The thought alone was enough to amplify the pain throbbing in his head. 

Thankfully, he didn't have to think for long. 

One of them held their hands up, hushed whispers escaping their lips before a circle formed around their palms. A large icicle shot from it. Idris tried to get out of the way, but he was too sluggish. He tried to summon his sword, but he was too weak. The icicle landed centre on his stomach, sending him backwards until he was shot through his throne and pinned to the wall. He could only wince, there wasn’t even any energy to spare for his agony. He raised his head, the attacker was not smiling from glee at his victory. They were on the floor, motionless. Idris smiled. So even you are all too tired for this, huh? Good, then your own final attacks will do me quite the favor in taking out you scum. 

The others joined in quickly, their lips all moving in unison. He had expected several magic circles to form in front of them, for a barrage of spells to hit him. He was stunned to see a singular one pop up, a massive one of orange color. It dispersed into the ground, a single beam of it shooting towards him and enshrouding him in an aura. 

The aura did not burn.

That was the first thing Idris noticed, and the most unsettling. Orange light wrapped around him like a living thing, thick and viscous, crawling over his limbs and soaking into his skin. 

The air grew dense, as though the world itself had decided to lean on him. The icicle pinning him to the wall began to blend into the light. The beam intensified, the circle on the floor blazing brighter as the remaining wizards screamed their incantation, blood leaked from their noses, ears, eyes. This was not a spell meant to be cast lightly. This was desperation given form.

Idris strained against it, muscles screaming as he tried to pull free. His fingers twitched. His jaw clenched. The aura responded instantly, tightening, constricting, pressing inward until even the act of breathing felt like defiance.

“Oh,” he rasped, realization cutting through the fog. “You’re not trying to kill me...”

The magic answered by driving him deeper into the wall.

Cracks spiderwebbed outward from his body as stone groaned and buckled. The throne room trembled, pillars shedding dust and debris as the spell reached its crescendo. The orange light flared, symbols surfacing within it—runes layered atop runes, each older and crueler than the last. Binding sigils. Warding seals. 

Idris roared.

It tore from his chest, shaking the chamber. For a moment—just a moment—the light flickered. Shadows surged outward from him like grasping hands, the remnants of his power lashing out blindly. 

But it wasn’t enough.

The spell adapted.

Stone flowed like liquid around his legs first, then his torso, cold and unyielding. It climbed his chest, his shoulders, locking him in place. He felt it creeping toward his throat, his face. Panic, true panic, flashed through him for the first time in centuries.

“No,” he snarled, teeth bared. “I will not be caged.”

The oldest wizard stepped forward, shaking so violently Idris thought he might collapse. He was an elf, that much was blaring with how pointed his ears were. His voice cracked as he spoke the final words, not shouted, but whispered.

“Idris of Darkthorn,” he said. “This is your end. We’ll make sure your power is used for something more…beneficial.”

The stone sealed over Idris’s mouth before he could respond. Lash out. Curse. Yell. Anything.

Darkness swallowed him as the final layer closed around his head, cutting off sight, sound—everything. The aura collapsed inward, compressing until it vanished entirely, leaving behind only solid rock that sunk into the ground.

Silence.

Then the chamber exhaled.

The wall where Idris had been pinned was now a tomb. Orange sigils burned faintly across its surface before fading one by one, sinking deep into the stone, where they would sleep.

The surviving wizards fell where they stood, some sobbing, some laughing weakly, some simply staring at the wall in horror.

“It’s done,” one of them whispered.

But they did not notice the hairline crack forming deep within the stone.

Nor could they hear the thought that lingered, trapped yet unbroken, echoing endlessly in the dark:

You should have killed me.

This is not death.

This is waiting.