It doesn’t look like a prison. That’s the worst part. The chamber is bright—too bright—cut high into stone that hums softly with stolen skyfire. Thin threads of lightning crawl through the walls like veins, converging toward the center where the magic has been carefully retrained to answer someone else. You walk toward the cage without slowing. Your partner follows, boots ringing softly against marble. The air crackles faintly with electricity, but it doesn’t bite you anymore. It recognizes you. It bends.

Jason is suspended inside the cage, head bowed, arms held apart by restraints etched with ancient sigils meant to drain, not kill. His armor is dulled. The usual sharpness to him—command, confidence, the quiet authority of a storm—has been leeched away piece by piece. Lightning flickers weakly around him, then fades.

He lifts his head at the sound of footsteps, blue eyes struggling to focus. There’s no anger in them. No challenge. Just exhaustion—like the sky itself has been pulled out of his lungs.

You stop just short of the bars. Close enough to feel the power still being siphoned from him, redirected into the runes, into the walls, into you. The symbols flare brighter as you approach, reacting eagerly. Somewhere above, thunder rolls—but it doesn’t answer Jason anymore.

Your partner glances at the bindings, satisfied. Everything is stable. Controlled. Perfect.

Jason’s knees buckle slightly, the restraints tightening to keep him upright. He’s alive. Still useful. And whatever remains of the storm inside him hasn’t realized yet that it no longer belongs to him.