"Alaric," a voice, soft as velvet, called out my name, unmistakably belonging to a child. "Why do they hate me?" Odessa's question hung in the air like a delicate whisper.
"They don't hate you," I replied, settling beside her amidst the unruly weeds that sprouted near the house. "It's just... tough love," I offered with a strained smile, masking the bitter truth. "Angelina... Gunnar... Bastian," I recited their names, her kin, each with their own burdens and ambitions. Bastian, especially, lived under the shadow of Gunnar, resentful of his elder brother's favored position in the family hierarchy.
"I don't believe that" Odessa murmured, her hand reaching to her temple. "They constantly...," her voice faltered, "berate me for everything... I don't mean to mess up."
"You don't," I reassured her, my tone more serious than intended. "Yeah... what you did was stupid, but everyone makes mistakes. Gunnar and Bastian would tear each other apart for Avelina's approval... they're trying to keep you down."
Odessa nodded, "The thieves didn't get away..." She muttered, then took a breath, changing the topic, "...And that's what they do to you?" Her question caught me off guard.
I gazed at her, puzzled. "What do you mean?"
"They treat you worse than me. You do their..." Odessa paused, searching for the right words, "dirty work? Every day... like you're another one of their servants. Like you're Dunstan."
I hesitated, shifting uncomfortably in the grass, the blades poking the underside of my skin, "I owe them."
"Alaric?" she asked, almost monotonously.
"Yeah?" I looked at her again, but she didn't respond, and instead her eyes were fixated on something else. I followed Odessa's gaze, and what was found made my heart skip a beat. Along the edge of the skyline an inky black slowly creeped in. As if someone was pouring goo onto a dome.
The world seemed to shrink around us, growing suffocatingly small. Panic surged within me, urging me to move, to scream, to do anything—but all I could do was watch, helpless. Closer and closer it loomed until—
I jolted awake from the dream, lying on my back amidst the dirt. Blinking against the harsh sunlight, I gradually adjusted to the brightness. Above me stretched a vast expanse of crisp blue sky, with towering trees dotting the horizon. The ground beneath me felt unforgiving, rocks digging into my flesh. Initially, I felt like nothing, but then the pain hit me all at once, a searing reminder of the arrow tearing through my body. I should have been dead, left to rot in that field, but another thought intruded—Dunstan and Odessa.
With a grunt, I attempted to sit up, only to be met with a fresh wave of agony, as if molten steel had been poured onto my skin. It coursed through me like a relentless sickness, eliciting a muttered curse through gritted teeth. "Fuck... come on." I urged myself. With one more attempt, I was able to get onto my feet, drawing a sharp breath.
A patch of blood, its vivid hue contrasting sharply against the earth, caught my eye. It was a considerable amount, so much so, everything flooded back to me in a torrent—losing control of my body, the ruthless killing of the bandits, and... the sorcery.
"...Shit..." I muttered, but the words seemed to dissipate into the air. It couldn't have happened. It couldn't be true. Yes, there was blood, but surely it was mine, wasn't it? The bodies of the bandits were nowhere to be seen. How could they have vanished if I really did murder them.
The sounds of hooves broke my train of thought, a hopeful sound until it ceased as abruptly as it had begun. "Hello?" My voice was frail, hardly more than a whisper, as I clutched my stomach and edged forward. "Dunstan...?" Silence, thick and suffocating, answered me. The forest held its breath, leaves rustling like whispered threats. I retreated, my back against the tower's cold stone, as the silence stretched.
Then, a voice shattered the stillness. "Stay where you are!" It came from the left. A figure emerged. He bore similar armor to the soldiers in the city. Bronze in color, mail draped over his body.
More followed soon after, until seven soldiers surrounded me. My hands raised slowly, quietly, voice faltering, "I didn't..." But the words died on my lips, surrendering to the inevitable as I sank to my knees. "Okay-- okay," I breathed.
"Restrain him," he commanded, voice cold, detached. At his word, another figure approached with deliberate steps, their presence suddenly close behind me. I couldn't help but flinch as their hands, firm and unyielding, clasped around my wrists, pulling me to my feet with an unexpected force.
Nothing but silence escaped from them, but they made it painfully clear their intentions. They skillfully twisted a rope around my hands, the fibers biting into my skin, securing them tightly behind my back. Without acknowledgment or further instruction, they hoisted me up onto a horse, treating me more like cargo than a person.
"What did I do?" I finally spoke up. The soldier beside me ran a hand along the horse and then turned to face me.
"Sorcery," he snarled, then removed his helmet, revealing the face of my captor. Long black hair was tied up into a bun, his eyes small and set strangely apart. The years had clearly taken their toll on him, with graying visible along his hairline and a sagging that marred an otherwise firm jawline. "You'll answer to Chlodovech for that."
"Sorcery," I stifled a laugh. "I'm a Faust; you can't do this to me," I declared, attempting to dissuade them. However, just muttering those words left me feeling nauseated.
The soldier spat before tapping the horse's side. Gradually, it started moving forward, rocking us back and forth. "A Faust, eh? Don't lie to me, boy," he mocked. "You're the peasant child they took in. At least you'll be off their hands now, another burden removed."
If I were someone else, I might have countered, but I let it go, not wanting to invite more trouble. Moreover, the words he spoke held truth. "Do you know where my friends are?" I inquired, but he didn't respond, instead fastening his helmet back on. "Hey--," I attempted to catch his attention.
"Don't know," he interrupted me, in a surprisingly casual tone. "Ran off, left you behind would be my guess," the soldier suggested, then lapsed back into silence, clearly aiming to demotivate me.
For the remainder of the ride, I remained silent, watching as the scenery around us gradually passed by. They had chosen a different path, one through a less dense section of the forest. The rope chafed my wrists, and the manner in which I was bound was far from comfortable. The biting cold further exacerbated my discomfort, making sure my situation couldn't get any better.
As snow started to fall from the sky above, the first snow of Heladon, a thought crossed my mind. Watching the flakes softly settle on the ground, I realized there must be a way to escape this. Although they had me secured to the horse, I could fake passing out, anything that might provide an opportunity for escape.
However, just like the unchanging cold, I didn't do anything. I refused to do anything. Even if I managed to get off the horse, where the hell could I possibly go? How could I hope to outrun them? They were soldiers, specifically trained for situations like this, and could easily end my life in a moment. Escape was not a practical option, especially not for someone with as little experience as myself.
I lifted my gaze to the sky, which had transformed from its bright blue of just minutes before to now being overshadowed by dark, rolling gray clouds. Snowflakes melted on my already freezing body. As the horse's movements caused my body to bob up and down, my head swayed in tandem, my hair now a tangled and filthy mess. All of this happened so quickly. In less than a couple of hours, something that was terrifying to realize.
By the time the city came back into view, night had fallen over us. The sounds of animals were gone, replaced by the whistle of the wind as it moved through the snow-enveloped darkness. I glanced to the right, at Heladon City. The glow from torchlight was striking, casting a warmth that almost made the city seem beautiful amidst the cold.
"Finally," another rider murmured as all the horses slowed to a stop. "I'm freezing my ass off."
"Always complaining, aren't you?" my rider retorted, and the two continued to banter. I, however, lacked the interest to pay attention to their conversation. "Less than twenty minutes. Come on," he eventually said, urging us forward.
The crunching of snow resounded under the horses' hooves as we crossed the city's boundary. The dim surroundings quickly became illuminated by the flickering fires scattered throughout the city. Even at night, the streets were not deserted, though they were less crowded than usual.
I found it increasingly difficult to remain still as we drew nearer to what I presumed would be my final destination. Those accused of sorcery, whether the accusations were true or not, were likely to face execution, drenched in oil and set ablaze.
The warmth finally reached my numb skin. Though faint, it brought a measure of calm, reminding me how much I missed my room back at the Faust Estate. It was small, a feature I cherished, easily warmed by a fire even during the harshest winters. It was the only place in the world where I could truly be alone.
"Still alive back there?" The soldier nudged me with his arm.
I murmured a response, then said louder, "Barely."
The horse began to slow. "Good," he said slowly, with deliberate emphasis. "We're here. Someone help get him off." The soldier dismounted, and two others rushed over, swiftly untying the rope that had secured me to the horse's back. My gaze drifted to the building in front of us—The Royal Families' Estate, or rather, what remained of it. With firm grips, they pulled me off the horse. My feet hit the ground with a thud, and they nudged me to stand on my own feet.
The building stood as a clear testament to wealth, serving not just as a residence but as a declaration of the inhabitants' significance to all who saw it. Large and ornate, it boasted architectural designs that seemed complex yet devoid of purpose. Although the structure was impressive, the values it represented were less so, a thought that crossed my mind as the soldiers urged me up the steps leading to the building.
Four guards were positioned in front of the grand entrance, an imposing arc that swept upward into an open doorway. These guards were adorned in lighter, seemingly more comfortable gear, offering them a more favorable appearance compared to that of the soldiers who must have been tired by now. I couldn't imagine trekking around in pounds of metal that barely kept you warm.
"The magic user?" One of them asked, somehow already knowing.
"The magic user?" One of the guards inquired, seemingly aware of my identity.
"Aye," confirmed the soldier beside me.
The guard nodded. "You, come with," he directed the soldier who had ridden with me. "The rest of you, report back to the barracks." With those instructions, I was pushed inside, the guard and soldier following along. Once again, the soldier removed his helmet, cradling it by his side.
We proceeded down a lengthy corridor. The floor was smooth and polished, while the walls were built from a foundation of stone topped with light wood. Ahead, another door awaited, guarded by four men. Recognizing the guard accompanying us, they unlocked the door, and we were ushered into a significantly larger room.
It was the grand hall, which, from my previous memory, had undergone considerable changes. The large table that once occupied the space had been removed, making way for a grand procession leading up to a throne. This throne, constructed from dark marble, rose imposingly. The ceiling, as impressive as I recalled, arched gracefully overhead. Large windows were still present, yet they did not offer views of the city as before; instead, they were obscured.
Sitting on that imposing throne? King Chlodovech. His once soft, inexperienced face, now ridden with years of complexion. Drawn and weathered. Adorning him was a set of black armor, vastly different from any attire he had worn before, his gaze firmly fixed upon me.
"Leave us," he commanded, his voice simple. The once immature, almost child-like quality of his tone had been replaced by that of an aged and seasoned ruler. "Except for you, Vondor," he added abruptly, addressing the soldier by my side. I glanced around, only then noticing that everyone had knelt, prompting me to quickly follow suit and drop to one knee.
The room quickly emptied, leaving me, Vondor, and King Chlodovech alone. "On your feet," he commanded, and I instinctively obeyed, barely registering my own compliance. "...Grab his arms and search for weapons..." he instructed Vondor, his voice directed firmly towards the soldier.
"Sir," Vondor began, "Already have, back during th..."
His explanation was abruptly halted by the king's fist pounding against the arm of the throne, becoming increasingly impatient. "Check. Him. Again." Chlodovech's voice was deliberately harsh, "In times of war and poverty, even within your own nation, you can never be too sure. Can you, Vondor?"
The soldier nodded before thoroughly patting me down. "Nothing," Vondor confirmed shortly after.
"Good," Chlodovech responded, then gestured for me to approach with a hand wave. "Come... come, Alaric." His use of my name took me by surprise; I hadn't expected him to remember. My legs moved me forward almost of their own accord, as though my deep-seated disdain and hatred for him had evaporated. I had constructed an image in my mind of who he was, who he had become, yet in this moment, Chlodovech was just another man. Like everyone else. "How old are you now?" he asked, no longer in a stern tone.
"Twenty winters," I answered, and at my response, the king laughed.
"I never imagined it would take this long..." he mused almost absentmindedly, his gaze penetrating mine.
"Sir?" I asked, slightly tilting my head in confusion.
At my word, he seemed to snap back to the present. "Ah yes, yes, of course..." Chlodovech then turned his attention to Vondor. "Our wait is over." His gaze shifted back to me, and I could only respond with a puzzled look, my eyebrows raised in question. "He sensed the sorcery in the woods... and after checking in with the Faust's... I knew it was you." The king's expression turned into an icy grin. "You will win us this war."
"What?" I exclaimed, raising my voice as I backed away.
"You aren't a normal human... you are Masavoran." Chlodovech rose from his throne as I stepped back, then advanced towards me. "Harnessing a power that no man possesses. People like Vondor... people like me? We derive our sorcery from unnatural means, from external sources... but you, boy?" He placed his hands on my shoulders, emphasizing his point. "Your power emanates from within you... and that is precisely what we need. Orerha is poised to cross our borders any day now... but with you on our side, they wouldn't stand a chance."
As I gazed into his face, taking in his expression and the weight of his words, my perception of him shifted dramatically. He no longer appeared as just a man but as a master of manipulation, someone seeking to exploit me. "Even if that were true..." I responded hastily, "I will never join your war."
"No? Then what will you do about that curse?" he asked slowly. Before I could respond, he signaled to the man behind me to speak.
Vondor held his position, not moving, "When you were a child, you were cursed by a sorcerer practicing dark arts," he started. "It wasn't just any curse, though, but one that intertwines the souls of two beings." My gaze hardened as I looked at Chlodovech's contorted expression while Vondor explained. "Unless you aid us in this war, his soul will take over your vessel, your body. It will obliterate your soul and bar you from an afterlife. Then, he will harness your abilities, and the ensuing loss of human life will exceed anything you can imagine."
Chlodovech raised a hand to halt Vondor, then took over the conversation himself. "Now tell me, boy, do you still refuse to aid us in this war?"
His gaze pierced through me, and I could sense Vondor's intense stare boring into my back. The room descended into silence, all eyes on me, awaiting my response. What was I to do? Yield to the demands of war? Without even knowing the extent of my abilities, how can they expect me to act? Yet, the curse weighed heavily on my mind. How could I be certain it was even true? Was it merely another ploy?
"No," I repeated, more firmly this time, though the fear was clear in my expression. "Murder is murder. Either way, hundreds will die. If necessary, I'll find another means to... break the curse."
"Really?" Chlodovech stepped closer, his face nearly touching mine, before briskly walking past, his shoulder colliding with mine forcefully enough to turn me around. "If you refuse to join us... and this curse you bear threatens our very existence... there remains only one definitive solution to end the curse." He faced me again, "Execution."
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