《Evenfall》 Chapter 0 The dead of the night brought with it shadows, a darkness that could only be found in the depths of this aged, abandoned castle. The dark stone bricks had a cold that penetrated through the thickest of coats, with the winds of the storm passing through the cracks of the keep and creating sounds akin to the whispers of the dead. Ciaran walked with slow, steady steps through the hallway. The light of the moon peaked in between the looming dark storm clouds, shining onto the hallway and floor through ceiling-high windows, leaving its trace on the sides of his face as he wandered, lost in thought. The whistling of the wind coincided with the low voices resounding in his mind, some yelling while others would mutter something in a hushed tone. They spoke over one another, the voices overlapping so that only a few words and fragments of sentences could be made out. He ignored them, as he always did, and didn¡¯t pay attention to the phantoms swaying behind the glass, knowing they were all illusions that didn¡¯t exist outside of his mind. The mist from the hailing rain filled the air as Ciaran passed by an old painting of a young man that looked very similar to himself. The dark wooden frames of the oil painting were carved with intricate designs by a renowned woodcarver, the details showing dark dragons mid flight, surrounded by the stars and a withered, black rose. They were symbols found on the noble crest of the family that once lived here, though they had all fallen to a near-ruined state several years ago. He looked at the man in the painting. Hair darker than the night, with eyes that shone a silver brighter than the moon. His sharp features and piercing gaze penetrated the onlooker, as if his spirit was haunting these halls, watching any that walked by. If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Ciaran raised a hand and touched the painting, whispering to himself, ¡°Grandfather¡­ It¡¯s been a while. How are you? I hope you¡¯re doing well, wherever you are. I can finally accomplish the goal you dedicated your life towards. If you¡¯d just wait a little longer, your life¡¯s work will be complete. Our family¡­ won¡¯t have to bear this burden for much longer.¡± He let his eyes linger for a second longer before turning his gaze to the path ahead and walking again, the echo of his boots colliding with a clap of thunder. The lighting that flashed a second later illuminated Ciaran¡¯s face under the hood of his dark cloak, as well as the long, thin scar running over his left eye. He pursed his lips, then tugged his hood forward, encasing his features in shadow. Chapter 1 5 Years Ago, Duvane Duchy, Neix Keep The dressing room was bustling with activity. Ciaran was tugged this way and that as everyone helped him get ready for the celebration tonight. Penelope held up a silver chain in one hand a sapphire brooch in another. She sighed and said, ¡°Lord Ciaran, which one should I choose? They both suit you so well.¡± She held them up against his suit jacket before choosing the sapphire brooch, pairing them with matching sapphire cuff links. It was the first time Ciaran was getting dressed in such a formal outfit. Although he was the heir to the duchy, their family was rather private and rarely invited outsiders over. Today, his first coming of age, was a rare exception. Martha, standing behind Ciaran and fixing his long, waist-length black hair, said, ¡°Lord Ciaran, I can¡¯t believe you¡¯re finally turning 15. I swear it was just yesterday that your mother came back to the keep and announced her pregnancy. It¡¯s not long now before you become an adult, and yet you are already starting to resemble His Grace Astraphos.¡± Ciaran didn¡¯t pay any mind to their nostalgia, as it was commonplace for the people of the keep to celebrate the first coming of age. The second coming of age for a Duvane had a somber tone full of mourning, reminiscent of funerals, so the first coming of age was celebrated with twice the joy and laughter. He had been wondering something since he saw her earlier, so he turned his head back to say, ¡°Martha, have you died your hair?¡± ¡°I have! It¡¯s a lovely blonde now.¡± She pointed to a bottle in a pink-tinted glass jar. The label said ¡°Terianne¡¯s Dye¡± in elegant, scripted font. Ciaran picked it up and turned it around in his hand as he felt a tug from his hair being pulled and woven with accessories. ¡°This is a dye to change the color of your hair, but it¡¯s different from regular cheap dye. This one is more expensive and took a lot of my savings, but I don¡¯t regret buying it! Just a few drops can change your hair color, and thanks to some sort of mana plant they added into the formula, it takes effect quickly and lasts a long time.¡± Ciaran watched her reflection in the mirror as Martha spun around, twirling, showing off her long, curly blond hair. ¡°How is? Doesn¡¯t it look like I was born with this hair color? My roots won¡¯t grow in for at least another 3 months, and then I just have to add a drop or two to update the color again.¡± Her brown eyes twinkled with mirth before grabbing a mirror from the side and taking Ciaran to a full-length mirror. She positioned the small mirror behind Ciaran, and he saw the accessories his hair was decorated with. It was a set of jewelry their ancestor Astraphos Duvane crafted from the rare and beautiful Alzer gems. They were a glittering silver, formed only when the fiery breath of a dragon met the sand and waves of a beach. It was a gift given to Astraphos by the dragon he befriended on the day it bestowed a great blessing to him and his lineage. Ciaran looked at the intricate silver metalwork that encased the gems, highlighting their rarity and beauty. It was a tradition in their family for a Duvane to wear these accessories on their first coming of age, to honor their ancestor and the blessing he brought to their line, so every Duvane, regardless of gender, grew their hair out to the same length as Astraphos to prepare for this day. Ciaran sighed as he looked at it, wondering what the point in keeping up with this tradition was when it had already been 200 years since the blessing backlashed into a curse. Penelope came over and looked at the accessories, her aged face creasing with sadness as she said, ¡°Lord Ciaran, I¡¯m sure that one day you or your descendants will wear these accessories proudly, with the curse gone and the blessing restored. By then, keeping up with this tradition will surely be worth it.¡± Ciaran sighed. He didn¡¯t really believe that would happen, but he still said, ¡°I¡¯m sure that day will come, Penelope.¡± As they were adjusting the last bits of his outfit, the door opened and his mother, the current Duchess Octavia, walked in. She was wearing a silver gown and keilin accessories. The jewelry set with vermilion gems was passed down from another ancestor that lived three centuries ago, who had received them as a gift from an allied nation. Ciaran was only 15, but he had already grown to be as tall as his mother. She walked over and looked at him with a smile and said, ¡°Are you ready? Everyone has gathered downstairs.¡± He followed his mother out of the room, leaving Martha and Penelope, who had different tasks from the staff who would help to serve the guests at the banquet, alone in the room. As he walked down the hallway, the old dark stone was lit up by a warm magelight. The magic spell inscribed inside them sensed the presence of living beings and lit up whenever someone was 3 meters away, lighting up and then dimming as the two moved through the keep, leaving a dark hallway behind them as they left. ~|(+)|~ Octavia stopped before the doors to the common room, her hand tracing the long, flowing hair of Astraphos. She didn¡¯t turn her head as she said, ¡°Ciaran, now that it¡¯s your first coming of age, you should prepare yourself. From now on, You¡¯ll partake in the responsibilities and duties that every Duvane has helped with. Until now, we have trained your body and senses, and allowed you some time to learn more about your talents.¡± She turned to look at Ciaran, her characteristic gentleness not present, but instead replaced with a seriousness he rarely saw in her. ¡°Our family had once been hailed as the greatest in the land because of the blessing that allowed our strengths and talents to flourish. But it has been a long time since that era ended, and every Duvane since then has lived their life devoted to ending the curse that has plagued us.¡± She paused for a moment before hugging him and saying, ¡°Ciaran, please help us. We need to end this curse. It has taken so many of our lives. You probably won¡¯t even be 30 when I die. I¡¯ve been lucky that your grandfather has held on for long. I¡¯m 33, and he¡¯s 54, but he hasn¡¯t completely lost his mind yet. I promise, I will try my best to hold on as long as I can, but¡ª¡± Ciaran interrupted her, hugging her back. ¡°Mom. You don¡¯t need to ask. All I¡¯ve ever wanted is for our family to not have this curse hanging over our head like an executioner¡¯s blade. I¡¯ll make a promise to you, too, Mom. I promise I will get rid of this curse in my lifetime. I will.¡± Ciaran gritted his teeth. He remembered how the symptoms of the curse progressed in his great uncle. His nails turned a course black, then sharpened and elongated. The whites of his eyes developed trails of shadow, the black eventually overtaking every part, with the silver iris being the last to disappear into darkness. He began to hallucinate. First he noticed smells that didn¡¯t exist, and then he began hearing things. Before his vision disappeared completely, he¡¯d have fits of madness from seeing things that didn¡¯t exist. After he went blind, his mind was consumed by the curse¡¯s corruption, with his body following suit. At times he would experience fits of violent madness, the frequency increasing until he had to be locked away. The last time Ciaran saw him alive, he was ten years old, and it was through a small window in the door of a fortified dungeon deep underground, locked away for everyone else¡¯s safety until the curse corrupted both his brain and his heart, and he passed away. It would happen soon to his grandfather, who held on remarkably well, but has already gone blind. His fits of madness were getting more and more frequent, and it wouldn¡¯t be long before Ciaran would see his grandfather locked up in that horrid room. Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. Octavia took a step back and put her hands on his shoulders, saying, ¡°Remember one thing, Ciaran. Tonight is a new moon, and you never know what sort of dangers we may encounter. Our starsight won¡¯t work tonight, so be extra careful.¡± Before heading inside, she kissed his forehead and said, ¡°Happy birthday, Ciaran.¡± As the doors opened, the chatter of conversation and clinking of glasses leaked out of the door. Heat from the fireplace seeped out and warmed the chilly hallway, before disappearing as Ciaran stepped inside and closed the door. He made his way to the table everyone was sitting around, then sat down two seats away from his mother, who was sitting at the head of the table, his grandfather in between them. Across from him was his uncle and his twin sons, about 11 years old, and further down the table were some friends of the family invited to celebrate the first coming of age of the future heir. The food had been brought out not long before Ciaran arrived, and everyone was busy pouring wine into their glasses. Servants stood around the edges of the room, with the butler of the castle standing a few steps behind his grandfather. As everyone was talking, Viscount Nelton stood up and clinked his spoon against his glass, the sound resonating through the room as everyone stopped talking and looked at him, waiting for him to speak. The Viscount, a portly middle-aged man with a kind face, said, ¡°12 years ago, I had the fortune of meeting Lord Altair Duvane. At the time, I was traveling through my territory for an inspection of all the towns and cities, when the wheel of my carriage broke in the middle of a long stretch of forest. Some of my guards set off to find help, but the sun set and they never returned. Right when I thought I would have to walk through the dangerous wilderness alone, Lord Altair, who happened to be traveling down the same road but in the opposite direction, saw me and helped me get to my destination. I later found my guards, who were still walking through the forest, and formed an everlasting bond with Lord Altair and the Duvane family. I am still grateful for what he¡¯s done that day, and today, his nephew and the future heir of the Duvane Duchy, is having his first coming of age. To celebrate his 15th birthday, I want to have a toast in his honor! To Ciaran Duvane, and the wonderful future he will build!¡± Everyone stood up and took their glasses, toasting each other. Ciaran and his two cousins were the only people at the table that hadn¡¯t had their second coming of age and weren¡¯t considered adults yet, so they drank juice instead. Ciaran stood up alongside everyone else, clinked his glasses with all of his family members, and took a sip of juice. The sweet taste coated his tongue and slid down his throat. After he swallowed, he turned to look at his mother, pausing when he noticed her odd state. Her eyes were completely black, and her face had distorted with the same madness he saw in his great-uncle and occasionally, his grandfather. Ciaran thought he was seeing things. Despite the training he¡¯d had since he was a child, when his mother lunged at him with long claws as sharp as an assassin¡¯s dagger, he hadn¡¯t reacted or moved an inch. Before she had a chance to tear his face and kill him, someone beside him grabbed him and threw him in another direction, but not before one of her claws tore a long, thin line from his forehead down to the cheek below his left eye. He didn¡¯t notice the searing pain at all. He looked in the direction he was grabbed from, only to see his grandfather, who was accustomed to fighting back madness, fail to win against the curse. The last remnants of his sanity slipped away, and his claws grew. He spotted the frightened Viscount from across the table and lunged at him, his claws stabbing through his heart quicker than Ciaran could understand the situation. The person that was holding him had been dragging him to a corner of the room, then threw him inside of a cabinet. Ciaran tore his gaze away long enough to see that it was the butler, who had been standing behind his grandfather. The butler gave him a smile, his eyes tinged with sorrow, before closing the doors of the cabinet and binding it with chains. These chains were made by one of their ancestors not long after the curse erupted. They were inscribed with sealing magic designed to bind an adult Duvane who had gone mad from the curse, and were hidden in all of the common areas of the keep for use in an emergency. If the chains were bound around an object instead, it would escape the senses of the Duvanes. This failsafe measure had been designed for situations like this ¡ª to allow young Duvanes or other innocent personnel to hide from the violent madness. Ciaran understood this, but as he watched through the gap in the closed cabinet doors as his mother found the butler and, with a swipe of her hand, cut his head off, he realized that he never expected for him to be the one that was hidden away from danger. Nor had anyone else predicted that three Duvanes would go mad at the same time, while sitting next to a table full of unarmed people. There was only one chain, and the butler had just used it to trap him. He had no way of breaking out from inside. He watched as his uncle killed his sons that were sitting next to him, as his mother found a merchant they had a long, friendly collaboration with and tore his arm off before stabbing him through the throat. He watched as his grandfather found Countess Lamprey, the widowed noble that helped them source research materials they otherwise couldn¡¯t get their hands on, and brutally killed her. Her cries and pleas for mercy went unanswered. As the other guests screamed and ran away, the three adult Duvanes used their speed and agility to find and slaughter them. Some of the servants at the farthest reaches of the room had time to escape through hidden doors that they used to move throughout the keep, while others failed to get away, and their dying voices were strangled in their throats, their blood decorating the windows. He watched as the people he grew up with, people he smiled and laughed and talked with, people that had expectations of him and people that were indifferent to him, died at the hands of the people he loved most. He watched as limbs were torn and thrown across the room, as the dying were dragged back by their ankles and had their skulls crushed. He watched as the madness consumed the last Duvanes, the dark corruption spreading through their veins and arteries, showing through the skin, as it infected them and corrupted their heart and brain. He watched as the last innocent died, and the three Duvanes turned their sights on each other. Their bodies had been corrupting at an exponential pace, and none of them had the energy to tear each other up anymore. They used their claws to wound each other, their sharp, pointed teeth to bite each other. Their blood splattered on the carpet and the shattered plates of the table, it pooled on the floor and covered some of the bloody footprints. He watched as they collapsed to the ground, still searching for the other living beings in the room, then died, the curse having finally corroded their heart. Everything was over before even half an hour passed, but Ciaran couldn¡¯t move. Long since the last person breathed their final breath, Ciaran sat in the same position the butler left him in, staring through the gap in the door as the scenes he witnessed kept replaying in his mind. The smell of blood was so thick he thought he could taste it. He wondered if he was also dead, and was just imagining everything from the afterlife. He wondered why he was the only one left alive, and how everything went so wrong, so quickly. He kept seeing his mother lunging at him, ready to kill him. He couldn¡¯t feel the wound on his face or the dryness of his unblinking eyes. He couldn¡¯t move his stiff body, and just stared at the corpses on the floor until, after what seemed to be years, dawn arrived. The sun peaked over the horizon, and the first traces of light shone in through the windows. As the sun rose, so did the distant sound of footsteps. They drew closer before stopping in front of the closed door of the room. The creak of a door opening, the gasp of shock and cry of grief. Somewhere in the back of Ciaran¡¯s mind he registered this, but at the moment, all he could see, all he could smell, was blood. The pair of footsteps slowly made their way through the room. After a minute, they paused and wandered in his direction. The chains binding the cabinet were undone, though it took a lot of time and effort, and then the cabinet doors opened, revealing Martha and Penelope. Martha collapsed as she sobbed harder than she already was, and Penelope cried as she gently hugged Ciaran, breaking down into heaving sobs. Her shaking hands lay on his back, her body trembling. Ciaran blinked for the first time in a long while, then moved his gaze from the sight of scattered corpses to the woman hugging him. Martha stood up and hugged him from the side, whispering something. The warm embrace brought him back to the present. Tears sprung in his eyes and flowed down his cheeks. He couldn¡¯t think. His mind was as cold and stiff as his body. His couldn¡¯t tell if his heart was in turmoil or numb. As the tears flowed down his cheeks, silent as a spring drizzle, he could only think a single thing. This was not an accident. Chapter 2 Ciaran walked through the keep, Martha and Penelope walking with him. His tears dried out and his face was blank. He ignored the suffocating grief pressing in on him from every direction, pushed away every what if running through his mind, and focused on the biggest priority at the moment ¡ª packing his things and running as far from this place as possible. As he led the two middle-aged woman to the dressing room he¡¯d been in earlier, Martha asked, ¡°Lord Ciaran, where are you going? What¡­ what happened? Why..¡± She broke down again. Penelope soothed her and said, ¡°Young Lord¡­ No, Your Grace. What do you need us to do?¡± Your Grace. That¡¯s right. Everyone else was dead. That would make him the current duke. He pushed the title aside, however. If he thought further about it, he would truly break, and falling apart was not something he had time for. ¡°There¡¯s no need to be so formal. I won¡¯t be officially accepting my title or role as the Duke just yet.¡± He took a shaking breath before saying, ¡°I saw everything. One moment everyone was fine. No one was on the brink of a fit of madness, no signs of the curse were showing more than usual. And yet, the second after everyone toasted each other and drank from their glasses, mother, uncle, and grandfather progressed through every stage of the curse in less than a second, until they hit the one right before death. The most violent, irrational stage of the curse, and never appearing in anyone below the age of 35. This has never happened before. As terrible as the curse is, it has a step-by-step progression, a pattern that never broke before, ever. I don¡¯t know what happened, but I know this was no freak accident. There must be someone or something behind it. I¡¯m sure of it.¡± He clenched his fists, feeling his nails digging into the palm of his hand, but he never stopped moving. ¡°Martha, Penelope, listen carefully. I don¡¯t know when, but sometime soon, someone may come to the keep and confirm the current situation. If anyone asks, you have to tell them I¡¯m dead. If someone plotted this, and if they know I¡¯m alive, they¡¯ll never stop hunting me until they make sure I¡¯m dead. As fast as you can, I need you¡­¡± His voice choked for a second before hardening into steel. He poured all of his emotions into a small jar and sealed the lid, then threw it into a small, dark corner of his heart. He couldn¡¯t afford to grieve right now. If he let himself do so, he¡¯d die. ¡°I need you to cremate the bodies of every Duvane in that room and send them to the family cemetery as soon as possible. For people not from our family, please send their bodies back to their families and give them as much compensation as you need. It¡¯s not right, but there¡¯s nothing else I can do right now. Prioritize my young cousins and then the adult Duvanes. From this moment forth, until it¡¯s safe for me to come back as the Duke, Ciaran Duvane is dead. He died alongside his family in a tragic manner. This way, whoever is behind this will think he succeeded in killing every Duvane, and I will have some time to keep the truth hidden.¡± Ciaran stopped before the staircase, then turned around and said, ¡°I trust you two. I trust you more than I trust anyone else here. So I need you to do this alone, and to not tell a soul about it. Tell whatever servants are left that all of the Duvanes had gone crazy and killed each other, and that they can leave. Feel free to give them and the families of the deceased their compensation from the treasury. It¡¯s not as if there¡¯s anyone left to use it.¡± Ciaran handed them a ring on his finger. He had engraved a dimensional storage pocket onto it after a lot of studying and failed attempts, allowing people to store anything inanimate and non-living within a limit of six cubic meters. He had usually used it for trivial things. He never expected to use it one day to store the corpses of his family members. Before he handed it over, he took out a key from the ring and gave it to them together. He whispered, lecratos, and the ring glowed for a moment before dulling, allowing people other than him to use it. ¡°Martha, I¡¯m going to need to take your hair dye. I apologize in advance¡­ you can use the gold that¡¯s stored in the treasury to buy another. You can buy ten, actually. It¡¯s meaningless now. This key opens the treasury. I¡¯m not supposed to have it, but mother¡­ mother gave me a copy the other day.¡± She had told him to take whatever he wanted from the treasury as a birthday gift. He hadn¡¯t taken anything out of it yet, just keeping the key on him. Martha wiped away her tears, a determination shining in her eyes. She bowed and said, ¡°Your Grace, we will follow your orders. We won¡¯t breathe a word of this to anyone else, even at the cost of our lives. But please always remember one thing.¡± She paused before taking his hand and covering it with both of hers and said, ¡°So long as this keep stands and the people of the duchy exist, they will need Your Grace to guide them. Your existence is not meaningless. Whenever you¡¯re ready, Neix Keep and the Duvane Duchy will be waiting for you. We will only take the minimum amount we need, and then we will store the key in the ring and hide it in the keep, somewhere no outsiders can access.¡± Ciaran understood which hiding place she was referring to. Before Ciaran left, Penelope spoke up. ¡°Your Grace, before you go, please stop by Her Grace¡¯s office. The bottom right drawer of her desk has a false bottom engraved with a magic seal that is only accessible by members of your bloodline. If you open it, you will find something useful to you¡­ a keepsake your mother brought back, that was given to her by your father. She told me to tell you this if anything ever happened to her.¡± Ciaran¡¯s breath stalled. He hadn¡¯t expected to hear that. His mother never spoke of his father, no matter how many times he asked. The only thing she ever said about him was that he was a fleeting dream. Given the habits the Duvane family developed after the curse broke out, his mother had gone to another city at 18 with the purpose of conceiving a child, hoping to give birth to an heir without having an outsider marry into the family. The risks were too numerous, after all, with the curse being largely kept a secret. There were many rumors swirling about the decline of their family, but very few knew the truth, and they always intended to keep it that way. But he didn¡¯t ask any questions, nor would he. If it was useful to him, then he¡¯d take it. The origin didn¡¯t matter. He turned around and started up the stairs before pausing and saying in a low voice, ¡°Thank you¡­ for finding me.¡± He turned the corner and went up, not wanting to hear their response. They were like family to him. If he stayed any longer, he would waver in his decision, and he couldn¡¯t do that, not when so many lives were taken due to a malicious scheme. He began to run, and kept running until he found the dressing room he¡¯d been in earlier. He remembered now that he was still wearing that exquisite suit, his hair adorned with priceless ornaments. He had the urge to rip it all off, but he resisted. Stepping inside, he found the haircutting scissors and hair dye, his goal. If he were the mastermind behind last night¡¯s nightmare, and he wanted every single Duvane to die, but one of them escaped, what would be the first thing he did? Of course, it was to look at all of the runaway teenagers with very long black hair and silver eyes, gouge how expensive the fabric of their clothes was, and wonder whether any of them was a young duke with a wounded back, escaping from the strike of a backstabbing knife. As he was taking off the hair ornaments, as fast as he could without damaging the ancient relics, he began to think about the guests that had come last night. Every single one of them had loyal, friendly relationships with their estate for many years. Otherwise, they wouldn¡¯t have been invited to such a private gathering. Was one of them a traitor? Was it a servant? Or did the mastermind carry out their plan with some magic spell? Maybe it had nothing to do with any of that, and Ciaran just had no way of imaging how such an insidious individual thinks. He had no way of knowing, and the fog covering the truth frustrated him. He took the hair jewelry off, and then grabbed the scissors and started cutting his hair short. As the long strands fell to the floor, he felt the relief of their weight and the sudden air brushing against the back of his neck. It was a strange feeling, but he ignored it and began to dye his hair, eyebrows, and even his eyelashes, dabbing a drop on them and watching as the semi-magic dye spread on its own. Thankfully, this hair dye made one¡¯s hair a very light blond. Nobility like the Duvanes would never dye their hair another color, not openly, anyway. Their lineage was so ancient, keeping their original features was also considered to be respect to their ancestors and noble status, so the chances of someone suspecting his real identity would be much lower. Stolen story; please report. After he finished his rough, jagged hair cut, he grabbed the scissors and the hair dye, as well Astraphos¡¯ relic before making his way to the male servant quarters. After he arrived, he was thankful to see that everything was deserted, left in disarray. They must have left in a hurry after the servants that survived and escaped last night came back to tell the news. It was better for him that way. He entered a random room and found a worn-out brown cloth bag slung over a desk chair. He took it and shoved everything he was carrying inside of it, intending to make another storage ring later when he had the chance to. For the moment, this was good enough. He opened the doors of the wardrobe and was glad to find the servant¡¯s going out clothes next to his work clothes. He quickly put them on, dressing himself in old brown cloth pants and a baggy white linen shirt, the strings at the top a little loose. He tucked part of the shirt inside the pants before securing the loose waistband with a belt. He took his blood-stained shoes off and found a pair of dirty leather boots, putting them on and trying not to grimace at the smell. He took his suit and old boots with him, intending to burn them later. He searched through the drawers and stuffed a few extra clothes of a similar style in the bag. In one of the desk drawers, he found a rough map and decided to take it with him. He rushed out and began to run to his mother¡¯s office, locating a few floors above where he was. He had never cared before about how big the keep was, since he had been born and raised here and was accustomed to it, but right here and now, he cursed whoever built it. It took so long just to get from one place to another, and was anxious about how much time he had left. After running up many flights of stairs and down several hallways, he burst into his mother¡¯s study and paused. It smelled just like her. The jar of emotions he¡¯d sealed up shook and trembled, threatening to burst. Before his grief overwhelmed him, he ran inside and opened the drawer Penelope told him about, trying to distract himself. He took out some folders and documents and traced his fingers over the wood. As someone that learned inscription magic, he knew there was an engraved spell here. They weren¡¯t visible usually, not unless the engraver was working on one or the spell was being activated, but Ciaran had always had a knack for sensing them that others didn¡¯t have. He closed his eyes and let his mana flow through the wood, sensing what spell was engraved on it. Not a second passed before he realized that the opening mechanism was very simple ¡ª a drop of blood from a Duvane would do. He took out the pair of scissors in his bag and cut his finger, watching as the blood dripped down and splashed the wood before disappearing. The spell activated, and the inscription glowed golden, the thin lines in a circular shape twisting and locking before the bottom panel slid inside the desk and revealed the contents within. Ciaran didn¡¯t pick them up right away. He was surprised. Inside were just two items ¡ª an engraving pen, one that inscriptionists like him used to engrave spells to create new mechanisms and technology, and a silk black blindfold. He lifted up the blindfold, and understood why his mother had brought this back. She must have used it to hide the color of her eyes when she met his father. He ran a finger over the cloth, and sensed that their was an inscription. Bloodline magic ¡ª something inscriptionists used on tools to allow only people of a certain bloodline to use the specified tool or mechanism. Curious, he rubbed a streak of blood from his cut finger onto the inscription, watching as the spell glowed for a moment before vanishing again, then lifted the blindfold and tied it around his eyes. After he tied it, he understood what the rest of the inscription was for. His blindfold was securely tied around him, with no holes in the opaque fabric, but he could still see as if nothing hindered his vision. He would have to keep it on as often as he could to avoid having people see his real eye color. He turned his sights to the side, picked up the pen and looked at it, then wondered for the first time who his father could be, because there¡¯s no possibility of him being an ordinary farmer. This inscription magic was simple, but it was clear to Ciaran that it was made by a master, someone much more skilled in the art of inscription magic than him. The pen had a simple appearance, with a golden tip and a wooden finish. Someone that could make a blindfold like the one he was wearing, however, was no ordinary person. ¡°At least its useful.¡± Ignoring the buds of curiosity that sprouted in his mind, he put the pen inside his bag and stood up, closing the secret drawer and putting the folders and documents back where they were, as if no one ever moved them, then closed the drawer. He stood up and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath of the air here. It may be the last time he would have the chance to stay somewhere that smelled so like his mother. Before he lost his grip on himself, he left the room and headed to another not far away ¡ª his workroom. He walked inside and found what he was looking for ¡ª a firestarter. It was a tall, cylindrical tool that narrowed into a small, flat top. He took out the clothes he had worn earlier ¡ª the fancy suit, the sapphire brooch and cuff links, his boots with dried blood crusting at the edges. He dumped them onto his steel, scorch-proof workbench, and pressed the button on the side of the firestarter, lighting the fabric ablaze. He watched as the flames, different from a normal fire due to a small inscription he added that made the flame hotter and better at burning things, ate away at the expensive, intricate clothes. The sapphires burned and cracked, the metal melting and corroding. When it was all a pile of ash and scattered, broken pieces of gems and metal, he found an empty container and gathered everything inside, then put it in his bag. Everything he had to do was completed, so he said goodbye to the workroom he¡¯d spent many hours studying and practicing in before turning around and leaving, the door closing behind him. As he walked to a hidden entrance at the side of the keep, his quickening steps mirrored his heart rate, which was speeding up with every passing minute. He wondered when the enemy would send his next pawn, would make another move on his chessboard. Did he have enough time, or was he just racing in a losing game? He couldn¡¯t say, but he would never concede. So long as he had the chance to find out the truth of what happened, he would. So long as he was alive, he would strive to find the person behind this, but he couldn¡¯t just yet. Right now he was too young and too vulnerable. In 5 years he would have his second coming of age and become an adult, and soon after the first symptoms of the curse would appear. At first it¡¯s small ¡ª the nail beds becoming black. But once it starts, it doesn¡¯t stop. He needed to break the curse as soon as possible, needed to grow stronger to not be crushed by whatever forces that mastermind may send to kill him, and he had to figure out who the mastermind even was. He pushed open the heavy wooden side door that the servants would use to bring in new shipments of food and felt a breeze brushing past his cheek and ruffling his short, light hair, then spotted a barrel on the side that had a few items on it. He stepped forward and found a note being held down by a lumpy cloth sack. It read, Your Grace, please take some provisions with you. We worry about you going hungry. After we sent the rest of the maids and servants on their way, we found something helpful in the treasury that we wanted to give you. Praying for your safety and wellbeing, Martha and Penelope. A surge of emotion coursed through his heart. He folded the note carefully and put it in a small shirt pocket near his heart. The lumpy sack that held the note down was filled with food, with the exception of a rolled up piece of parchment. He took it out and unfurled it, his breath hitching as he saw what it was. A teleportation scroll. These were so exceedingly rare that even one of them could be sold at an auction for the price of a small castle. The mages that were able to make these were not only very powerful, but also very picky with how they use their skills. To use teleportation magic was one thing. To have the skill and mana capacity to transfer that magic to a fragile piece of paper that anyone could use was another. Ciaran slung the bag of food over his shoulder before turning around to face the keep one last time. ¡°I will come back one day.¡± He tore the scroll and vanished on the spot, not seeing as the parchment was set ablaze and disappeared, not even ash left in its place, nor seeing the soldiers that burst through the wooden door half a minute after he left. One searched the ground for a hidden trapdoor, and others poured outside to search through the fields and the woods. The rest of the keep was crawling with them, searching through every room they could, searching for the last remnants of the Duvane lineage. He didn¡¯t see as Martha and Penelope put on the act of a lifetime, sobbing and breaking down as they shared the story of how every person at the gathering last night, including the young heir Ciaran, had tragically died. In their grief, they wanted to give them all a proper goodbye, so they cremated their remains in keeping with the family burial traditions and placed them in the Duvane family cemetery, never telling them about the storage ring that still had some of the corpses of the Duvanes inside. Some of the soldiers soothed them, while others harshly questioned them, but in the end, they were let go. As they left, a messenger was sent out ahead of time, to spread the news to every corner of the empire. The next morning, newspapers would all share the same headline: The Duvane ducal family killed each other in fits of madness! What will happen to the duchy now that it¡¯s bereft of an heir? Chapter 3 In a distant, remote part of the empire, lay the ruins of a city not marked on any map. In the center of a raised, circular stone platform appeared a young man with short blond hair, his eyes covered by a black blindfold. He raised his head and looked around before saying, ¡°How old was that teleportation scroll?¡± Ciaran looked down at the ground he was standing on. It must have been a very clean, white stone a long time ago, but now there were holes and pits from the erosion of time, with some cracks filled with dirt and moss. A few sprouts peaked out here and there, being blown by the wind that was much colder than the the breeze he felt at the duchy. Wherever this was, it was cold and barren. He couldn¡¯t hear a whisper of a human voice, nor the sounds of any animals or insects. The wind blew through the crumbling, eroded buildings all around the square. Some had entire walls missing, while others had blasted holes. Some were relatively intact, with the white stone being eroded in many places due to time. It made one wonder what happened here that not even a skeleton could be found. Ciaran knelt down and touched the stone, sensing a broken inscription that was once engraved on this stone platform. It was likely a teleportation circle, though it had long since stopped working. He wasn¡¯t sure whether someone destroyed the inscription on purpose, or whether the stone eroding was what broke it. The teleportation scroll he used was different ¡ª it specified this location, but the destination was written by the mage that engraved it on the scroll. Some of Ciaran¡¯s ancestors, those that lived and died during their golden age when the blessing was still active, had become great figures in history. Some of them were powerful mages, though Ciaran wasn¡¯t sure whether that scroll was made by his ancestor, or gifted to them by someone they knew. Regardless, he whispered a silent thank you to whoever made that scroll and placed it in the treasury. He stood up and walked forward, being careful with where he stepped. He wouldn¡¯t have been so wary if it were just humans that were absent from this city. The absence of animals and insects, though, worried him. He walked through the square and toward a large building. It was the size of a city block, and the crumbling walls had traces of intricate carvings and large pillars. He wondered what its purpose was ¡ª a city hall? The headquarters of a guild? Or maybe it was once a palace. He walked up the steps to the large, gaping hole at the entrance where enormous doors must have once stood. At the top of the tall stairs, he turned around and looked out at the city. It was much bigger than he expected. To the left, he could make out the top of a forest in the distance. To the front, the city kept extending to the horizon, and to the right, he could see the edges of a big lake. He seemed to have stumbled upon the best hiding place. A city as big and old as this, who would come here? As he turned around, grateful for Martha and Penelope for finding that scroll and giving it to him, he froze. Through the entrance of the building, at the very back of the enormous hall, was a throne. On the wall behind the throne hung a tattered tapestry. It was old and worn, but Ciaran could still make out what was woven ¡ª A sun shining its rays down on a blooming, red rose. The rays transformed into a golden liquid which dripped onto the petals, then fell down to a golden river from which the rose grew. Ciaran knew where he was. All thoughts of this ruined city being a good hiding place vanished. In its place was a thought laced with dread. Why did our treasury have a scroll that teleported someone to the heart of the Lost Empire? ~|(+)|~ Ciaran walked through the enormous room. It must have once been a marvel, but now all that was left was dust and crumbled, pitted stone. On the left and right sides of the room, though, were hand-painted murals that took up the wall from floor to ceiling. It must have told the history of the Lost Empire, at least from their perspective. He himself didn¡¯t know much about it, but it was mandatory for anyone learning the history of the continent to learn about it. The Lost Empire wasn¡¯t actually an empire ¡ª it was a large city that claimed it was an empire, with a name that was erased from history and memory due to an ancient magic spell, though the caster was unknown. The mural began on the left side and depicted a figure in white robes with golden hair and eyes standing on a pedestal, shining light onto the masses below. Ciaran knew who this was ¡ª this was the ¡°Holy Emperor¡± of the Lost Empire, whose people once touted him as a god. In reality, he was an arrogant, not so talented member of the imperial family at the time. This wasn¡¯t common knowledge, though ¡ª Ciaran¡¯s family library had historical records from that time, so they knew part of the truth. The public was never told the true identity of the holy emperor so that the imperial family¡¯s prestige and reputation wasn¡¯t stained by him. The holy emperor, upset that he wasn¡¯t in the line of succession for the throne and arrogant enough to think that he deserved to rule the land, went off to establish his own nation. This nation, however, became little more than the base of a cult that worshiped him. In another part of the mural was a display of human sacrifice. The Holy Emperor sat on a throne looking down at the people below him, who offered him a maiden on an altar. Gold that was melted in a burning furnace and boiling in a large cauldron was poured over her while her limbs were secured with chains. The gold that fused with blood and flesh would be gathered by the people and poured into a jewelry mold, then shaped by a master craftsman. Ciaran touched the wall where a faceless man was holding up a beautiful necklace while kneeling before the Holy Emperor. Then two attendants, faceless women in white robes, took the necklace and carefully placed it around the neck of the man on the throne. While he knew that the cult the ¡°Holy Emperor¡± established sacrificed innocents, there was never any news on how or why they did so. Ciaran thought that no explanation could ever justify the reason to do such a cruel, horrific act. He wondered what kind of twisted mind that ¡°Holy Emperor¡± must have had to order someone to paint a mural like this, displaying such acts as if it was something to show off. He turned away from the mural on the left wall and walked to the mural on the right, surprised to see something very different from the first one. The right mural, however, was much more damaged than the left mural. The left mural had some places where the wall was scraped or had a small hole, but it was still legible and easy to make out the original painting. The mural on the right had accumulated much more damage. Despite the damage, he could make out one thing ¡ª in the center of the wall was a building that must be a representation of the one he stood in at the moment, and on top of one of the spires was a large beast. At first he thought it was a dragon, but on closer inspection, it only had two legs, so he understood it was a wyvern. Ciaran scoffed to himself. He said softly, ¡°What would a dragon be doing in this disgusting place anyway?¡± The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. While dragons were ancient creatures considered to be more powerful and intelligent than humans, some even living for thousands of years, wyverns were not much greater than wild animals. They didn¡¯t have the intelligence or power of dragons, not even the lifespan, but they could breathe fire and fly, as well as bear the weight of one or two people. Mages over a thousand years ago used to tame them before they became endangered after they kept dying in the many wars that had been held between rival forces ¡ª warring nations, rival guilds, or even just two factions of mages fighting and killing each other. In the process, the wyverns they tamed would be killed in the heat of battle, making their sight in the present day rather rare. In the mural, the wyvern was much larger than they were usually told to be in history books, making Ciaran wonder what great mage used to live here, and how evil they must have been. With such a great mage, though¡­ how did this ¡°empire¡± crumble? No book or historical record ever mentioned it. The mages in the empire sensed great waves of magic power coming from somewhere, on the level of a natural disaster, before the name of the Lost Empire was wiped from every person¡¯s memory and erased from every written text and map, along with its location. The waves of magic disappeared as if abruptly cut off, and anyone that tried to make contact with the Lost Empire henceforth failed. No person that was in the Lost Empire was ever contacted or heard from ever again. After the name and location of the city was erased due to some mysterious magic, it was never found, existing only in records and stories, the mystery lost to time. Ciaran took a look at the murals one last time before glancing over to the throne. It was covered with gold and detailed designs, and was the same throne the holy emperor must have once sat on. He couldn¡¯t help his curiosity, so he approached it, but he didn¡¯t intend to sit in it. No, he wanted to burn it to the ground, but he decided against it. He knew too little about the reason this place was cut off from the rest of the world. Until he knew more, it was better to leave it alone. As he walked closer, he noticed something he hadn¡¯t seen before ¡ª a gaping hole in the back of the throne. Curious, he walked behind the throne and spotted a dusty, intricate sword embedded into the wall. The throne had hidden it from view until now. Ciaran closed the distance, step by step, then knelt before the sword, admiring its quality. He had seen some of the swords in their treasury and thought it looked a bit similar. It wasn¡¯t until he leaned closer to the hilt of the sword that he saw it ¡ª a coat of arms with a dragon and a withered rose standing in front of a field of stars. It was their family¡¯s crest, and from the everything he¡¯d seen, Ciaran was shocked as he realized that his ancestor had once been here. He looked at the hole in the back of the throne and wondered whether his ancestor had killed the holy emperor or not, but another question soon surfaced. If the holy emperor was killed by his ancestor, then where was the skeleton? The dread Ciaran had been trying to ignore began to grow. He stood up and was about to leave, but then hesitated. In the end, although he never really practiced swordsmanship, he still pulled his ancestor¡¯s sword out of the wall, feeling more reassured with a proper weapon in his hands. As he ran out of the palace and down the steps, his pace picked up along with his questions. He ran through the city and looked through every place he could, trying to find any human remains at all¡ªa skeleton, a trace of fabric, a letter or note, maybe even a spare bone or skull. He didn¡¯t really want to see human remains, but his intuition told him that the lack of them was an ominous sign. As he ran through the large city, the sun climbed through the sky before descending and beginning to set. The moment the sun touched the horizon, the sky painted with vivid, saturated oranges and deep blues and purples and a hint of red, people appeared. Ciaran was walking down a residential street that used to be a market. One second he was alone with only the whistles of the wind to accompany him, and the next, a ray of sunlight shone through the gap of a building, and the empty street came to life. The buildings were intact, the windows were clean, and people bustled from one corner to another, laughing and talking with each other. Ciaran watched, stupefied, as a plump woman in a simple dress, her hair tied back into a bun, carried a basket to a vendor selling vegetables. A small child ran past him, his mother chasing after him and calling his name. They were all speaking in an old dialect of the Silios Empire¡¯s common language, so he had to concentrate to understand what they were saying. He was shocked. But after looking closer to them, he noticed that everything was just a little transparent. None of this was real. Ciaran didn¡¯t move, watching in silence as the ghosts of the past lived their ordinary life. He approached the vegetable vendor and waved his hand in front of his face, but there was no reaction. He tried to touch him, but his hand passed through as if nothing was there. Ciaran frowned, then began to run back to the square he came from, curious about what he would see in front of the palace, though a part of him had an idea and wanted to see if he was right. As he ran, he realized the distance he came was a bit far. He ran past so many people on the street, but the closer he came to the square, the more solemn the atmosphere became, until he noticed people in white robes walking to someplace, their heads bowed and their hands clasped together. He sped up and turned the corner, seeing the moment boiling, molten gold was poured onto a woman chained to the altar. Everyone else was chanting something he couldn¡¯t make out, but no one stopped or helped her. Ciaran¡¯s breath stuck in his throat as her screams of anguish filled the air, before her vocal chords were burned and she couldn¡¯t make a sound anymore. The screams were so similar to what he heard not long ago. The flashes of memories appeared at the forefront of his mind, intrusive and unwarranted, but very vivid. The screams of the dying and the pleas for help, the blood gurgling in people¡¯s throats and the sound of flesh being torn. His family massacring innocents and then each other, their claws swiping ¡ª Ciaran hit his head with the hilt of the sword he was holding. He hissed at the pain, but it snapped him out of it. He couldn¡¯t spiral right now. It was still hard for him to breathe, hard to think clearly, but he couldn¡¯t let himself go, not when the situation was so unclear. Instead, he turned his gaze away from the altar, not trusting himself to not lose his mind again. Well, it seemed his idea from earlier was right ¡ª in the square was the human sacrifice ritual he¡¯d seen on the mural. As the sky darkened and the sun set, the ghosts became more transparent. Ciaran looked at the steps of the palace far away and saw a tall figure in golden robs stepping down. Before him was an old man in a white robe, the edges sown with golden patterns far more intricate than any of the other cultists, kneeling while saying something to the figure. He couldn¡¯t hear anything from where he was, but he was sure that the man walking down the steps was the holy emperor. As the old man knelt and spoke to the holy emperor, the other cultists gathered the gold that had combined with the blood and flesh of the woman they just killed, then carried it away somewhere else. The old man then held something up to the emperor, but before the holy emperor could reach out to grab it, the sun completely set and night set in. The figures of the ghosts vanished, but not completely, for in their places were shadowy figures with distorted features. They had all become ghouls, indistinguishable from one another. Ghouls, the dark, corrupted souls of the dead that never passed on. Before Ciaran had time to notice that their attention had all turned to him, he heard a roar that shook his bones and hurt his ears. He turned his head toward the direction it came from and saw something that made curse. An enormous wyvern climbed up around one of the spires of the palace in front of him, its wings flapping as its claws gripped the stone beneath. In the moonlight, its skin and scales were transparent, allowing him to see through to its skeleton. He didn¡¯t have time to wonder why the wyvern was so different from the other ghouls, however, since the creature, alongside the other human ghouls around him, launched themselves at him with a mind-shattering wail. Chapter 4 Ciaran didn¡¯t blink as he jumped back, turning around in the air and then ran as fast as he could. He wasn¡¯t even sure if he could run from them ¡ª one is a human with a limited stamina and the other is a dead, flying ghoul. As soon as Ciaran left the vicinity of the square, the wyvern roared one last time before flying back. Before Ciaran had time to question the reason for its actions, a ghoul, a dark mass of shadow with white, smudged dots for eyes and a gaping maw of a mouth, appeared next to him, its mouth widening and heading for his head. As it closed in on him, Ciaran jumped to the side, but not before his right arm was scratched by the edge of its sharp teeth. He didn¡¯t feel the pain of the wound or notice as it began to bleed, but focused on the weapon he was gripping, his only way of escaping this situation. The sword slashed through the ghoul. The ghoul¡¯s form was split in half, but only for a second, for in the next, it reformed. The killing intent of every one of these ghouls radiated from them, making it hard to distinguish the specific source of each one. The ghouls he outran would fall back, but then a new line would rush forward and be split in half, falling behind as they reformed. Ciaran¡¯s starsight was working overtime, but the moon was still just a sliver of a waxing crescent in the sky ¡ª the Duvane bloodline magic was still weak at the moment and could only detect killing intent. It was enough to prevent him from being ambushed by a group of these monsters, at least, since he would detect their murderous rage long before he saw them. He turned corners, feeling his muscles tense and burn as he breathed in as steady a manner as he could. The agility and stamina training his mother had put him through as a kid was paying off, but he still found himself with the occasional scratch from close calls with the horde of flying monsters constantly trying to kill him. The bag he was still carrying was starting to drag him down, so he took it off and through it inside a building, along with the sack of food. The moment they were thrown through a doorway, he sped up. He ran, he slashed, he stabbed, he didn¡¯t notice the ache in his ears from the loud shrieking of the ghouls or his heaving lungs, the sweat dripping down his back despite the dropping temperature. As he ran, his stamina draining every second, his thumb slipped on the hilt of a blade and sunk into a groove. As he cut into another ghoul, his thumb pressed onto the groove, and a faint click sounded, the minuscule vibration traveling through his arm. His surprise heightened when flames erupted from somewhere, covering the sword and lighting the surrounding area. The moment his blade, alight with fire, cut through a ghoul, the ghoul burst into dust. Then something strange happened ¡ª the dust was sucked into the blade. Ciaran didn¡¯t have time to stop and think about it. Legs pumping, feet pounding, blood coursing through his veins. Slash, Stab, Slice. This can¡¯t go on. I can¡¯t keep running forever, my stamina will run out long before the sun rises. He remembered the complete absence of life or death during the day and assumed these ghouls only came out at night, so if he survived until dawn broke, he¡¯d have an entire day to rest and think about the situation. He looked around at the streets he was running through, looking for something in particular, a position he could stand and fight in. As he ran through the market street he¡¯d been in earlier, turning one ghoul into dust after another, he spotted a larger building in the distance and ran toward it. As he approached, he had no time to read the signboard outside it and sprinted up the stairs. He burst through the doorway, the doors that hadn¡¯t turned to dust were broken and hanging off the hinges, and into the building, only to realize that this was a library, and the shelves made of stone and scrolls and books were still intact. He ran toward the maze of shelves, quickly disappearing into the depths. The ghouls were still attracted to him ¡ª maybe because he was a living being, or maybe for some other reason, but they could all detect his location as if there was a tracker on him. The obstructing shelves helped to slow them down, allowing Ciaran to find an corner of the room and place his back against it, holding his sword up as his body tensed and crouched, killing any ghoul that popped out and lunged toward him. In the depths of the library, there were no windows, nor functioning clocks or lighting of any kind. Ciaran couldn¡¯t see the entrance from where he was and had no way of judging the time. The light of the fire licking his blade was the only reprieve from the pressing darkness. So long as he felt the surging killing intent these ghouls emitted, he would assume it was still night. So long as the night continued, he didn¡¯t let his guard down. As time passed, Ciaran could feel the arm holding the sword up starting to ache, then it began to shake, every subsequent slash becoming heavier and harder. Sometimes, a large group of ghouls would come out all at once, and his left hand would support his right as he moved to kill them all. He sometimes switched the sword to his left hand despite being right-handed, if only to give his dominant arm a break. His attacks would be a slower and less precise, but he could still kill the ghouls, who had no tactics or techniques to speak of. His back began to slump against the wall, the tide of ghouls continuing. He thought it would never end. All he knew was to slash, to slice, to stab, and to try to keep his body standing and his arm moving. [Hey¡­ kid¡­ keep killing them for me¡­yeah? If you¡­ do this solid for me, I¡¯ll¡­] Ciaran, exhausted and trying to keep his blurring vision steady, thought he was hallucinating when a voice whispered something in his mind. ¡°Kill them, what else can I do? If I don¡¯t I¡¯ll just die.¡± He shook his head, berating himself. He really must be going crazy from overexertion. Why else would he respond to a hallucination? Somehow, after killing a few more ghouls, he could sense their strong killing intent disappearing. Has daylight come? As soon as the killing intent completely vanished, Ciaran slumped against the wall and dropped his sword, extinguishing the flames, before falling to the ground, his vision going dark as he lost consciousness. ~|(+)|~ Ciaran woke up a little, but didn¡¯t open his eyes just yet. His starsight wasn¡¯t active, so it was still daytime. He didn¡¯t have to worry about the never-ending army of ghouls just yet, so he let himself lay down a little longer before blinking his eyes open. The place he fell asleep was dim. Without the light from the fire the sword emitted, he couldn¡¯t see anything. His muscles, overused as they were last night, ached all over his body. He didn¡¯t want to get up, but he couldn¡¯t keep laying here. He had to go find his stuff. It¡¯d been so long since he last ate, yet it wasn¡¯t until now that his hunger erupted with a ferocity he¡¯d never felt before. Well, before he¡¯d been a ducal heir. Now, he was a runaway, sleeping alone in some forgotten library. He groaned as he stood up, every sore muscle protesting, then grabbed the sword and tried to find his way back to the entrance, pressing on the hilt¡¯s hidden mechanism and using the fire to light the way. As he walked, the area began to brighten and he lifted his thumb off the groove, snuffing the fire out. Bit by bit, it became brighter, until he found the source of the light ¡ª the daylight pouring through the doors and windows. He walked through the broken doorway and stood atop the stairs before closing his eyes beneath the blindfold and tilting his face up to the sun. It was the end of summer, that period of time when the weather was not cold, nor hot, but the Lost Empire was much colder than the duchy, probably situated further North than Neix Keep. It was colder than yesterday. He could feel the chilly breeze ruffling his hair and touching his skin. The light of day reached the wounds he¡¯d forgotten about, and he looked down at them, wondering what to do. Should he wash them? But with what water? He had no medicine, either. The best he could do was to wrap something around it, but his clothes were dirty sleeping in a dusty corner all night, and he didn¡¯t want to let the wound get infected. They weren¡¯t that deep, anyway. He decided to put it off for the time being and do something about it later. Even if he didn¡¯t do anything, it should heal on its own to some degree. They had clotted over and stopped bleeding already, and Ciaran had other things to worry about. He took a deep breath, enjoying the peace he knew was temporary, then opened his eyes and set off in the direction he assumed he came from. The small movement tugged at the wound on his face that had just scabbed over, but he ignored it. It would heal on its own in time. He thought of the wound as a reminder to never forget what happened that night. To always remember his end goal of one day breaking his curse and avenging his family. He had run through the market earlier, so he had a feeling he knew the general area where he had thrown his stuff. As he walked, warming up his stiff body, he looked through the buildings he ran past last night. As he did, he made sure to search for something else. A ring, so he could start working on making a proper storage space for himself. That way, he wouldn¡¯t have to worry about carrying around heavy bags all the time. Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work! As he looked through building after building, he noticed something odd ¡ª he found pots on stoves and plates on dining tables, chairs knocked over and furniture shoved to the side. One room had a letter half written, maybe to a lover from the flowery language he could read, but the last written word trailed off as if the writer disappeared in the middle of it. Everything he found looked as if the owners left in a hurry, or didn¡¯t leave it all but vanished on the spot. He became more and more curious about the mystery behind the Lost Empire. He found a few pieces of jewelry, including some rings, and took them all with him before finding the house he¡¯d thrown his bag into. It was sitting on the floor as it had been before. He dropped the jewelry he was holding on the floor and opened the cloth sack filled with food, finding some bread and tearing into it. He slouched his back against the wall, watching the dust swirling in the air as a shaft of light shone through to the opposite wall. As he ate, he began to realize something he hadn¡¯t thought about until now. In all of the houses he¡¯d passed through, any food they must have had would have definitely been gone by now. Hundreds of years passed, of course there wouldn¡¯t be any more food, not even the gardens that grew fruits and vegetables would have survived until now. This clock sack of food that Martha and Penelope thoughtfully packed for him was all the food he had for now. After it ran out, he would have to find some other way to get food to not starve to death. Thinking about the state of this place, however, he wasn¡¯t sure how he could do so. Where could he hunt when living creatures were either unable to find this place, or chose to stay away from it? He tore off another piece of the bread he was eating and looked through the sack, estimating how long it would last him and how much he should ration every meal. If he ate until he wasn¡¯t hungry anymore, three times a day, it would only last him another three days or so. It would be better to try and stretch it out to at least a week by eating less. He remembered seeing a lake and a forest in the distance yesterday. Maybe he could go there another day to see if he could hunt something. As he stuffed the last piece of bread in his mouth, he rummaged through his bag until he found the engraving pen he brought with him. It had a tip similar to a quill and a smooth, wooden body. Near the tip, carved into the wood, were small golden letters ¡ª O. K. He wondered if they were his father¡¯s initials. This pen, like the blindfold, also had a bloodline inscription that limited who could use it. He¡¯d sensed it in his mother¡¯s office, but ignored it. It wasn¡¯t as if he needed to use it right away. He nicked his finger on the edge of the sword and pressed it to the tip of the pen, watching as the blood was absorbed and a small, golden inscription appeared, glowing and twisting as it unlocked for Ciaran¡¯s use. After it vanished again, Ciaran picked up one of the rings he found earlier, starting the arduous process of making a space ring. It began just as any other inscription did ¡ª he controlled his mana to become thin like a thread, flowing through the inscription pen and out of the pen¡¯s tip, attaching itself to the ring before making a small circle of mana in the air just above it. After making the basic framework for the inscription, he began to inscribe the details that would describe the function of the spell, but before he could get very far, the ring he was holding cracked and broke into pieces. The inscription he began to engrave on it broke as well. Ciaran sighed. The bronze ring must have been too old and fragile. It couldn¡¯t withstand such complex magic. He repeated his actions with everything he found, even using bracelets and necklaces and earrings. If he had to pierce his ears to make it work, he would. The function was more important than the appearance. Unfortunately, they all broke, leaving Ciaran holding a pen he hadn¡¯t used for longer than a few minutes, surrounded by broken fragments of metal. It seemed he would have to search more for something suitable. He sighed before turning his attention to his thirst. Eating that bread satiated some of his hunger, but left him more thirsty than he¡¯d already been. He thought about the container that had the ashes of the clothes he wore that night. It would make a good makeshift water canister if he cleaned it out, so he took it out and dumped all the ashes and debris into a random clay pot on one of the shelves of the house he was in. He could fill the canister with water so long as he engraved a spell that drew in water from the air and allowed to liquefy and fill the canister, but it was too dirty for him to do it right now. He also needed to bathe. After that long night, his skin was sticky with sweat and his clothes were dirty. In his mind, a picture of the lake appeared. The water in the lake wasn¡¯t safe to drink as it was, so he may as well use it for something more practical. With a new plan formed, he packed his things and swung his back over his shoulder, carrying his sword as he set off in the direction of the lake. ~|(+)|~ Hours had passed. Or at least, he thought they had. He had no watch or clock, and his only way of telling the time was tracking the sun and the moon as they made their way across the sky. When he left, the sun had been a little past the peak of the sky, and now it was getting close to the horizon. He may have about half an hour until the sun starts to set, and the ghosts of the past appear. He was so thirsty that his head ached and his tongue was as dry as paper. When he reached he shore of the lake, next to a pier that extended into a small pavilion, he dropped everything he was holding and knelt, cupping his hands before drinking the water in big mouthfuls. He knew he had a chance of getting sick from the drinking the unclean water, but he had long since stopped caring. It would just be this one time, after all. After he engraved that water spell on the canister, he wouldn¡¯t have to worry about water anymore. As he swallowed water, it ran down from the corners of his mouth. When he had enough, he took off his blindfold and washed his face, trying to avoid the wound. It would be a disaster if he got it infected because of his very lacking medical supplies. He took a step back and started to take off his dirty clothes before heading into the lake to wash himself and his hair. It was the first time he was taking a bath in such a place, but he couldn¡¯t be picky. He didn¡¯t have any soap, but scrubbing his skin to get rid of all the dried sweat and dust made him feel like a new person, making sure to clean the dried blood from around his cuts as well. After he finished washing, he waded close to shore and grabbed the pants and shirt he¡¯d just taken off, then took them into the water and began to scrub them clean. He only had two sets of clothes ¡ª these, and another similar pair he¡¯d stuffed into his bag when he was rummaging through the servant¡¯s wardrobe. He had never done laundry before, and he didn¡¯t have anyone to help or teach him now. He fumbled around with them in the water, trying to ¡°clean¡± them as best as he could before hanging them on the railing of the pier. He would let them dry and take them back later. He waded out of the water and onto the grass, not used to walking outside with no clothes on but needing to dry off a little to put on clean clothes. He looked at the blindfold in the ground and wondered if there was any point in wearing it. He was the only living being here ¡ª not even a fly could be found anywhere. It was a nation whose name and location had been wiped from existence, so he decided to keep the blindfold in his bag for now rather than wearing it. As he stuffed the blindfold into the bag, he grabbed the canister that used to contain his ashes and walked to the lake, filling it with water before dumping the dirty water out on the grass a meter away. He did this a few more times before thinking that it was as clean as it could get and grabbed his pen, beginning to inscribe the spell. Golden lines appeared in the air just above the closed lid. It was a simple spell and wouldn¡¯t take a lot of time to make, because the function itself was simple. The more complex the actions the spell had to take, the more intricate the inscription would be and the longer it would take to make. The chances of the inscription breaking during the process and having to start over were also higher. A spell that draws water from the air and turns it into a liquid in a specified container wasn¡¯t overly complicated ¡ª at least, not for Ciaran. He didn¡¯t have a great understanding of how his inscription skills compared to others his age. After he drew the last line of the inscription, it gave a brief glow before twisting and interlocking. The spell had activated, and inside the canister, clean water was filling up. He had inscribed the spell so that when the canister was full, it would stop working, preventing an overflow. When the canister was empty of water, it would start working on its own, drawing water in again until it was full. Ciaran, satisfied with his work, opened the lid and drank a few mouthfuls before wiping his mouth and closing it, stuffing it back into has bag and taking his clothes out. He wasn¡¯t completely dried yet, but he wasn¡¯t soaking wet anymore either, so he put his clean clothes on and tied the belt again, happy to not be so exposed anymore. He slung the bag around his shoulder again, letting it rest against his hip, grabbed his sword and walked through a few buildings on the street across the lake. Before the sun set, he needed to find a good place to fight through the night. It didn¡¯t take long for him to find what used to be a restaurant. As he walked through the doors, the sun touched the edge of the horizon, and the ghosts appeared. All of a sudden, the dilapidated building was clean and repaired, fill to the brim with bustling customers and busy waiters. He walked through the ghosts, trying to not shudder at the strange sensation he¡¯d get whenever he walked through someone, and into the back kitchen. The kitchen, though dim, was lively as the cooks ran around preparing dishes for the customers. He made his way through them and to the back of the kitchen, which had a big blank wall that used to hang many different spices and plants on racks and hooks. There was nothing there anymore, but this place was as good as any. At the end of the room, the door on the left led to the dining area, and the door on the right led to an alley behind the building, which he¡¯d seen through a small window next to the door. He took his bag off and let it rest in the corner, gripping the sword and doing a few warm up stretches. His muscles, still sore, ached at the movements but he needed to prepare himself somehow. He watched as one chef was mixing something in a bowl, sprinkling spices here and there, and as a waiters came in through the door on the left and picked up prepared dishes to take them to different tables. He tried to calm his anxiety as he ate his dinner ¡ª an apple and half a roll of bread. He never had the time to think about it last night, but now, he wondered how he made it through. So many of hours of nothing but fighting. He¡¯d never been in actual combat before, just sparring practice, but he made it through somehow. He took a deep breath and tightened his grip on the sword, throwing away the apple core and keeping his thumb on the groove at the hilt. The space grew darker, and before he knew it, the people that had once been preparing food and washing dishes had turned into dark, shadowy ghouls, their killing intent sharp and focused on him. Tonight, the sliver of a crescent moon had grown a little, allowing his starsight to work more precisely. His thumb pressed the groove down and flames erupted from the sword. He didn¡¯t say or think anything else as the ghouls flew at him, shrieking and wailing again. He swung and killed, sliced and destroyed. He killed one, it turned to dust and was absorbed by the sword, then killed another. He¡¯d gotten better at judging the speed of their attacks and what direction they would come from, so he¡¯d managed to avoid getting injured so far. One after another, he killed every ghoul in the restaurant and the surrounding few buildings. As the first wave of ghouls had slowed down a little, Ciaran drank water from the canister and heard a faint whisper of something, a voice saying something. Some parts would be clear and easy to hear, and others would be lower and harder to discern, the sound muffled. It was a voice that was a little familiar. [K¡­kid¡­ How did you¡­ find this place? I can¡¯t believe this¡­ I thought my consciousness would disappear¡­ before I ever saw another living person. Say, what¡¯s your name? Mine is Envil Duvane.]