The Vengeful Passage
The city of Eredas was dying, slowly crumbling under the weight of the curse that twisted its bones and poisoned its breath. The once-great city, filled with knowledge and power, had become a rotting corpse—its streets cracked, its buildings decayed, its people ghosts. And yet, here stood Morrin, in the heart of it, in the grand archive that held the last whispers of its greatness, defying its ruin. The air reeked of mold and old, sour parchment, the kind of smell that lingered deep in your lungs, suffocating you from the inside out. His chest tightened as he breathed it in, but he forced himself to stay calm.
The silver pocket watch in his hand was a lifeline, the steady ticking grounding him as the archive shuddered under the weight of his spell. He’d spent years trapped in this city, framed for a crime he didn’t commit by the man who had once been his closest ally. Lothar. The name burned in his mind, hotter than the magic that now hummed beneath his skin. Morrin could feel the spell, taste its raw power on his tongue—it was bitter, like copper and smoke. The curse was fighting back, twisting the air around him, warping the city itself to crush his will, but Morrin’s resolve was iron.
Dorian staggered beside him, his face pale, sweat glistening on his brow. “Morrin, this is madness,” he rasped, his voice trembling. His eyes darted to the cracks splintering the floor beneath their feet, widening with each second. “You’re going to bring the whole damn city down!”
Morrin didn’t reply. His focus was on the spell, the ancient runes that now glowed beneath his boots, pulsing with sickly green light. He could feel the magic coiling around him, a living thing, and his fingers twitched, aching with the strain of holding it all together. But this was what he needed—what he had planned for. The curse would bring Lothar to him. It had to. The power of the city, of the magic that had held them all prisoner, was the only thing that could lure his rival out of the shadows.
A sudden gust of wind howled through the shattered windows of the archive, cold and biting, carrying with it the faint echo of footsteps. Slow. Deliberate.
Morrin’s heart quickened. He could feel the presence now. Lothar was near.
He glanced at Dorian, his lips curling into a thin smile. “He’s coming.”
Dorian’s eyes widened with fear. “Lothar? You’re actually going to face him?”
Morrin slipped the pocket watch back into his coat and straightened, his gaze hard. “I’ve waited long enough.”
The air grew colder, the temperature dropping so fast that frost began to creep along the walls, spreading over the cracked stone like a disease. Morrin’s breath came out in misty clouds, and he could feel the pressure in the room growing—suffocating. His skin prickled with the sensation of magic swirling around him, tightening like a noose. Every muscle in his body tensed, every nerve on edge.
And then, from the darkness, Lothar emerged.
Tall and shrouded in a cloak of black, his pale face gleamed in the flickering green light of the runes. His eyes were cold, devoid of emotion, but the smile on his lips was sharp, cruel. “Morrin,” he said, his voice smooth and mocking, echoing off the stone walls. “I didn’t expect you to last this long.”
Morrin’s jaw clenched, the taste of bile rising in his throat as memories of betrayal flashed in his mind. Lothar had been more than just a rival—he had been a brother in arms, a man Morrin had trusted with his life. Until Lothar had betrayed him, framing him for the murder of the council’s head. That act had condemned Morrin to this cursed existence, trapped in the decaying city, while Lothar rose to power on the back of his lies.
But that was years ago. Now, Morrin was ready.
Lothar stepped closer, his boots barely making a sound on the stone floor, his smile never wavering. “You can’t win, you know. This city, this curse—it’s beyond you. You’ve always been a fool, Morrin, grasping at things you don’t understand.”
Morrin’s hand tightened into a fist, his nails digging into his palm until he felt the sting of blood. The metallic taste filled his mouth, mixing with the smoke that hung thick in the air. He ignored it. Focus. “I understand enough,” Morrin growled. “Enough to know that you’re not walking out of here alive.”
Lothar chuckled, the sound low and dark. He spread his arms wide, as if welcoming the challenge. “Then let’s see what you’ve got.”
The magic in the room pulsed, responding to Lothar’s presence, and the runes on the floor flared brighter. Morrin felt the surge of power, the spell reaching out to him, begging to be unleashed. His body trembled with the strain, the energy burning under his skin, ready to explode. He could hear it in the air, like a high-pitched whine, the kind that rattled your bones and set your teeth on edge. The curse was alive, angry, and it wanted blood.
“Get ready,” Morrin muttered under his breath.
Dorian, standing just behind him, was frozen in place, his eyes wide with fear. He had always wanted to be a hero, but now, standing at the edge of the abyss, Morrin could see the cracks in his resolve. But it didn’t matter. Dorian was just a pawn, a piece of the puzzle Morrin had already set in motion.
With a single word, Morrin unleashed the spell.
The air shattered with a deafening roar as the runes exploded in a burst of green fire, tendrils of magic ripping through the room. The ground trembled violently, and the walls of the archive groaned as cracks spider-webbed through the stone, dust and debris raining down from above. Morrin felt the force of the magic slam into him, driving him to his knees, but he held on, his eyes locked on Lothar.
Lothar staggered back, his smile faltering as the spell wrapped around him like chains, tightening with each second. His eyes flared with anger, and he tried to raise his hands, to cast something of his own, but the magic was too strong. Morrin could see the panic in his rival’s eyes now, could hear the labored gasps as the spell began to crush the life from him.
“You thought you could control this curse,” Morrin snarled, pushing himself to his feet, his voice shaking with the weight of the spell. “But you were wrong.”
Lothar’s face twisted in rage, his lips pulling back in a snarl. “You think this will save you? You’re just as cursed as the rest of us!”
Morrin didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The spell was already in motion, and there was no stopping it now.
The ground beneath them buckled with a violent jolt, sending both men sprawling. Morrin tasted blood as his head slammed into the cold stone, stars dancing in his vision. He forced himself up, his vision blurred, the taste of copper thick on his tongue. But through the haze, he could see Lothar struggling, clawing at the air as the spell constricted around him, tighter and tighter.
The air was thick with the smell of burning stone, the heat from the runes so intense that it scorched the floor. Morrin could feel the magic pulsing in his veins, the power overwhelming, and he knew he was close to losing control. But he couldn’t stop. Not now. Not when he was so close.
Lothar’s scream tore through the room, a sound so raw and primal that it sent a shiver down Morrin’s spine. He watched, breathless, as his rival’s body twisted, writhing under the pressure of the spell, the magic eating away at him from the inside out.
And then, with one final, deafening crack, Lothar’s body shattered.
The explosion of magic sent Morrin flying backward, his body slamming into the far wall with a sickening thud. He gasped for breath, pain radiating through his chest, his vision dimming. The world around him spun, and for a moment, he thought it was over—that the curse had taken him, too.
But as the dust settled, as the magic in the room slowly faded, Morrin realized he was still alive. He blinked, his vision clearing, and slowly, painfully, pushed himself to his feet.
Lothar was gone. Only ash remained, scattered across the floor, mixing with the blood and debris of the ruined archive.
Morrin stood in the silence, his breath ragged, the taste of victory bitter on his tongue. The curse of Eredas was breaking, he could feel it, but it hadn’t lifted completely. There was still darkness here, still something pulling at the edges of the city. But Lothar was dead. And that was enough. For now.
Dorian approached cautiously, his face pale, his hands shaking. “Morrin… what now?”
Morrin didn’t answer immediately. He reached into his coat, pulling out the silver pocket watch, its ticking the only sound in the ruined archive. He stared at it for a long moment, his expression unreadable.
Then he slipped it back into his coat and turned, walking toward the shattered doors of the archive, leaving the cursed city behind him.
“Now,” Morrin said, his voice quiet, “we end this.”
The curse would follow him. The darkness would follow him. But for now, Morrin had won.
And that was enough.
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