Big thanks to Larieth for reviewing chapter one and BlackGeneralNocturna for reviewing chapter two. Also thanks to everyone who has this on their favourites list.
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Chapter Twelve: These Are Troubled Times
It was amazing how much a person could change in a few short weeks. Edward Blackthorn was not the same man he had been during their talk about the necromancy threat. There were black bags beneath his eyes, and his face looked drained of energy, as if he had been struck down by a bad flu. His movements were slower, as if every movement required too much effort.
"Grandfather. You wanted to see me?"
The man turned around, dressed in his usual kingly attire. He held a golden goblet in his right hand. Every so often, he'd bring it to his mouth and drink a few sips of liquid. "Lance. You came. Please. Sit." He gestured towards the chairs at the table. Slowly, the old man walked over and sat down, drawing in deep breaths.
"You do not look well," Lance said.
Edward put the goblet down. "The past few weeks have not been easy."
"You wanted this marriage."
"It is the correct decision. A political union between our two great nations." The man leaned back in his chair, drawing in yet another deep breath. "Samuel has informed me your dosage has been increased."
"I'm fine."
"But you're not fine," Edward said, looking at him squarely in the eyes.
"I'd be more concerned about yourself. When was the last time you had a decent sleep?"
"I did not summon you to talk about myself. We should be focused on the future."
Lance scowled. "Right. The future. That's all you care about but wait – that's also a lie. You pretend to care about our lives, but you don't. You took all choice away from Clair, and you've forced her to marry a boring man from a kingdom who openly supports magic. Yet you preach about your hatred of magic… But you had magic cast on me."
Edward raised an eyebrow. "I don't know what you are talking about."
Rising to his feet, Lance pointed an accusing finger and said, "Don't deny it!" he snapped. "I talked to Samuel Oak. He told me what you did. You didn't want me to die so you convinced Agatha to place a spell on me to keep me alive! After everything you've said about magic, yet you have it used on me!"
The man raised his hands in a sign of submission. "I was not going to allow you to die."
"And you hoped to hide this from me? For how long? Did you hope I would never find out?" Lance paced back and forth, unable to sit still and look at the man who had lied to him.
Edward pointed to the chair again. "Sit down."
"You do not get to order me around," Lance replied heatedly, throwing a glare in the man's direction. "I've done everything you've asked of me – without question. I've supported you always. I've looked up to you. But how can I follow your orders when you tell lies? Don't support the mages, you say. Fear magic. Hate magic. Hate the werewolves. Yet the only reason I'm alive is because of magic."
Edward folded his arms. "You will not receive any answers if you continue to behave like a petulant child. I raised you to be a leader – I raised you to be a future king. Now sit down." He pointed to the chair again.
Lance drew in a deep breath and sat down, folding his arms across his chest. How much had changed in a few short weeks. Once there had been a time he never would've imagined himself questioning Edward's orders. "Why was I dying?"
"You had an illness that could not be treated with our herbs."
"And my mother died – because of me."
Edward looked down at his lap and nodded. "Yes, she did. It was not your fault."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I didn't want you to worry about your fitness to be a leader."
Lance rolled his eyes and gave a dismissive snort. "But this will be a problem. It's getting worse, and I can't explain why. How are people supposed to believe in me if I can't... If I'm not at full health. People expect strength from their leaders… Not weakness." He leaned back in the chair and looked away. "The headaches are worse. I feel weak. Tired. And I don't understand why. It's worse around a full moon."
"I am sorry that you experience this, Lance. I've tried to find ways to eliminate the symptoms, but nothing works. We've been trying for years, Samuel and I. Only Agatha had answers – all she could do was suppress it."
Lance looked at him. "What do you mean suppress it?"
"This illness of yours. You were born with it. It's a part of you who are."
His thoughts shifted to the mark on his back. What had Lyra said? A crescent moon marking? And why was he not affected by magic? "I met a wild mage on the way to the Lake of Rage. She tried to cast a spell on me, but it did nothing to me. I don't know who was more surprised – her or myself. But that wasn't all – I met a wolf, Brawley at the lake."
Edward frowned. "You met a wolf."
"Yes."
"And you did not kill him?"
"No. I saw no reason too."
Edward's gaze narrowed. "You never trust a wolf. You should've killed him."
"He was giving me answers no one else could give me," Lance replied curtly. "You. Samuel. Agatha. No one tells me anything. It was Lyra who noticed there was a strange marking on me. It was a wild mage who told me I was cursed. It was a wolf who had to tell me there's magic on me. So, who am I to trust?"
"Do not talk to the wolves, Lance. They are abominations!" the man hissed.
The vehemence in his tone caught Lance by surprise. He was rarely angry – and he certainly never yelled. Still, Lance didn't cower. "Why do you hate them so much? The wolves?" Brawley seemed well-mannered and not dangerous at all. He could've killed him if he had wanted too.
"The wolves are a threat, Lance."
"That's what you keep saying, but that doesn't mean anything." The man hated the wolves, yet he had never given a reason why. It was simply the wolves are not human and therefore not natural and thus should be avoided and feared at all costs. "What did you need me for?"
"I need you to visit Violet City after the wedding to escort the priest back home safely."
"You can't get anyone else to do that? Seems like such a simple task."
"It'll be good for you to visit a smaller city."
Rather, it sounded like the man wanted Lance to stay away from the wedding celebrations, as if he thought Lance would embarrass himself in front of everyone. "I'll leave the morning after the celebrations. I want to be there to celebrate the occasion with Clair, and you're not going to convince me otherwise."
"You may leave."
Typical. Lance stood up and headed towards the exit without saying goodbye.
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Gary had decided not to work the morning shift claiming illness. Tracey could handle himself anyway; the morning hours weren't so busy as most people would be carrying out their usual daily duties. Besides, he couldn't work – his mind was alight with Bugsy's words from the previous day. The eccentric boy was a mage who somehow knew all about the Oaks. How long had the boy been spying on him and what else did he know? Unsettled by the recent event, Gary had chosen to remain in his bedroom.
Time alone meant he could study the golden sceptre he had retrieved. It was sitting under his pillow. He reached his right hand beneath it and picked it up then sat down on the bed. Its surface was warm to his touch, as if the ancient magic within it gave it life. "You caused me so much trouble," he murmured, bringing his other hand to the ruby orb. "I hope you were worth it all."
He lay down on the bed and held the sceptre in the same fashion as the priest had. He wanted to know what made the sceptre so important. Perhaps it was a foolish idea to play with something so dangerous, but how could he learn more about himself without experimenting a little? Closing his eyes shut, he brought his free hand to the sceptre and grasped it firmly, focusing his mind on the item itself. At first there was nothing. All he felt was a sense of foolishness. But soon the warmth in the sceptre transferred to his hands then slowly throughout his body, as if flame were enveloping him. Sweat broke out on his forehead, as the warmth spread. Soon, he was sweating all over.
A voice – which oddly sounded like his grandfather - told him to stop, but he clutched the sceptre as if it were giving him life. Not that he could move his hands if he wanted too – he couldn't move them anyway. Now his clothes were damp from the sweat, but he held on, drawing in deep ragged breaths. He feared he'd boil alive, but his body remained intact. Forcing his eyes open, he was surprised to find himself no longer in his room but standing outside a white temple with columns so white, it was almost blinding to look at. His eyes soon adjusted, and he walked towards the temple.
He stood outside the temple's door, observing the people below. Hundreds, no thousands of people swarmed through the streets. He could see their faces clearly from his position. A man with dark hair and a crooked nose chatted to an elderly woman with a hunched back; a woman with long curled blonde hair and heavily weighted down by various forms of jewellery ushered her three children towards a market stall; two teenagers, a boy and girl, were locked in a tight embrace.
He looked down at the robes he wore. They were white; the same attire the High Priests of the Old had worn. White was the colour of peace and joy. The buildings he had come to known in Blackthorn did not exist. There was no tavern. No public bathing area. He didn't even see any mills in the farmlands. This was a time of the golden age of the High Priests and he was seeing through the eyes of his ancestors.
"You've changed this place for the better, Nathaniel."
He turned around. "Melinda," he said, greeting his wife. One of the most stunningly beautiful women he had ever laid his eyes upon. Her dark curls fell down her back, stopping just before the base of her spine, and her dark eyes were full of mystery but also warmth and love. Her skin was a light bronze colour, darkened from much time spent in the sun. A child approached them. His name was Jorn, and he was standing behind his wife, tugging at her robes. He had inherited his looks, but he shared his mother's personality. The boy was only seven.
"Daddy," he said, leaving his mother's side and rushing to greet his father. Unsteady on his feet, Jorn tumbled and fell onto the ground. Melinda rushed over to help her son, but Jorn was determined to stand. He climbed back onto his feet and continued his walk towards him, wrapping his arms around his legs, holding them tightly.
Grinning, he picked up his son. "This will all be yours one day," he said. Jorn looked at him, a happy smile on his face. He reached out and pulled a strand of Nathaniel's hair, fascinated.
Melinda joined Nathaniel and stood beside him. "Do you remember what you once told me?"
"What was it?"
"You said change was impossible; that the people would not listen to you."
Jorn stopped playing with Nathaniel's hair and moved on to something more exciting – his nose. He poked it several times, amused by its funny shape. Melinda chuckled lightly, watching his antics. "He will be a capable ruler one day."
Nathaniel set his son on the ground and sneezed. "A mischievous ruler," he said, grinning. He cast his gaze sideways at her and looked down at her swelling, pregnant belly. "I can only hope our next child is not as mischievous."
She grabbed his hand with her own, clasping it tightly. "He picks up on his father, I don't have a mischievous gene at all," she said, teasing him lightly.
Nathaniel rolled his eyes, a grin plastered on his face. "Come inside my love, it is time to eat dinner." Wrapping an arm around her slender waist, Nathaniel led his wife and son back into the safety confines of the dinner room. A room well-lit by candles surrounded a medium sized table with four chairs. Nathaniel led his wife to the opposite end chair, and he took his position on the other end. Jorn sat in between them eagerly looking at the table.
Already the pottery dishes of food were present. Bread made from barley sat in the middle of the table next to two golden goblets of wine made from grapes. A vast range of fruits and vegetables decorated another pottery dish including melon, palm coconut and garlic. Animal products consisting of oxen and geese were placed on the right side of the bread. Nathaniel made his selection of food using his spoon.
The family of three ate in peace trading stories about the events of the day when bloodcurdling screams echoed throughout the kingdom. He stood up from his chair. Melinda looked at him, eyes wide with fear. His eyes met hers. "Something is wrong, stay here where it is safe," he ordered. "I'm going to investigate." Melinda nodded.
Jorn started to cry, watching his father leaving the room. "Daddy!"
He glanced back over his shoulder. "I'll be back." He left in silence, hurrying outside the temple to make sense of the screams. Was it possible? Had the other kingdoms heard about his magic? Had they come to investigate? Or worse, execute? Only a small percentage of people had magical blood running through their veins. He was the first to discover this power, and he had helped others understand it. But those who did not know magic feared it.
As he rushed outside, another bloodcurdling scream was heard. The sky, once a clear blue, was now covered in dark shadow. Vines of shadow reached down from the sky, randomly grabbing people and pulling them back up into the sky. Nathaniel pulled out his sword and ran down the stairs to aid those he could help.
"Nathaniel! What's going on?!"
Nathaniel turned around and saw his best friend another high priest called Russell race towards him. "The shadows! They appeared out of nowhere!"
Another vine of shadow reached down and grabbed a mother. Unlike the other vines, she was crushed immediately. Her lifeless body dropped to the ground, ripped of all skin. Nathaniel felt his stomach twist. What was happening? "I don't understand..." he muttered weakly, watching the destruction before him.
"We need to get out of here."
Nathaniel didn't move. He was paralysed waist down. A woman raced towards him, holding her dress as she ran. As she neared the steps, a shadow knocked her off her feet. The woman landed on the edge of the steps with such force, her face was firmly planted in it. The shadow covered her and ripped away her flesh.
"Oh Arceus..." Russell mumbled. He grabbed Nathaniel's arm and urged him to flee. "We can't stay here Nathaniel! We need to get inside the temple, now!"
Nathaniel didn't need to be told twice. Life sprung back into his legs and he bolted in the safety of the temple. "There's no way of escape," he said, breathing heavily as another hapless victim screamed. He glanced over his shoulder and looked outside. His heart wept as his eyes took in the catastrophe that lay before. What was once a thriving, vibrant kingdom had been turned into a smouldering ruin.
Thick black smoke caused by the burning of buildings and shadows blocking out the sun made the day feel like night. Hundreds, no thousands of innocent people lay unmoving on the ground encased by shadow. His stomach lurched, and he pried his eyes away from the sight. "We have to retreat while we still have a chance," Russell said.
Nathaniel struggled to think to focus on the task at hand, but try as he might, no plan came to mind. All he could think of was the growing number of corpses lying on the sand, staining it with their blood. No... his blood. They were his people! He was responsible for them. "I can't... I don't..." he mumbled, closing his eyes shut.
"Now is not the time to mourn Nathaniel; your family still lives, right? You can still save them."
Melinda. Jorn. His unborn child. Opening his eyes, Nathaniel nodded sternly. He didn't utter another word and ran in the opposite direction, Russell close behind him. Soon, he stopped at a room. In the far corner, his wife and son cowered. "We have to leave while we still can," Nathaniel said, assisting Melinda from the ground.
There were tears in her eyes. "Where are we going to go? How can we possibly outrun the shadows?" she whispered.
"We need to try. We must make our way towards the back door!" Nathaniel ordered.
"I'll try and help the others, get out of here Nathaniel!" Russell said, turning his back and running out into the open. Nathaniel didn't try to stop him. His priority rested in saving his family from death. As they made their way towards a secret back exit, a figure appeared before him. It stepped out of the darkness.
Nathaniel's jaw dropped as the shadows cleared, allowing him a clear view of the figure dressed all in black cloak with a strange eye pattern, and the face was concealed by a hood. The hood was pulled back revealing the face of a middle-aged man. His eyes were red, and his hair a sickly pale green colour. His skin was ashen pale, almost as if he were death himself. There were two yellow bracelets on his left arm, but he wasn't sure what they were meant to symbolize. Lastly, he noticed the staff in his left hand.
He knew the man. Ghetsis. That's what he called himself. He was one of them one; one of his students, but the man had left the city when a strange illness befell him. Rather than seek help from the greatest minds, he thought he'd find answers elsewhere. He thought he could use his magic for other means. "Well, we meet again, Nathaniel. It's certainly been awhile. You look well," he mocked, his tone laced with thick sarcasm.
Nathaniel backed away, his arms protectively shielding Melinda and Jorn. He noted the yellow skin on the man's right hand. Infection had rendered his right arm useless. The sickness that had claimed him from a young age had spread. No one had a name for it. It seemed to turn the flesh yellow and paralyse the arm from the shoulder downwards. "Did you find your answers?"
"Indeed. I can be reborn. We all can be. I just need one more ingredient."
He eyed the shadows flying around. They were just black smoke clouds with tails. "What are these?"
"Ah, yes, my newest creation. My shadow beasts. Restless spirits of the dead."
"Necromancy." The forbidden black art.
"If that is what we must call it… Yes. Power over the dead. To raise the spirits and give them new life," Ghetsis replied, raising his left hand. "To be reborn again. The dead will rise, and I will have my army."
"To what end?"
Ghetsis sneered. "We would never have to worry about sickness and disease again. We can die but be reborn and made anew. A second chance. A third chance. And so forth. Imagine that. We would never have to fear death and I am so close to finishing it."
"You're upsetting the balance, Ghetsis. Death needs to happen. People, animals, trees… they are born to replace the dead. You're trying to remake the wheel – you're trying to be Arceus himself." He wanted to be a god and have control over life and death itself. It seemed his sickness prompted him to seek out greater power. Did he hope to die and be reborn illness free? "Why are you doing this?"
"It'll be a better world. People like us… We could be gods."
"I don't want to be a god. This power we have… I use it to help people."
Ghetsis snickered. "Really? Is that what you tell yourself?" His voice lowered, mirth fading from his eyes. "They hate us you know. They fear our magic. Why try to help these people when we could rule over them? This power we have. It's a blessing. Our right to rule over the weak."
Nathaniel shook his head. "No, you're wrong. We're here to help. Magic can be used for a force of good."
"You call using blood good magic?"
"Our own blood. I don't take lives."
"One day you will. When you see the world before you crumble, you'll be forced to take action."
He shook his head again. "I'm not you."
"Well. That's a disappointment, but fortunate for me at the same time." He clicked his finger, and a ball of shadow flew into the temple's roof shattering it into hundreds of smaller pieces. The ground shook violently from the impact. "You refuse to take full advantage of the power we have. You'll die here and be forgotten. But I will be reborn. I gave you a chance to join me, but you refused. Now you're no use to me." He reached a hand into his robes and fished a hand inside then pulled it back out, revealing a curved golden dagger with a red hilt.
Nathaniel's eyes widened. "You..."
"A sacrifice. That's all I need, and my resurrection will be complete." He stretched out a hand, turned it towards Nathaniel and flicked it right. With overpowering force, Nathaniel was lifted from his feet and flung across the room. His back encountered a wall then fell onto the ground. He groaned and struggled to stand but the force of the throw had drained him of energy. He turned his head weakly to the side.
Ghetsis used his power to throw Melinda and Jorn onto the floor and used the shadows to bind them. With the dagger in his hand, he advanced towards Melinda and Jorn, pointing the weapon at them. Nathaniel tried to scream, but no sound came out. A river of tears streamed down his cheeks. "Nathaniel!" Melinda screamed, thrashing wildly against the shadows to free herself. "Nathaniel!"
"Daddy!" Jorn shouted.
"No... please... have mercy..." His voice returned, but his legs refused to move. He watched helplessly as the man raised the dagger high above his head. Shadows encircled the dagger eagerly, as if dancing with joy. Suddenly, the man brought the dagger down, throwing it into the heart of Jorn. The shadows dived into Jorn's dying body. "Jorn!"
The vision ended. Gary jolted upright on his bed, his heart hammering as if he had just run a marathon, body covered in sweat still. He then yelped, the sceptre burning so hot, it was like he was touching fire itself. The item fell from his hands and onto the ground. Gasping, he glanced down, unsure of whether to try and touch it again. "What was that?"
No answer, but it was obvious. Memories. Memories of the priest. His ancestor, Nathaniel, the one who started it all. Somehow, the sceptre had allowed him to see the memories of the man, and it felt real. He was Nathaniel. He was seeing the world through the man's eyes. But what did it all mean? His mind scrambled to make sense of it all.
"So, the shadows were controlled by the man called Ghetsis," he said aloud, as if that would somehow make it easier to comprehend. "He was a priest. Like Nathaniel, but there was something different about him in mind and body. He was… dying… And he sought to find a way to cure himself from his affliction. That's how necromancy came to be then. But how exactly?" The memories didn't show him.
Was this why Bugsy wanted him to obtain this sceptre? Because it gave him access to the memories of the dead? If he investigated the mind of his ancestor further what other secrets would he find? How exactly had Ghetsis died? How had Nathaniel died?
A metallic taste running down the back of his throat interrupted his thoughts. Immediately, he brought a hand to his nose, feeling the warm liquid of blood up against his fingers. Great, he thought sourly. Side effects, he added as a bitter after thought. Laying down on the bed again, he pinched his nose, his head hanging over the side, chin pointing upwards. They did have herbal potions to deal with bleeding noses, but this method was faster. The only downside is that he felt a bit light-headed afterwards.
After a few moments, the blood clotted, and he was able to sit up right again. "I wonder what my grandfather knows… If he even knows anything at all," he murmured.
The sceptre had to be hidden away somewhere. It should've stayed in the tomb. But Bugsy had persuaded him. Had this been a big mistake? A dark cloud hung above him, a heavy weight pushing down on his shoulders. What if Bugsy was a spy? He had to tell someone. But who? Lance? He didn't have any power here. He put the sceptre under his pillow and lay back down, gazing up at the ceiling.
What mess had he gotten himself into now?
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The tavern was often described as the place of foolishness and gossip. It wasn't a place Lance often visited - he didn't drink or indulge in the gossip the peasants seemed to delight in, but he wanted to be somewhere other than the castle. Clair would probably be with her husband and he didn't want to intrude, and Lyra would be busy. So, he had no other place to be in, but unfortunately his wish to blend in with the environment didn't work. The other peasants certainly noticed him – perhaps that is why the tables around him were empty – he caught them glancing in his direction, but no one dared to approach. Again, he was alone. A new feeling that he would have to become accustomed to soon.
Propping his elbows on the table, he brought his hand to his head, squeezing his eyes shut and drew a sharp intake of breath. He held his position for a few moments before opening them again and found himself looking at a now occupied seat. A man sat across from him, a familiar face. Bruno, except it wasn't the same Bruno that had left the kingdom several weeks ago. He now had a vertical scar down his right cheek, and he noticed a part of his left earlobe missing.
"What happened to you?"
"Some of the guards from Goldenrod recognized me. They attacked. I did fight them off, but things happened."
Goldenrod City, the place where you could trust no one. "Did you have a change of heart?" Lance said. "I thought you weren't coming back."
"What? Did the others notice I've been absent?"
Lance shook his head. "Perhaps… perhaps not. I don't have much contact with the common soldiers - only with the knights and even then, communication is minimal at most." His most recent task was simply sorting out the wolf problem at Mahogany Town and that had been a solo trip. His other adventures consisted of talking to Samuel Oak and chatting to Lyra. A dull month by his usual standards in terms of action. "Why are you here? What happened to your face?"
Bruno touched his ear. "I'm living in Olivine City with Lorelei. We were planning on boarding a ship and travelling to the Sevii Islands, but the pirates have come. Lorelei… Lorelei has been taken captive along with a number of other women."
"Let me guess. You want my help because no one else will help you."
"You wouldn't say no, would you?"
"Well, I have to go to Violet City anyway to escort the priest back home after the wedding."
Bruno nodded. "The king's orders?"
"Yes."
"Seems like a simple task."
"Yes." He had every right to reject Bruno's offer. He should leave Bruno to fend for his own – after all, the man had abandoned his service to the king. But he couldn't say no especially since the pirates had taken hostages. Innocent people he swore to protect. "I'll be there the day after the wedding. It's only a few hours ride from Blackthorn. Where should I meet you?"
"Do you remember the old weeping willow tree that sits alone atop a hill overlooking the city? I killed my first man and we buried him near that tree," Bruno said. "You were there to witness the moment."
Lance remembered. Bruno had just finished his training. He showed enough promise and Lance had been asked to take him out into the fields to deal with a spy. "I remember. You didn't even show any remorse for your actions. Some soldiers struggle to cope after making their first kill, but not you. Grandfather had asked you to join the ranks of the knights, but you said no."
"And yet we remained friends."
"I was there to witness your first kill. I felt responsible."
"Even though I'm older than you."
By a few years at the most. "Well, you had been caught trying to steal a chicken, so you either faced punishment or become a soldier instead and serve the king. Your choices were pretty limited," Lance replied. "You obviously chose the right one."
"That I did."
"But helping you will come at a cost."
"Anything. What do you need?"
"I want to see the werewolves again. There's an alpha called Brawley."
Bruno frowned. "You want to meet the alpha? Why?
"He seems to know…" He hesitated, stopping just short of talking about the mark on his neck. Bruno didn't need to know. Not yet. "…About this necromancy stuff," he finished.
"Still curious to know more about this, I see." A tall man with black hair and a lean frame walked over to the table carrying a mug of ale. He set it down on the table and nodded at them both before turning to walk away. Bruno turned back to Lance, wrapping his fingers around the handle. He brought it to his lips, took a sip then put it down again. "You don't drink do you?"
Lance shook his head. "Grandfather says drinking poisons the mind."
"You're missing out on something special." He took another swig then wiped his mouth using the back of his left hand. "But back to what I saying. This necromancy stuff. It leads down a dangerous road, Lance."
"And I need to know. I can't sleep not knowing. If there's something out there threatening this kingdom, I need to fix it," Lance replied, frowning as Bruno continued to drink. He never understood the fascination with drinking. It all seemed like a waste of time to him. Where was the fun in waking up the next morning with a massive headache? "This wolf seemed to know a fair bit."
"But you don't know where to find him."
"Last I saw him was at the cave near the Lake of Rage. You're the best at tracking."
Bruno sighed, putting his drink down. "That doesn't include tracking werewolves, but Lorelei could help. Can you trust this wolf even? What if it's an ambush? You're planning on entering the heart of werewolf territory. What if they hold you for ransom or worse, kill you? Is it worth the risk just to learn about the necromancers?" Bruno said. He picked up his mug of ale again and drank the remaining contents.
"The last few weeks have been… puzzling at the most. I need answers, and no one here will give them to me. I ran into a mage on the way to the Lake of Rage. She attacked me, and nothing happened. I'm immune to magic, Bruno, and I don't know why," Lance explained, placing his elbows on the edge of the table, and leaning forward. "Samuel told me a spell was placed upon me the day I was born to keep me alive," he added in a quieter tone.
Bruno frowned. "And you think the wolves have answers."
"They're creatures of magic. My grandfather won't tell me anything. Samuel seems sworn to silence on the matter too, and I have no idea where Agatha is. The werewolves are my last hope."
"And if your grandfather finds out?"
"He's already warned me against seeing the wolves, but I'm willing to take that risk to learn the truth."
Bruno sighed, rubbing his temples. "When I said to start thinking for yourself, I didn't mean tracking down werewolves. Maybe your grandfather is right this time."
"Then it's settled. I help you with these bandits and you help me find the werewolves."
"Indeed."
Lance stood up. "I will see you at the tree then."
"That you will."
Bruno remained at his chair. Lance assumed the man would probably have a few more drinks to relax whilst he still had the chance. There probably wasn't much fine ale outside the city walls. Lance said his farewells then exited the tavern.
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Brawley returned to the wolf's den located near the circle of dead trees deep in the woodland. The trip to the Lake of Rage had proven to be a successful one. Lance had arrived as he had hoped, and his suspicions had been confirmed. One of the wolves stepped forward. The boy had burgundy-coloured hair and always seemed to be annoyed as he always seemed to be scowling about something.
"What is it, Roark?"
Roark approached him then pointed a finger. "It was a risk venturing so far away from home. Heading to the Lake of Rage of all places. That place is popular with the peasants. What if someone other than Lance had seen you? We didn't flee to Johto-Kanto to encounter more trouble," Roark said, lowering his arm. The other wolves nodded. "I lost my father in Sinnoh. I don't want to lose you too. You're our alpha."
"I understand your concerns, and your loyalty is appreciated, but I had to be certain."
"To be certain of what? That Lance is the one that killed our youngest brother?"
"He's sick," Brawley noted. "I could smell the magic on him. I let him walk free."
His words were met with raised eyebrows and surprised looks. "You let him walk?" a wolf stated, his thick, dark brows furrowed. "He's an enemy to our kind, Brawley! He killed one of our own!" Other wolves started to voice their complaints.
Brawley raised his hands, calling for silence. "I've exchanged words with him, and the poor fool is blinded by the truth. He's a soldier. An obedient one. He does what is asked of him. But he's sick. I could smell it on him. He's dying. Slowly. And this magic is the only thing that keeps him alive, but it will weaken in time."
Roark raised a brow. "Dying? How so? Like a disease? Isn't that a good thing?"
A man with a crooked nose and a black crest for hair stepped forward. "He's not one of us, Brawley. You should've put him out of his misery and killed him!"
Brawley growled, and Sidney stepped back. "I am your alpha. I make the decisions. My decisions have kept us alive." No other wolf dared to speak. Taking their silence as encouragement to continue, Brawley added, "It's a spell unlike anything I've seen before. Powerful. It keeps him alive, but magic has a limit."
"What sort of magic?"
"A binding spell. Designed to contain his true nature."
"So, you still think he's one of us?" Sidney replied.
Roark made a dismissive gesture. "Now that would be a scandal."
"I found a dead mage not too far from the lake. Same direction Lance would've come from. A recent kill too."
"So, he could be a faerie," Sidney said.
"Don't be stupid, Sidney," Roark snapped. "No faeries have been spotted since Henry Blackthorn's time."
Scowling, Sidney made a fist and said, "They exist, and they show up when there's a major threat to the balance of this world. We've seen the signs of necromancy. It's starting again. The cycle. The prophecy about the sun and the moon. You know, the one about the Lightbringer, the one who will drive back the shadow?"
Brawley shook his head. "He's not a faerie. He's something else."
"And we're back to assuming Lance is a wolf too," Sidney remarked. Some wolves sniggered.
"A mage can kill any man," Brawley said, ignoring their laughter. "But a mage's elemental powers do not harm wolves. We are far more resistant than any common man. There were no markings on him when he arrived. Unscathed."
"Maybe he caught her off guard, and killed her before she could've done anything," Roark said.
Shaking his head once more, Brawley said, "Mages aren't so easy to sneak up on especially not in the forest. Every step you take, you risk stepping on a twig or walking across crumped leaves. She would've heard him approaching. He stabbed her through the stomach. He never would've attacked had she not struck first."
"You can't be certain of that," Sidney said.
"He didn't attack me on sight. He prefers to listen first. Only a fool strikes blindly."
"That's still not enough evidence he's a wolf," Roark said. Some of the wolves exchanged concerned looks. "He would've triggered his curse a long time ago if that had been the case."
"But a binding spell contains evil," Brawley replied. "Or what is presumed to be unnatural. It would make perfect sense. The binding curse on him… It's to stop something from getting out. That would mean his grandfather knew and ordered a powerful mage to place a curse on him to stop him from turning into a wolf. As you said, it would be scandalous to have a wolf running amok in the royal family." It would explain why he displayed no wounds from the mage's attack. Werewolves healed quickly.
"If he's actually a werewolf does that mean we can't harm him?" Sidney said.
The wolves were still expecting retribution for the death of one of their own even after all these years. A grudge wasn't dropped until the issue was resolved. Brawley shook his head. "We can't kill him. The consequences would be far too great. Rather, I intend to help him learn the truth. Discover his true origins."
"That's too dangerous," another wolf said. "We're not immortal."
"How can he even be trusted? I say let him die," Roark spat.
Several heads nodded.
"Even if he is one of us by blood, it doesn't mean he's truly part of the pack," Sidney added.
Brawley gave the wolves a stern look. "The prophecy will come to light once more. History repeats itself, and we've all seen the signs. He could be our only chance of being accepted into this world again – isn't that what we want? To feel human. Not to be living in the forest like animals forever. I need you to trust in me – can you?"
One by one they dropped to their knees and bowed their heads in a sign of respect and agreement.
.
Falkner was still unconscious, but Morty didn't want to wait for the boy to wake up. He descended the ladder, venturing into the pit of darkness. He wished he were a mage with the ability to conjure flame, but such abilities were absent for necromancers. There were only two sources of light – one coming from the hole above, and two small torch braziers ahead that appeared to be fuelled by magic. There was no telling how long the doorway had been covered, so how else would the flames continue to burn?
He walked towards the tiny sources of light and grabbed a brazier off the wall, holding it before his face, moving it from side to side to light the path ahead. There. A coffin of some sort. He approached it and looked down, running his fingers across the cool surface with his free hand. Strange runes marked the mahogany-coloured wood. They were symbols he could not decipher. Something old. Infused with magic perhaps. He placed the torch in the empty wall brazier ahead, then attempted to push the lid off the coffin. It didn't budge. Magic had sealed it.
"Why can things never be easy…" he murmured, pulling out his sword. He climbed on top of the coffin then plunged the sword down onto the wood. At first, he made a small dent. He tried again applying more force. This time, he broke through the wood. Satisfied, he climbed off, laying his sword down beside him, then carefully pulled apart the broken pieces.
Soon enough, he was able to peer inside. There was a well-kept corpse of a man in the box wearing a golden crown, and both his hands were clasping a golden sword. The burial place of a fallen and forgotten king. Henry Blackthorn was the first that came to mind. He was known throughout the lands as the king who had perished to poison. "A golden sword. Fascinating."
He reached down inside and pried the man's hands away from the sword, careful not to break anything. Whoever had buried the man had done an excellent job in preserving the body. Even in death, kings were treated above everyone else. Most people didn't even get buried in a box but were thrown into the ground and left to become one with the soil. He pulled the longsword out and held it before him, the sword seeming to emit a faint aura of light. It was surprisingly light for its size. "The sword that slayed the dragonite," Morty murmured. He put the sword away in his sheathe thankful that it fit. He picked up his other sword and placed it in the coffin with the corpse. "It's not quite the same, but what use is a fancy sword for a dead man?"
He returned to the ladder and ascended it. He stood up and dusted himself off the dirt and look around once more. Falkner was still on the ground, unmoving. As tempting as it was to leave without Falkner, he knew that would just create more questions and make things more difficult. He had to wait for the boy to wake up.
"Morty."
A female voice. It hadn't come from the mage. She was clearly dead. No. It had come from somewhere else. He turned around and spotted a woman in a green dress walking towards him, her black hair tied up in a bun. "Naoko. How did you even know I was here? I wasn't expecting you so soon."
"I've talked with N."
"It's going to take me time to find these three relics."
"I understand." She walked back and forwards, stopping before Falkner. She peered down at the man, frowned, then turned back to Morty. "What do you know? Tell me everything you've learned about Blackthorn."
Morty folded his arms across his chest. "I've joined the military under the command of Chuck. I haven't met Lance yet, but I have seen Clair. She's marrying some Unovan prince called Benga sometime this week. I also met a servant girl. Sabrina. She's an oracle. Can you believe that? I've talked to her. She's inexperienced. Her visions make little sense, but nothing that points to us."
Naoko didn't seem concerned. "If she's a servant girl, then no one else would care for her words. What I am concerned about is this marriage – you cannot lose sight of the royal family. They must remain within our reach. Do whatever you must to ensure she does not leave the castle's walls."
"I'll do what I can."
"Whatever you must," she repeated.
He nodded. "Have I failed you before? No."
"I know you will succeed," Naoko said, placing her hands on his shoulders. "Because you are my best. My champion. No one else can rise to the challenge. Those three relics – the sceptre, the amulet, and the ring – must be found. You'll know what they are when you see them. Ancient items." She removed her hands.
"Oh. Zuki sent a friend to assassinate the king."
"I know. She told me she was planning on doing things her way."
He frowned. "The man's dead. I trust you have control over the situation?"
"Let me worry about my own sister, and you just focus on your task," she replied wryly.
He could never tell what was going on in her mind. She was excellent at not revealing her thoughts. "Very well. I'll continue my work the," he replied, then cast a look at Falkner. "As soon as this fool is conscious."
"Return home when we obtain the relics." Naoko turned away and walked down the slope.
When she was out of hearing range, Morty kneeled besides Falkner. "You're not a bad person Falkner. A fool of a man, sure, but like you I have orders. We're both soldiers in a war on different sides fighting for a common goal – absolute power. I just have to use you and your people to help bring mine closer to that goal."
He didn't say another word. Falkner showed no signs of awakening just yet. Morty lay down on the ground, placing his hands behind his head, as he stared up at the sky. Thick clouds billowed were building in the horizon. In a few hours, the storm would come.
.
"How are you finding your duties?" Sheila said, entering the dining area, laying a plate on the table. A single slice of bread with some cheese and grapes. There was also a small cup of water.
Lyra had returned to the castle servants building on Clair's orders. The woman was an odd one – sometimes she seemed kind-hearted, and other times she seemed to be in a bad mood. Lyra wasn't sure how to respond to Clair's words – it almost seemed as if the woman were intentionally trying to test her to see what comments she would receive. "Fine. I haven't been asked to do anything too far outside my comfort zone."
Except for sharing a bath with Lance. That had been awkward, especially when she had noticed the odd marking on the back of his neck. She hadn't crossed paths with him since. Had her actions put a wall between them?
"It'll become easier in due time."
Lyra took a bite out of her bread. After she had finished swallowing, she said, "I'm moving to Unova with Clair and her future husband, Prince Benga. I've only just started to settle in Blackthorn life, and then I have to move again."
"Truth be told, I wasn't expecting such a quick wedding," Sheila said, taking the opposite seat to Lyra. "But we aren't getting any younger, and Clair's recently turned twenty-one. Most princesses marry much younger to men much older. I would consider Clair quite lucky considering the circumstances."
"Ethan showed me the tavern a few days ago."
"And your head was filled with mindless gossip?"
Lyra shook her head. "No. Gary talked to us briefly about the conflict between the king of Blackthorn and the mages. The mages and Blackthorn were once united though. What pulled them apart?"
Sheila sighed, pushing back a loose strand of hair behind her left ear. "I really shouldn't be telling you any of this, but since you're leaving soon… Gary never told you about the faeries, did he?"
"The what?"
"The faeries," Sheila repeated, as if that would help. "Most people do not believe in faeries, nor is there much history recorded about them. But they are said to be divine folk, descendants of Arceus himself. It's believed a faerie will emerge in times of darkness because only their light can fight the shadow."
Faeries, Lyra thought. Werewolves and mages were one thing, but faeries too? "How do you know about them?"
"Because my father fought in the war, and he passed the story down to me. Shortly after the priesthood had been formed, a man called Henry arrived whom believed it was his destiny to become king. His family had been living on this land for generations and Blackthorn had been their home until a dragonite had decided to take the city. The Blackthorns had been driven out of the home and lived in the mountains until Henry received a vision from on oracle."
"And he felt inspired by that vision and came here to slay the dragon?" Lyra said.
The woman nodded. "Henry had made friends with a man called Joseph. Together, they forged a weapon that could slay the strongest of dragons, infused with divine might. The dragonite was defeated, and Blackthorn City was returned to its rightful owners. Henry declared himself king, and Joseph was appointed his right-hand man."
"Joseph was a faerie."
Sheila nodded. "Yes, and his magic could enchant any weapon that could slay any evil."
"And then Henry was poisoned? That's the story I heard."
"It's a sad tale. An unfortunate tragedy. Several years later, three high priests had come to Blackthorn seeking a home to share their knowledge. Henry accepted them and gave them a home within the city walls. Tensions began to grow between the non-magical folk and the mages. The mages thought they were being treated unfairly. Ghetsis was the man to blame for their change in thought. Under his leadership, some of the mages began to believe they were deserving of more power."
"And a rebellion happened?"
Again, she nodded. "Yes. Henry was poisoned one night. Joseph had been killed by some unknown power. Ghetsis was blamed for it – all the signs pointed to him. When Henry died befell the region, and a plague swept across the land. Many believe it to be Arceus's wrath unleashed upon the mages since only mages fell ill. Ghetsis and his followers were struck down with the illness, and Edward Blackthorn had ordered them to be sealed away in tombs scattered around the region."
Lyra frowned. That's what Gary had told her. The man and his followers had succumbed to illness, but Gary had never mentioned his name, claiming it had been erased from the history books. "And that's why there are hostilities between the mages and the non-magical folk now. How do the werewolves fit into this?"
"The werewolves had been the result of a woman's broken heart. Her name was Melisandre, a wild mage of the woods, who had used her magic to curse a tribe of men to turn into beasts every full moon night. She had found her husband with another woman and decided they should all suffer like her heart had," Sheila explained. "It was said you could identify a cursed man by the marking on the back of his neck."
"What sort of marking?" Lyra said, her thought shifting to Lance.
She shrugged. "I do not know."
Lyra decided not to bring up the crescent moon marking on Lance's neck. She couldn't assume Lance was a wolf. The marking could mean something else entirely. Mages often left symbols on their cursed targets that were often not related to the actual curse. If only her mother was here. The woman would know. Besides, if she started making such assumptions, then she would find herself in a lot of trouble. "And how are faeries are recognized? And why are there no records?"
"Most heroes are not given the praise they deserve. He wasn't even given a proper burial, and I couldn't tell you where Joseph was buried."
With a frown, Lyra said, "Were they scared he'd come back to haunt them?"
She nodded. "People believe in spirits, especially the commonfolk. They fear magic even more. They believed if he were buried within this city, his magic would taint the land. People quickly forgot the role he had played in defeating the dragonite. They are quick to point the finger and accuse. They fear what they do not understand."
"Btu they kept the sword, right? I mean, if it slayed a dragon, and had divine power… It might be worth keeping it safe."
"Henry Blackthorn had been buried away from the main castle, and his sword with him. When Edward Blackthorn was crowned, he wanted the castle cleansed of his father. That included the sword. He didn't trust magic."
Of course. They wouldn't bury the body within the castle grounds. "Right."
"A tragic tale of two heroes, but fear makes people take extreme action."
Lyra picked a green grape and debated whether to ask more questions. So much had been revealed to her now, but nothing that answered what the mark on Lance was. "Thanks for telling me."
The woman climbed to her feet, wiping her hands on her dress. "It helps keep the mind from worrying about other things. A welcome distraction, and I'm sure you have plenty to think about as well with Clair's wedding approaching, and the life after that. I've heard lovely stories about Unova."
Lyra ate another grape. "I hope they're true."
"You won't leave immediately – Clair will want to stay in the city for a few more days to say her farewells and talk with Lance. I do wish you would be staying here permanently – Ethan would like it too, I'm sure. It's the happiest I've seen him in years. I should go now – you'll need to sweep the floors in the baths later tonight." She walked away.
Lyra continued to eat her food, lost in her thoughts. A missing magical sword. The existence of faeries, and a strange crescent moon marking on Lance's neck. What did it all mean? She regretted not spending more time understanding the symbols in her mother's book. All this information would make more sense. Holding back a sigh, she pushed the plate away, having lost her appetite. Learning her head against the spine of the chair, she squeezed her eyes shut and began to doze.
