The open field whispered softly as a small breeze passed through the emerald grass. The chirp of crickets serenaded him into a drowsy bliss. The vast plains dotted with a few trees stretched from the tip of his feet to beyond the horizon. High above, the stars illuminated the sky like tiny gemstones dotted across a sheet of black velvet. Two stars in particular, one a fiery orange and the other a gentle gold, watched over him and made him feel safe. As he laid with his back against the ground, his eyelids grew heavy and he began to drift into sleep. Suddenly, the stars faded away and a dark shadow was cast over the land.

  A miasma of dread permeated in the air as he struggled to get his bearings. He reached for his sword only to find it absent from his belt. Deathly silence fell upon the land. Suddenly, a purple glow illuminated the ground to reveal the emerald grass had withered into black ash. The air thickened with the harsh aroma of blood. Broken weapons and pale bodies exsanguinated of life covered the ground. Some of them wore the armor of his fellow guardsmen, though their faces were veiled in ash.

  As the light grew brighter, his gaze drew skyward to an incredible sight. A bright purple comet blazed across the sky, sprouting a long tail that crackled in magical energy. Sparks rained down and turned everything they touched into dust. One of them landed on his throat, freezing it solid. He wanted to scream, but he found himself unable to evoke even a whisper. He wanted to run, but his legs were frozen in place. All he could do was watch as the comet descended from the heavens and reduced everything he could see to ash.

  ***

  Cecil rolled out of bed and slammed against the hard wooden floor with a loud thud. As he gasped for air, his throat burned with a cold sensation. The realization that it was all a dream gave him little comfort as the vividness of the comet appeared in his eyes. He unwrapped himself from the cocoon of bedsheets and looked into the mirror on his nightstand. His thin black scar, which looked liked someone cleanly slashed him with a shard of hardened pitch across the throat, appeared no different than usual. As he touched it, the cold feeling quickly vanished and left him confused. Whatever connection, if any, to the dream and his scar was lost on him. The pupils of his stormy gray eyes gradually shrunk as he straightened his short black hair and wiped the sweat from his brow. The desire for fresh air grew as he opened the windows to the warm summer breeze.

  The sun was at an early rise over the town of Timberwood. From the manor, he could see the townsfolk walking down the street getting ready for the day of work ahead. Farmers from the fields out of town came into the market, hauling wagons of wheat, fruit, and livestock. Lumberjacks waited in line to get their axes sharpened by the town blacksmith. Even from a distance, it was obvious the old man was grumbling at how mistreated the tools were. Guards armed with spears patrolled the streets in loose formations, greeting those they passed. Along the edges of town, he spotted a group of carpenters and masons repairing the outer wall from the last goblin attack. He hoped that the repairs would be done before the next inevitable raid.

  He scanned the streets, looking to spot the red hair and green robes of the town druid, Nina. It had been several days since she ventured into the forest to gather herbs for her potions, and people grew more impatient for her return. But none grew more impatient than him. To Cecil, she was so much more than just the town druid who healed the sick and warded off blights. She was his friend and, not too long ago, something more. Despite his searching, he found no sign of her. It seems he would have to wait a bit more to ask about his scar.

  The early morning stillness didn’t last as the streets grew busy. Ever since the founding of the Kingdom of Ebonhold, Timberwood had been the chief supplier of lumber thanks to the abundant forests to the south. Recent monster activity in Isin’s Scar created an increased need for lumber, much to the vexation of the elder druids. Thanks to the efforts of Cecil’s father, Duke Horacio Harland, an agreement with the druids and the townsfolk was reached to allow for more logging in exchange for a more proactive campaign against the goblins. Cecil and his father suspected that neither the druids nor the townsfolk wanted to upset the alliance that had been in place since the days of the first king.

  Cecil took in a lungful of air and stretched, ready for a day filled with patrols and talks with his father about the goblins. But just as he turned to get dressed, the sound of bells echoed in the air. They chimed three times with a short pause between them; the chimes of an immediate emergency. The townsfolk below quickly panicked and fled into their homes, presumably thinking it was a raid. Cecil hastened to put on his clothes followed by his chainmail, pauldrons, and gauntlets. A sharp knock came from the door.

  “Captain! Are you there?!” yelled a familiar voice.

  Cecil opened it to see Aaron, a young guard of twenty summers, leaning on the doorway panting from exhaustion. Upon seeing Cecil, he breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Oh thank the flame father! Some of us thought that they had gotten to you first,” said Aaron, breathing a sigh of relief.

  “What’s going on? Is it another goblin raid?” Cecil asked.

  “No, sir! Several men have taken hostages in the old church! We believe they’re cultists!”

  Cecil grew intrigued at the mention of cultists. They were a far cry from the normal dangers that threatened the town. This also meant he had no frame of reference for how to deal with them. Many thought them to be exclusive to the dark alleyways of major cities or nestled in some cave on the outskirts of civilization. No matter who or what they worshiped, they were always a problem.

  “Where’s my father?”

  “He was the one who raised the alarm. I suspect he might be at the church.”

  Cecil grabbed his sword and shield from the wall, strapped the sword to his waist, and ran down the hall and out the manor. Aaron followed close behind, ordering a squad of guards to follow them as they sprinted past the gates. The townsfolk watched from inside their homes, curious but weary of what was going on. It was not everyday an emergency occurred that didn’t involve greenbloods.

  When they arrived at the church, a massive crowd had formed around it. Many yelled at the guards, demanding to know why nothing had been done yet. Cecil ordered the crowd to clear a path as he arrived, evoking excited whispers from ear to ear. Standing not too far from the entrance surrounded by guards was his father: Duke Horacio.

  The duke was a tall man with blue eyes and straight black hair that fell to the tip of his shoulders. He wore a blue doublet with the Harland family crest, a large tree with many branches and long roots, embroidered on his chest. His elegant, but deadly rapier was sheathed in a black leather scabbard that hung on his left side. His most striking feature was his well-kept mustache; a rather unusual choice among Ebonhold nobility. Seeing his son approach, the duke let out a sigh of relief.

  “Cecil! Thank goodness you’re alright.” he said.

  “Aaron told me there are cultists inside the church with hostages. How did this happen?”

  “I’m afraid I still don’t know. Several townsfolk reported some of their family had disappeared this morning. When I sent some guards to investigate, they came back with reports of robed figures entering and leaving the church. I don’t know anyone but cultists who wear red robes that hide their faces.”

  “Why didn’t you send me?” asked Cecil.

  “You’re not the only guard, Cecil. And besides, I didn’t anticipate it would be cultists stealing people in the early morning.”

  “How many hostages?”

  “From what I gather, at least ten. Two of them are children.”

  “Children!? They would be so low as to kidnap children!?” he thought. Not even bandits would stoop that low to steal children. Whatever the cultists had planned was beginning to take the form of something sinister.

  As they discussed, the crowd grew more excited by the second as collective frustration transformed to collective hope.

  “If Cecil’s here, those cultists don’t stand a chance!” exclaimed a man.

  “How could they stand a chance against the Hero of Timberwood!” added a woman.

  The ensemble of cheers became overwhelming as he retreated to his inner thoughts. The word hero echoed in his mind endlessly. The scar on his throat, covered with a scarf, began to choke him tightly as he remembered all those that fell victim to his curse. A curse that they were all completely unaware of.

  Horacio grabbed his son’s shoulder and shook it gently. “Cecil, focus. What do you think we should do?”

  Snapping out of his trance, he placed his hand on the pommel of his sword. “Stay here, I’ll deal with them myself.”

  Horacio took a step back, clearly astounded. “You can’t be serious! At least let some of the guards help you.”

  “Please, Cecil. There’s too many of them for you alone!” begged Aaron.

  “If we storm in there, the cultists might execute the hostages! I can’t take that risk!”

  “Reconsider this, Cecil!” yelled Horacio.

  Cecil ignored his father and turned to order the guards. “Secure the area and make sure nobody enters or leaves.”

  Before either the duke or Aaron could protest, he walked away and approached the entrance of the church and entered. The crowd's cheers did little to drown his inner thoughts. He couldn’t risk anyone being a victim of his curse. Not Aaron and especially not his father. Even if it meant facing the entire group of cultists by himself, it would be worth it. He only hoped the curse wouldn’t spread to the hostages.

  ***

  Save for a scarce amount of candles dotting the walls, the church’s interior was cast in darkness. Every step he took was made with caution as he tried to guide himself. The stained glass windows above would’ve illuminated the path ahead were they not smeared in dust and dirt. Whatever they were supposed to depict Cecil hadn’t the faintest idea. What little light the candles did provide let him see walls decorated with the motifs of plants and animals. According to Nina, the church was once dedicated to the gods of nature; Essaos and his sister Y’senta. It had been centuries since the church had been used. The gods were long gone, no longer answering prayers or sharing their power to mortals. Most in Ebonhold thought worshiping them was pointless. But despite this, nobody felt motivated enough to remove the church and replace it with something else.

  Cecil crept forward as silently as he could, but the tiny pieces of stone and broken glass, which loudly announced his presence with every step, made it impossible. It was only then, walking through the dim light, did he suddenly give credence to all the ghost stories. He shook his head and steeled his nerves. Now was not the time to be scared by made-up ghosts and rumors. When he tried opening the door to the main chamber, he quickly realized that it was barricaded from the other side. The only way forward was with pure strength. He heard several footsteps approaching from behind him. He turned to see three figures draped in dark red cloaks, allowing them to easily blend into the darkness. Each of them wore a wooden symbol in the shape of a bramble of flaming thorns around their neck.

  The three figures didn’t say a word, reaching into their sleeves and drawing sharp daggers. Cecil drew his sword in response and braced as they charged at him. Cecil raised his shield, parrying the first strike before swatting the knife away. His sword tore through cloak and flesh alike before kicking the attacker to the ground. The second cultist grabbed him by the waist, letting the third one thrust a dagger at his neck. Cecil twisted his body in a way that the knife deflected off his pauldron. He slashed across the cultist’s face twice, sending the man reeling back. The grappler plunged their dagger directly into his back. He felt a sharp pressure tear his gambeson, but it didn’t draw blood. Cecil thrust his elbow into the man’s chest, freeing himself. He parried another attack with his sword and followed by kicking the man into the wall and stabbing him. The cultist let out one final grunt as he slid off Cecil’s blade and collapsed to the ground.

  The final cultist charged forward with the dagger raised above their head. Cecil swiftly dodged to the side and cut through the man’s robe before thrusting the edge of his shield against his face and finished with a clean slice across his throat. The cultist stumbled backward, grabbing their bleeding throat, before collapsing. Cecil sighed and wiped the blood from his sword. He considered going back and requesting the help of the guard. But he was already committed to his mission.

  Mustering all his strength, he kicked the door open and proceeded. Unlike the entrance, the summer sun shone through the stained glass, illuminated the main hall in a myriad of colors. The two largest ones depicted a famous scene of the creation of the world. In one, Essaos raised his staff and blessed the barren world with plants. In the other, Y’senta released a hail of arrows that landed and formed the first animals. Beneath their respective depictions were two marble plinths where their statues would’ve been, now displaying nothing more than a pile of rubble. Scratchings of the burning bramble were carved in every wooden surface imaginable. Several cultists were in the process of adding more before they were interrupted by Cecil’s loud entrance.

  In the center of the room stood an imposing figure dressed in a bright red robe. Unlike the others, his face was on full display along with a more ornate looking cult symbol that hung around his neck. It was clear this one was the leader. A strange brand was seared across his right eye, warping and distorting the flesh in a disgusting way. Behind him were the hostages bound to a large wooden pyre made up of broken pews. An occult symbol made of black chalk surrounded them. Whatever that symbol meant, Cecil hadn’t the faintest idea. But he was sure it wasn’t good.

  “So, the Hero of Timberwood arrives,” said the leader.

  “Who are you?” Cecil growled.

  A large smile grew across the leader’s face. “We are the Sons of the Scorched Calamity. I am known to all as a speaker. One of the few blessed by our benefactor with the gift of voice!”

  “What does your benefactor want with innocent people?!”

  The speaker let out a maniacal cackle. “Innocent? How naive! We are all tainted with sin that can only be cleansed with infernal fire! But infernal fire requires a sacrifice.”

  “A sacrifice for what?”

  “For cleansing! Soon, this town will be purified in fire. Once we are done here, we will turn our attention to the capital!”

  “You’re insane!” yelled Cecil. “The forces in Ferrucia would tear your pathetic cult to pieces! What makes you think you have a chance?”

  The speaker snapped his fingers as the cultists flipped their hoods to reveal their mouths were seared shut by a glowing red mark. There was something unnatural and sinister about their mark that sent a chill up his spine. This was the work of something demonic.

  “Our prophet Scorch has finally achieved the power to summon Vekkanor from the void,” the speaker said. “By summer's end, Ebonhold will be nothing more than a smoldering mound of ash! And from that ash a new world will be born! A world free of sin!”

  Cecil recognized the name immediately—Vekkanor, an ancient demon that terrorized the kingdom hundreds of years ago only to be stopped by the founder, Trevin Ironborn. He hoped the speaker was bluffing, but he heard no trace of deception in their words. Their eyes, although filled with manic energy, proved that the speaker believed what he was saying. The cultists drew daggers from their sleeves and approached him. Cecil switched to a defensive stance with his shield raised. With almost a dozen approaching him, there was no way he could take them all. The speaker raised his hand to the pyre as a ball of flame appeared in his hand. The hostages began to panic and thrash in their bindings. As he readied himself against seemingly impossible odds, he heard a series of heavy footsteps from behind. A squad of guards, led by Aaron, charged into the room with their spears raised in attack formation.

  “Watch out, sir!” yelled Aaron.

  Cecil dove behind a pew as the guards broke through and dispersed the cultists. As they engaged with the cultists, the speaker stopped the ritual and turned around. Now was Cecil’s chance. He sprinted to the speaker with his sword raised. The speaker unlatched a flail from his belt and, with a simple gesture, the flail ignited in red flame. The sight caused Cecil to hesitate enough for the speaker to hit his shoulder. The attack forced him back as his arm flared in pain.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Cecil blocked several strikes with his shield before lunging forward. His blade tore through the speaker’s robe with ease but didn’t touch flesh. He swung again, but the speaker dodged swiftly and crashed his flail on his chest. Several rings from his chainmail melted and fell to the floor. The flames that managed to lick his flesh did so with a horrible sting. It was as if the flames themselves were fueled by malice. He pushed the flail away with his shield and carved two cuts in the cultist’s face. They swung toward his head, but he dodged the blow and brought his sword down onto the speaker’s hand. The flail dropped to the ground and the flame sputtered out. The speaker fell to his knees, grasping the stump where his hand was as Cecil punched him in the face and knocked him out. The remaining cultists, seeing their leader defeated, ran away. Presumably to be met by the guards waiting outside.

  “It looks like we arrived just in time, sir,’ said Aaron, relieved.

  Cecil gave his friend a conflicted look. “I told you to stay outside. There was too much risk.”

  “With all due respect, sir, our orders came from the duke. He didn’t approve of your recklessness. He also hoped that our aid would serve as a lesson for you.”

  Those certainly sounded like his father’s words. No doubt he would give him a lecture later, but for now Cecil’s attention was on making sure the hostages were safe. He ordered Aaron to restrain the speaker as Cecil freed the hostages from the pyre. All of them thanked him profusely with the children bursting into joyful tears. A faint smile grew on his face. For all his disdain at being called a hero, it was nice to see his actions amount to something good.

  The sound of Aaron's screams filled the room. Cecil turned to see his friend writhing on the floor with burns over his face. The speaker had reformed his severed hand out of red flame as he looked at Aaron with zeal in his eyes.

  “Your life will be a suitable sacrifice for destruction!”

  As the speaker raised his hand, a different kind of fire burned in Cecil’s chest. He sprinted forward and intercepted the blow with his shield. After struggling for a moment, he pushed the speaker into the pyre causing him to fall down. This, however, proved to be a mistake. As the speaker’s blood touched the chalk, the occult symbol on the ground glowed dark red. The speaker smiled and ignited the wood with a snap of his fingers as a bright column of fire erupted from the circle.

  “Vekkanor! Accept me as your sacrifice!” the speaker cried through the roar of the flames. “Bring a destructive cleanse to this town!”

  Cecil ordered the guards to escort the hostages to safety as he ran to Aaron’s side. Half of his face was warped in a sickening way, well beyond anything normal fire could do. The wooden supports caught fire and began to collapse as the air grew heavy with the taste of ash. When he tried to pick his friend off the ground, he resisted.

  “Cecil, you have to leave me. Save yourself!”

  “Don’t say that! I’m getting you out of here!”

  “It’s too late for me. Don’t waste your time!”

  “No! I’m not—”

  Aaron used the last of his strength to push Cecil away. A wooden support fell from the ceiling and blocked the path with flaming rubble. The roar of flames grew louder, drawing out Aaron’s last words. Cecil stood in horror as his curse had taken yet another life. Though he didn’t have time to mourn as his survival instincts quickly overcame his grief. He leapt out one of the windows as the column of fire reached its apex and detonated with violent power. Shards of rubble and hot glass flew into the air as the building collapsed into itself. The townsfolk stood in shock as their hero laid groaning on the ground. Several of them, including guards, began to fetch buckets of water from the river in an attempt to quell the fire. Every cough Cecil forced out black ash. He tried to stand, but sharp, unbearable pain forced him to the ground. The duke rushed up, his face consumed with panic.

  “Cecil! Are you alright!?” asked the duke frantically.

  Cecil tried to speak, but he felt the voices around him become muffled until they were silent. The world grew blurry and disoriented as he planted his face onto the soft grass. The last thing he saw was a pair of guards loading him onto a stretcher and the eyes of many, many people that looked on.

  ***

  When he woke up, he was lying in his bed with a light blanket draped over him. The sun outside was still shining, though he couldn’t tell how many hours had passed. A part of him wanted to think it was all another horrible dream and that he woke up for real this time. The pain in his chest and arms assured him that what he went through did indeed happen. His mouth had the aftertaste of foul herbs laced with mint. No doubt someone fed him a healing potion while he was asleep. Sitting at the edge of his bed was a bright orange fox curled into a ball. Upon realizing he had woken up, the fox barked happily before slobbering his face with kisses.

  “Hey Cinder. Long time no see,” said Cecil.

  “He wouldn’t move from your bed no matter how much I told him to,” said a familiar voice.

  Sitting beside him in a chair was none other than the town druid, Nina. She wore a robe of green leaves weaved together with grass and decorated with yellow summer flowers. Her long red hair, the color of autumn leaves, matched her striking amber eyes. Her most remarkable feature were her pointed ears, denoting her half-elven ancestry.

  “You were gone for longer this time,” said Cecil.

  “I had trouble finding herbs in the usual places. I think a blight might be killing off the bushes of rabbit ears,” she explained. “I came back just in time to see guards carry you away. You’re lucky I had enough to mix you a potion.”

  Cecil chuckled, feeling a dull pain shoot up his chest and cutting it short. “I can still taste it in my mouth. Did you change the recipe?”

  She smiled and gently flicked his cheek with her finger. “Only because you wouldn’t stop complaining about the last one tasting like, how did you describe it, drinking pine needles?”

  “Hey, I didn’t say that. Aaron—”

  The happiness drained from his face as he fell silent. His scar once again grew heavy and choked his throat. Never again would he hear Aaron complain about her potions. Never would he be able to taste the new one and, presumably, complain even more. He felt her hand grasp his and squeeze gently. Her grasp was cool and soothing, like a gentle stream.

  “What happened in the church? All anyone told me was a cult that kidnapped people.”

  “We rescued the hostages, but the leader hurt Aaron. I pushed him away but he burnt himself alive in some kind of magic circle. I tried to save Aaron but…” As visions of that moment flooded his mind, he closed his eyes in a vain attempt to force them out. “It’s my fault. He’s dead because of me.”

  Nina squeezed his hand tighter and sighed. “Cecil, don’t do this. You can’t keep blaming everyone’s death on yourself.”

  “You wouldn’t understand, Nina. You’re not the one that’s cursed.”

  She pulled her hand away and grew visibly frustrated. “Wouldn’t understand? You forget I can feel your emotions just by touching you. How many times have we had this conversation? How many more times are we going to have it?”

  “Why are you so convinced I’m not cursed?” asked Cecil.

  “What’s more likely? That you have some unexplainable curse or you convinced yourself you have?” said Nina, raising her voice enough to scare Cinder into hiding underneath the nightstand. “Honestly, I’m starting to believe you use your ‘curse’ as an excuse to push me away.”

  “It’s not that—”

  “Then why keep me at a distance?!” she yelled.

  His face tensed with anger. “Because the last thing I want is for you to—!”

  The door to his room suddenly opened as Horacio walked in. Cecil and Nina fell into awkward silence as the duke stared at them. “Should I come back later?” asked the duke.

  Without saying a word or looking at him, Nina got up and walked out with her fox trailing closely behind. Cecil sighed heavily, feeling the weight of shame bring him down. He didn’t know if he could handle another argument with her.

  “I didn’t realize you two were speaking again,” said Horacio.

  Cecil bit his lip. “We’ve been talking for a while. It’s just…difficult.”

  “One of these days will you tell me what’s going on?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Horacio sat in the seat where Nina was. His face grew tense as he scratched his mustache. “They managed to find his body amidst the rubble. He’ll be given a proper burial in a few days.”

  Cecil said nothing and stared at his bedsheets.

  “The townsfolk you saved want to thank you. Will you let them see you?”

  “No,” Cecil muttered. “I don’t deserve their thanks. Not when I couldn’t save him. He should’ve never come in.”

  “Are you suggesting I made a mistake sending him in?” asked Horacio, his voice rising in anger. “Without his help, you would’ve met your end at the hands of the cultists.”

  “But he’d be alive!”

  “And the townsfolk you saved would be dead as well! I know the townsfolk call you a hero but that doesn’t give you the privilege to act recklessly with your life!”

  A long silence filled the room. Cecil lowered his head in shame, not knowing how to reply. He didn’t have it in his heart to tell his father the real reason. How could he explain to him his curse? A curse that even he didn’t properly understand. As his scar began to choke him again, he felt his father’s hand touch his shoulder.

  “Forgive me, Cecil. I didn’t mean to imply your intentions weren’t good.”

  “Father, can I ask you a question?”

  The duke nodded.

  “What does it mean to be a hero?” he asked. “Everyone calls me that but I feel like I’m always letting them down. For every person I save, more seem to die in their place.”

  Once again, Horacio scratched his mustache in contemplation. “I can’t answer that question, Cecil. That’s something you have to find out for yourself. But not every hero has to slay a monster or save every soul. We all can’t be Trevin Ironborn slaying Vekkanor, can we?”

  Cecil immediately remembered what the speaker said in the church. He stood up from his bed, ignoring the pain that coursed through his body. “The cultists! They’re planning on attacking Ferrucia by summer’s end!”

  The duke flinched at his sudden spike of energy. “Cecil, what are you talking about?”

  “The leader said they plan on summoning Vekkanor from the void!”

  Horacio’s mouth went agape. “Vekkanor? Are you sure?”

  Cecil nodded. “I swear to the flame father. You saw what happened to the church, the kind of magic they used. You need to inform the king!”

  Horacio’s mouth formed into a frown. “While you were asleep, I tried to send a message to the king. But the cultists killed all the messenger birds. I’m not convinced they’re capable of summoning a demon, let alone Vekkanor himself, but it’s clear they didn’t want news of this attack to spread. Why else would they go through the effort?”

  “If the messenger birds are dead, what can we do?” asked Cecil.

  The duke laid deep in thought for some time before reaching into his coat pocket. He pulled out a large silver medallion and showed it to Cecil. On one side was the crest of House Harland, on the other was a crest depicting a hammer and sword crossed together. Cecil recognized that as the crest of House Ironborn. The crest of the royal family.

  “This medallion has been passed down my family for generations. It symbolizes the eternal friendship between my family and the royal family,” the duke explained. “I’m giving this to you.

  “What? Why?” asked Cecil.

  “Cecil, I’m bestowing upon you an important task. You are to take this medallion, travel to Ferrucia, and inform the king of what you saw today. When he sees this, he will know to trust you.”

  “You want me to travel all the way to the capital? Why not you?”

  “After what happened today, the town needs a steady hand from its leader. That’s not something I can delegate to advisors. That’s why this task falls onto you.”

  Words could not describe the insurmountable inadequacy he felt to tackle such a quest. He had never left his hometown, he had never seen the capital let alone met the king.

  “I…I don’t know if I’m ready. I don’t know if I can.”

  His father placed the medallion in his hand and smiled. “I know this may seem like a lot. But I wouldn’t ask this of you if I didn’t trust you. The king must be informed, and only you can do it.”

  His father’s words restored some of his confidence as he grasped the medallion tightly. If he informed the king, he could save thousands of lives. Maybe he could find someone in the capital that could cure him of his curse. It was a large kingdom, after all.

  “You have my word I’ll reach the capital!” said Cecil, proudly.

  Horacio smiled. “Good. Now, rest up. You’ll need all your strength before you leave.”

  ***

  News of Cecil’s departure quickly spread throughout town. The true reasons for his departure were left intentionally vague so as to not create panic. Much of his days leading up to his journey were filled with memorizing the route to the capital. He would travel the main road up until he reached the village of Draven, where the duke’s medallion would waive the fee to cross the toll bridge. Cecil suggested taking a boat, but the duke advised against this. The Green River was wild and hard to navigate during the summer months. Despite the threat of bandits and goblins, the main road would be more straightforward by comparison.

  On the day of his departure, Cecil awoke early to finalize his preparations. A horse had been provided for him from the duke’s stables. He loaded the saddlebags with food, water, and enough coin to buy him supplies. So long as he maintained a steady pace, he wouldn’t have to camp at the side of the road. With any luck, he would make it to the capital with enough time to spare. Just as he finished his preparations, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around to see Nina waiting expectantly, holding a green leather satchel with leaf motifs. She gave him a small smile before offering him the satchel.

  “I thought you could use something nice for the road ahead,” she said.

  He opened the bag to see his parting gift: several healing potions and a small bottle of homemade wine. Druids were known for the quality of their wine, but none could ever match hers. He recalled days when they would picnic at the side of the river and drink until their heads swirled. He could not share the same enthusiasm about the potions, however. The thought of having to force one down his throat practically encouraged him to avoid conflict altogether.

  “Is it a requirement for these potions to taste awful?” he asked, jokingly.

  “If I made them taste like honey, people would drink them at the slightest scratch,” she said. Although it was hard to gauge if she was being humorous or not.

  “Well let’s hope I’ll never need them.”

  He strapped the satchel to his side, expecting her to say goodbye and leave. Only she didn’t. Cecil braced himself, knowing that it was certainly about their conversation days prior.

  “I know what you’re going to say,” he began.

  “If you do, then are you going to listen this time?” she asked, crossing her arms.

  He let out a frustrated grunt as he tightened the straps on his horse. “Can we not talk about this now? Not when I’m about to leave.”

  “Oh, am I supposed to wait for you to come back? Essaos only knows how long that will be. I know something is bothering you. Something you haven’t told me.”

  He grit his teeth, trying to keep himself composed. He had forgotten how well she was able to read him. “I’m fine, you don’t have to worry.”

  “You might be able to lie, but your emotions can’t. When I was tending to you, I felt something different. I felt dread. You’re afraid of something that you’re not telling me, aren’t you?”

  In all the stress of the last several days, his mind kept going back to the dream of the purple comet. He would frequently touch his scar, expecting it to flare up with a chill but it never did. Though he initially wanted to tell her about it, he didn’t want to worry her more. Especially not before leaving for a long time. But she stood there, arms crossed and in silence, waiting for an answer. He had to give her something.

  “The day the cultists attacked, I had a dream unlike any other. It was so vivid it felt like I was actually there,” he said.

  “Dreams are dreams, Cecil. They don’t always have to mean something,” she reassured him.

  “But you once told me of druids with the ability to predict the future. In the dream I saw people who I knew, or at least I thought I knew, lying dead on the ground. And in the sky there was—”

  She pulled him into an embrace, pressing her head against his chest. He took in the smell of grass and lavender, enough to calm his nerves ever so slightly. He wanted this moment to last forever. He wanted to never let her go.

  “I know you still want this,” she whispered. “Your emotions don’t lie.”

  He gently pulled away from her. “But I can’t. Not until I find answers about my curse. I’ll be on the road for a while. Maybe I’ll find somebody who can give me answers to free me from it. Maybe somebody can help me.”

  Nina gave him a weary sigh, clearly having spent all her emotional energy and having none to argue. “If that’s what you think you need to find peace of mind, then so be it. But promise me you won’t let this obsession consume you.”

  “I won’t.”

  “No, not like that,” she said as she grasped his hands.

  His heart raced as her smooth hands glided over his. He took a deep breath, looked into her eyes, and spoke. “I promise.”

  A smile grew on her face. A warm, happy smile that he hadn’t seen in a very long time. She planted a small kiss on his cheek just in time for Horacio to arrive. The two looked awkwardly at him before Nina excused herself from their presence. As she left, Horacio raised him a curious eyebrow.

  “I take it you said your goodbyes?” asked Horacio.

  “We did,” said Cecil, trying to hide his smile.

  “Anything you wish to tell me?”

  Cecil shook his head. “Only that I think this journey to the capital will finally give me some answers that I’ve been looking for.”

  Without pressing further, the duke reached out his hand and gave him one more item. Rather than a bottle of wine, it was an envelope sealed in wax. Horacio’s name was handwritten on the front.

  “I have one personal request from you. When you meet the king, please deliver this letter to the king’s sister. Her name is Aleria Ironborn.”

  Cecil recalled hearing the name a few times in some of his father’s many stories. No matter what tale, he always spoke highly of her. He stowed the letter along with the medallion in the green satchel, making sure to protect it from being crumpled.

  “I won’t let you down, father,” said Cecil, confidently.

  Horacio smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “I know you won’t. You're my son, after all.”

  Cecil sat in his horse’s saddle as the gates of the manor opened to reveal a line of soldiers in salute. Though they did their best to remain professional, many of them couldn’t help but smile and wave their captain farewell. Along with the guards, crowds of townsfolk cheered loudly as their hero and the duke walked side by side down the streets. Amidst the crowd, he saw the hostages he had rescued wave and cheer the loudest. The children, especially, were the most enthusiastic to see him again.

  When they reached the edge of town, Nina greeted him one last time with a group of druid initiates who showered him with flower petals. Such was a common blessing given to those going on a long journey. He felt his heart soar, knowing that it was only a matter of time before he returned home to see her again. He would return with his curse lifted, and he could finally be happy. Such a feeling didn’t last as a stray purple petal fell on his forehead. Time slowed to a crawl as he envisioned the petal as the purple comet from his dreams. His newfound optimism was stained with a permeable dread.

  With a sharp kick to the side, his horse neighed loudly and galloped past the crowd and down the road. He looked back to see the town quickly fade from sight as the walls of Timberwood gave way to tall trees as far as the eye could see. It was just him, the road, and all the supplies he could carry. The medallion hung heavy in his satchel and would do so for the remainder of his journey. A constant reminder of the stakes that were at play.