Bridging Worlds: Book 1 Celestoria's Time
Desperate Times

-Grim Waste-

In the hidden confines of the Darkbane Territory, a place known only to its inhabitants, a sinister figure named Vernit took charge of a group of captives. He spoke with a commanding tone, “Search them.”

Vernit’s comrades swiftly executed his command, thoroughly inspecting the captives and confiscating their belongings and weapons. The captives, now disarmed, were left with no choice but to comply.

“Put them in the cage,” Vernit ordered, assessing the confiscated items. He was intrigued by a particular object and picked it up, a delicate flower. Eowyn was taken aback by his interest in the seemingly insignificant item.

“It’s just a flower,” Eowyn attempted to downplay its importance. “You know, for us ladies, we like to have something decorative in our belongings.”

Vernit couldn’t help but chuckle at her response. “Some lady you are,” he remarked, setting the flower aside.

Vernit’s curiosity persisted as he discovered a small vial among the confiscated possessions. He held it up and inquired, “What is this then?”

Davhil responded, “It’s mine! It’s a calming tonic.”

Vernit burst into laughter at the revelation. “You’re taking a calming tonic? Your friend is quite the weak man.”

Having secured their belongings and taken their weapons, Vernit’s comrades confirmed, “We’re just taking their weapons, there are no valuables here.”

With that, Vernit left the captives and retreated into his tent, leaving Eowyn and her companions momentarily relieved.

Eowyn released a heavy sigh, grateful that their lives had been spared, at least for the time being, in the hidden recesses of the enigmatic Darkbane Territory.

The sun was setting as the group, Eamon, Rosche, and Geran, hurried through the dense forest. They had been making fast progress, carrying a young man who had fallen victim to a severe wound. The young man’s face contorted in pain, and he clutched his wound tightly, trying to hold on to consciousness.

“We’re almost there,” Geran said as he gently lowered the injured man to the ground. “Just hold on a little longer.”

Rosche knelt beside the wounded man and spoke soothingly, “You’re doing great. We’re almost at the village. Just stay with us.”

But the young man’s strength was waning, and he lost consciousness once again. Eamon, growing increasingly anxious, urged them to move faster. He could sense the urgency of the situation.

As Geran prepared to lift the unconscious man once more, a disheveled and intoxicated old man stumbled upon them. He swayed unsteadily but seemed strangely lucid as he addressed the group. “That man won’t last another hour if you insist on bringing him to the nearby village.”

The old man leaned down and examined the young man’s wound. “It looks like the poison has already seeped deeper into his system.” sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ ꜰindNʘvel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

Rosche, alarmed by the old man’s words, asked, “Can you cure him?”

The old man scoffed and took a swig from a wine bottle he had tucked away. “I am no healer. How can I cure him?”

Eamon, his patience wearing thin, retorted, “Then you’re wasting our time. Come, Rosche, we need to hurry”

Geran was about to hoist the young man onto his back when the old man abruptly blocked their path. “Even if you manage to bring him to that village, that young man is already dead.”

“Please, let us go,” Rosche pleaded.

“Get out of the way,” Eamon warned, his hand subtly conjuring shadow magic behind his back, prepared to defend if needed.

The old man, seemingly unfazed, turned his piercing gaze on Eamon and, with a mere thought, compelled him to step back. Eamon’s eyes widened as he involuntarily obeyed the old man’s command.

“You’re a Mentalyst,” Geran exclaimed, recognizing the nature of the old man’s power. “You’re a mind-controlling mage.”

“It looks like you two have brains… I wonder where his went,” the old man mused, nodding toward Eamon.

“If you want to save your friend,” the old man continued, pointing to the wounded young man, “come with me.”

Rosche was skeptical. “But you said you can’t cure him.”

The old man smirked. “I can’t cure him, but he can do it himself.”

Confused but desperate to save the wounded person, Eamon, Rosche, and Geran, with the unconscious young man still on Geran’s back, decided to follow the old man into the depths of the forest.

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