The Warmth of the Hearth
The Accursed

An old man wanders around aimlessly, trying to make sense of where he was. There was nothing but darkness, a thick purple mist surrounding the atmosphere. He struggles to keep moving, his feet sinking into the unstable sandy ground with each step. He was nothing but a mere peddler, and he doesn’t remember how he got here. sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ Find ɴøᴠel.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

A faint whisper can be heard behind him, airy and elusive. He turns around, trying to see who it was. “H-hello? Is anybody there?” Silence. The old peddler continues to move forward, his body now heavy with fear.

“Souls... Fresh manna...” He hears another whisper, more audible than the previous one. “Is anybody here with me?” There was no answer, the same silence is suspended in the air. He dismisses the voices, scanning the area around him. In the distance, he makes out the shape of a castle with its dark walls and tattered banners. He decides it would be best to seek shelter there before figuring out what to do next.

The peddler arrives at the structure and is surprised to see that it was not as broken as it seemed in the distance. Its tall wooden doors were relatively in good shape, sporting only a couple of scratches that were barely visible. However, something seemed odd about the place, something that sent chills down the peddler’s spine.

Despite his gut telling him not to, he proceeds to open the door with the hope of finding shelter. He leans on the wooden frame, using his weight to get it to open. Once inside, he is met with an enormous room littered with cobwebs and dust. A huge faded carpet was rolled out in the middle, leading to a magnificent throne at the other end.

The peddler approaches the structure on the other end of the room, and he makes out a figure seated upon it. “Hello?! Can you help me?” The peddler speaks, inching his way towards the throne. He gets no response as he walks, leaving him confused. The air grows cold, causing him to shiver with the sudden drop of the temperature.

He now stands in front of the seat, the figure seated upon it is hunched over, its head hung low. “I-I’m sorry for intruding.” The peddler speaks, which gets him no response. He squints his eyes to better identify the person on the throne, pushing the body upright. His eyes widen with what he saw. The person seated was pale, his skin cold to the touch. A rusted crown sat on its head, bearing a crest the old man could not identify. The corpse’s eyes were open, white pupils lying still in the middle looking straight at the old peddler.

The old man feels his heart start to race as he feels as if it was eyeing him. Its stare pierced through him, causing his breath to feel heavy. He forces himself to calm down, moving to the side while maintaining eye contact with the corpse. Its eyes did not follow, which made the old man feel silly. “O-of course it wouldn’t.”

His eyes fall on the scepter held by its hands, a dark crystal firmly placed on top. Its long body seemed to be made out of pure silver, with beautiful symbols intricately carved upon it. I could sell this. He tries to pry the scepter out of the hand of the corpse, which proved to be much more difficult than expected. The old man pulls with his strength, causing him to fall backwards towards the ground.

He analyzes the scepter, trying to make sense of the scribbles on it. A thud catches his attention, coming from the direction of the seat. His heart starts to race as he realizes that the man’s eyes were once again staring at him, its face marked with numerous dark veins. It can’t be. The peddler brushes it off and continues to look at the scepter, its dark oval crystal now glowing faintly in the darkness. Another thud can be heard, which makes the peddler look up. His eyes widen, his breath starts to fail him as he realizes that the seat was now empty. His eyes scan the area, looking for the corpse that was once there. He finds none.

“A thief... has awoken master...” Wispy figures of limbs suddenly sprout from the ground beneath him, trying to grab a hold of his lower body. He screams as he tries to run away, leaving the scepter on the ground. The old man attempts to dash to the door but is stopped by the sight of a dark figure ahead of him, cutting his path. It stood there, just watching as the door behind it slowly creaks shut. The spectral hands were now gone, leaving him and the dark figure alone.

It takes a step towards him, its motion slow with each step it takes. It steps into the light, a terrifying sight for the old man. It was the man on the throne, a huge smile was plastered on its face as it looks at the old man with its pale eyes.

“F-forgive me!” The peddler shrieks, fear now overtaking him. The man continues to make its way towards him however, its smile growing wider, revealing a slit on the right side of his cheek. His teeth were sharp, and his neck and leg were twisted in a way that no human should be able to endure. It extends its arms at the peddler as a pure black smoke emerges from it. The man screams as he is engulfed by the smoke. He feels his skin rot, burning all over him. His leg snaps, and his neck slowly bends the same way the man’s neck was bent. In front of him, he sees the man’s wounds start to heal, still smiling at him. A slit appears on the peddler’s cheek, his entire body in pain. He groans as he falls on the ground, nothing more than skin and bones.

Silence overcomes the castle as the man picks up his scepter, the same eerie smile plastered on his face. He sits on the throne once again, a plate at the upper part shone in the low light. Words were engraved upon it, written in ancient runic. HERE LIES MEGON, THE ACCURSED.

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