The journey home stretched longer with each passing mile, Estingoth's transformation accelerating despite his desperate attempts to control it. The gauntlet's power surged through his veins like molten metal, reshaping him from within. His soldiers kept their distance, horror etched across their faces as they watched their lord become something other than human.
Joseph rode beside him, small face set with determination despite the fear in his eyes. "We're almost home, Father," he said, voice barely audible above the thunder of hooves.
Estingoth nodded, unable to trust his voice. The pain was excruciating now, each pulse of the gauntlet sending fresh agony through his body. Dark veins spread across his chest and up his neck, the metal and flesh fusing in intricate, terrible patterns. He could feel his humanity slipping away with each heartbeat.
"My lord," his captain ventured, keeping his mount at a safe distance, "perhaps we should rest. You are—"
"No," Estingoth growled, the word rumbling from his chest like distant thunder. "Esmirelda waits. We continue."
The palace appeared on the horizon just as the sun began to set, its broken spires silhouetted against the blood-red sky. Estingoth felt a surge of relief, quickly followed by dread. How would his wife react to what he had become?
They thundered through the gates, past guards who dropped to their knees in terror at the sight of their transformed lord. Estingoth dismounted with difficulty, his new form awkward and heavy.
"Where is Lady Esmirelda?" he demanded of a trembling servant.
"In the chapel, my lord, with... with Jeremiah's body."
Estingoth's heart clenched. He had nearly forgotten in his rage—his eldest son, slain defending his mother. He turned to Joseph. "Stay with the captain. I must see your mother alone."
Joseph opened his mouth to protest, then closed it, nodding solemnly. "Tell her I love her."
Estingoth made his way through the palace corridors, servants and guards scattering before him. The marble floors cracked beneath his weight, the walls seeming to close in around his broadened shoulders. When he reached the chapel doors, he paused, catching his reflection in a polished shield hanging on the wall.
The face that stared back was barely recognizable—skin darkened to obsidian where the transformation had spread, eyes glowing with inner fire, horns curving from his temples. Only patches of his human features remained, islands of familiarity in an alien landscape.
He pushed open the doors, the ancient wood groaning in protest.
Esmirelda knelt beside a stone bier where Jeremiah lay, her hands clasped in prayer, her golden hair cascading down her back. At the sound of his entrance, she turned, hope lighting her features.
"Estingoth? You've returned with—" The words died on her lips as she beheld what had become of her husband. Her face drained of color, one hand rising to cover her mouth in shock.
"Esmirelda," he said, his voice a harsh rasp, "it's still me."
She rose slowly, backing away as he approached. "What... what has happened to you?"
"The gauntlet," he replied, holding up his transformed arm where metal and flesh had become indistinguishable. "I needed its power to save Joseph. To avenge Jeremiah." He gestured toward their son's body.
"And Joseph?" she whispered, fear and hope warring in her voice.
"Safe. Outside with the captain." Estingoth took another step toward her, and she flinched. The reaction stabbed deeper than any blade. "Esmirelda, please. I'm still your husband."
She shook her head, tears streaming down her face. "My husband would never have embraced such darkness. This power... it's consuming you."
"I had no choice!" he roared, the chapel walls trembling with the force of his voice. Stained glass windows cracked, sending shards of colored light dancing across the stone floor. "They would have killed Joseph too! Would you have me stand by and watch our family destroyed?"
"And what of your soul?" she demanded, finding courage in her grief. "Look at what you've become! This is not the man I married, the father of my children."
Estingoth's transformed features contorted with anguish. "Everything I've done, I've done for you—for our family."
"No," Esmirelda countered, her voice breaking. "You did this for vengeance. For power." She gestured to the gauntlet. "That thing has been corrupting you since the day you found it. I watched it happen, slow and insidious, but I said nothing because I loved you too much."
Her words cut through the haze of power that clouded his mind. For the first time since donning the gauntlet, Estingoth felt true fear—not for his life, but for his soul.
"Help me," he pleaded, extending his human hand toward her. "Help me control this."
Esmirelda hesitated, then stepped forward, her fingers trembling as they touched his. "I don't know if I can. The transformation is spreading too quickly."
As if triggered by her touch, a fresh wave of agony tore through Estingoth. He fell to his knees, the chapel floor cracking beneath his weight. The gauntlet pulsed with malevolent energy, the transformation accelerating.
"Estingoth!" Esmirelda cried, dropping to her knees beside him.
He clutched her hand, his breathing labored. "Listen to me," he gasped. "If I lose myself completely... if the gauntlet takes me... you must find a way to destroy it. Promise me."
Tears flowed freely down her face as she nodded. "I promise. But we won't let that happen. We'll find a way to reverse this."
The chapel doors burst open, and Joseph ran in, ignoring the captain's shouts. "Father! Mother!" He skidded to a halt at the sight of Estingoth writhing in pain.
"Joseph," Estingoth managed through gritted teeth, "stay back."
But the boy ignored him, rushing to his side. "I won't leave you!"
As Joseph approached, something unexpected happened. The gauntlet's pulsing slowed, the pain receding slightly. Estingoth looked up in wonder as his son placed a small hand on the transformed metal.
"The gauntlet," Esmirelda whispered. "It's responding to him."
"Not to him," Estingoth realized, his mind clearing momentarily. "To my love for him. To what remains of my humanity."
A terrible understanding dawned on him. The gauntlet fed on rage, on vengeance—the darker emotions that had driven him to use its power without restraint. But those same emotions were corrupting him, transforming him into something monstrous.
"Esmirelda," he said urgently, "take Joseph and go. Lock yourselves in the eastern tower. I need... I need time to think."
"I won't leave you," she insisted, echoing their son's words.
"Please," he begged. "I don't know how long I can control this. I would die before harming either of you, but if I lose myself completely..."
Understanding and fear warred in her eyes before she nodded reluctantly. "Come, Joseph. Your father needs rest."
"But—"
"Now, Joseph." Her tone brooked no argument.
As they left, Estingoth crawled to Jeremiah's bier, resting his forehead against the cold stone. "My son," he whispered, "forgive me. I couldn't save you, and now I may lose myself as well."
The gauntlet pulsed again, feeding on his grief and self-loathing. Estingoth clenched his fist, fighting the surge of power with every ounce of his remaining humanity.
"No," he growled. "You will not take me so easily."
For hours, he knelt there, waging an internal war against the artifact that was consuming him. Sometimes he gained ground, forcing the transformation to recede slightly; other times, he lost himself in waves of rage that accelerated the process.
Dawn found him still kneeling, his body now more demon than human. Only his face retained patches of humanity, windows to the man he had once been.
A soft footfall alerted him to Esmirelda's return. She stood in the doorway, a bundle of ancient scrolls clutched to her chest.
"I've been in the library all night," she said, her voice hoarse from crying. "I found something—a ritual that might help."
Hope flared briefly in Estingoth's transformed heart. "What kind of ritual?"
"One that will bind the gauntlet's power, preventing it from spreading further." She approached cautiously, laying the scrolls on the altar. "But there's a price."
"There always is," he said bitterly. "Tell me."
She met his gaze unflinchingly. "The ritual will trap you between worlds—neither fully here nor gone. You'll exist as a shade, bound to the gauntlet itself."
"A ghost," he translated, the word hollow in his throat.
"Yes." Tears welled in her eyes again. "But you'll still be you—your soul, your memories. And someday, perhaps, we'll find a way to free you completely."
Estingoth closed his eyes, weighing his options. Continue fighting a losing battle against the transformation until nothing remained of his humanity? Or sacrifice his physical existence to preserve his soul?
"Will I be able to see you? To speak with you and Joseph?"
Esmirelda shook her head sadly. "The texts aren't clear. Perhaps, in time, you might find ways to communicate. But initially... no."
The choice was agonizing, but in his heart, Estingoth knew there was only one path forward. "Do it," he said finally. "Before I lose what remains of myself."
She nodded, unrolling the ancient parchment with trembling hands. "We'll need Joseph. The ritual requires the blood of your line—both wife and child."
"No," Estingoth protested. "I won't risk either of you."
"It's not a risk," she assured him. "Just a few drops to anchor the spell. Please, Estingoth. Let us help you."
Reluctantly, he nodded. Esmirelda sent for Joseph, who arrived wide-eyed but determined. Together, they prepared the ritual, drawing complex symbols on the chapel floor with chalk and crushed herbs.
"Now," Esmirelda instructed, her voice steadier than it had been all night, "kneel in the center, Estingoth."
He obeyed, the stone cracking beneath his transformed weight. Esmirelda pricked her finger with a ceremonial dagger, letting three drops of blood fall onto the gauntlet. Joseph did the same, his small face set with determination despite his fear.
"I love you both," Estingoth said, his voice breaking. "Remember that, whatever happens."
Esmirelda began to chant in an ancient language, her voice rising and falling like waves against a shore. The symbols on the floor began to glow with an unearthly light, and the gauntlet responded, pulsing in counterpoint to her words.
Pain tore through Estingoth, more intense than anything he had experienced before. He threw back his head an intense pain shooting through his head down his body
and let out a howl that shook the chapel's foundations. The stained glass shattered completely, raining colored fragments across the stone floor. His body began to dissolve, starting at the gauntlet itself, turning to motes of crimson light that swirled like angry fireflies.
"Father!" Joseph cried, lunging forward only to be held back by Esmirelda's iron grip.
"Stay back!" she commanded, tears streaming down her face. "We cannot interrupt the ritual!"
Estingoth's consciousness fragmented, pulled between agony and transcendence. He could see his body disintegrating, the transformation reversing as his physical form was consumed by the spell. The gauntlet pulsed brighter, drawing him in like a vortex, its metal surface flowing like liquid as it adapted to contain his essence.
"Esmirelda," he gasped, his voice barely audible as his throat dissolved into light. "I will find a way back to you... I swear it..."
His final words hung in the air as the last of his physical form vanished. The gauntlet dropped to the floor with a heavy clang, its surface now inscribed with new patterns—patterns that mirrored the transformation that had begun to overtake Estingoth's body.
Silence filled the chapel, broken only by Joseph's muffled sobs. Esmirelda approached the gauntlet cautiously, kneeling beside it.
"Estingoth?" she whispered, reaching out a trembling hand. "Can you hear me?"
The metal remained cold and unresponsive beneath her fingers. Whatever consciousness remained of her husband was sealed within, unreachable for now.
"He's gone," Joseph said, voice hollow with grief as he joined his mother. "We've lost him too."
Esmirelda pulled her son close, her tears falling into his hair. "Not gone," she corrected gently. "Just... changed. Your father's soul is within the gauntlet now, preserved."
"What do we do now?" Joseph asked, staring at the artifact that had claimed his father.
Esmirelda's expression hardened with resolve. "We protect it. Keep it safe until we find a way to restore him. And we prepare for what's coming."
"What's coming?"
"War," she said simply. "Those who sought to destroy your father will not stop now. They'll come for the gauntlet, seeking its power for themselves."
She picked up the artifact carefully, wrapping it in a piece of consecrated cloth. "We'll hide this where no one can find it. And when the time is right, when we find someone worthy to wield it—someone who can resist its corruption—perhaps your father's consciousness will awaken once more."
Joseph nodded solemnly, placing his small hand over the wrapped gauntlet. "I'll help you, Mother. I promise."
Inside the gauntlet, trapped between worlds, Estingoth's consciousness drifted in darkness. He could not see, could not speak, could barely remember who he had been. But one thing remained clear in the void—the faces of his wife and son, and the love he bore them.
He clung to that memory as centuries passed, as the gauntlet changed hands, as kingdoms rose and fell. He waited, gathering strength, learning to exert his will upon the metal that housed his soul. And he watched through the artifact's power as it tested wielder after wielder, finding each wanting.
Until, millennia later, it found Kamen.
---
The vision fades, leaving me gasping for breath as I'm thrust back into my own body. I'm on my knees in Caleif's training chamber, the gauntlet pulsing with diminished light.
"What... what just happened?" I pant, my voice raw as if I'd been screaming.
Caleif kneels beside me, concern etched on her perfect features. "You connected with Estingoth's memories," she explains softly. "The gauntlet sometimes shares the history of its creation with new wielders."
I stare at the metal encasing my arm, seeing it with new eyes. Not just a weapon or tool, but a prison—a vessel containing the consciousness of a being who sacrificed everything for those he loved.
"He's been inside this thing for thousands of years," I whisper, horrified. "Trapped, aware, but unable to communicate."
"Until you," Caleif points out. "You're the first wielder he's been able to speak to directly. That means something, Kamen."
I struggle to my feet, legs trembling from the mental strain of experiencing Estingoth's memories. "His family—what happened to them?"
Caleif's expression darkens. "Esmirelda and Joseph hid the gauntlet as planned, but they were hunted. The records are unclear about their fate."
A wave of exhaustion crashes over me, and I stagger. Caleif catches me, her strength belying her slender frame.
"The connection drained you," she observes. "Estingoth's power is immense, and channeling even his memories has consequences."
I notice the gauntlet seems heavier now, and dark veins have begun to spread from beneath its edges onto my wrist. Fear spikes through me as I remember Estingoth's transformation.
"Caleif," I say urgently, showing her my arm, "it's happening to me too."
She examines the spreading darkness with a frown. "The gauntlet is bonding more deeply with you after the memory connection. We need to strengthen your resistance."
"How?" I demand, panic rising in my throat. "I don't want to end up like him—trapped in this thing for eternity!"
"Calm yourself," she commands, her voice cutting through my fear. "Strong emotions accelerate the process. The gauntlet feeds on them—especially rage and fear."
I take several deep breaths, forcing my heart rate to slow. "So what do we do?"
"We train your mind as well as your body," she says firmly. "Meditation, control exercises. And you must learn to channel the gauntlet's power without surrendering to it."
The veins have stopped spreading, but they haven't receded. I trace them with a finger, feeling the unnatural warmth beneath my skin.
"Why didn't you warn me?" I ask quietly. "About what this thing could do to me?"
Caleif's eyes meet mine, unreadable. "Would you have believed me? Sometimes truths must be experienced to be understood."
She's right, of course. I would have thought she was exaggerating or trying to scare me. Now I understand the true weight of what I've taken on.
"Estingoth," I speak directly to the gauntlet, "is this why you chose me? To free you somehow?"
The metal warms against my skin, and his voice resonates in my mind, weaker than before. "Not... only that. You have... potential. Heart. Like my son."
The comparison startles me. "I'm nothing like your son. I'm just... me."
"Precisely," Estingoth's voice fades, the effort of communication clearly taxing him after sharing so much of his past.
Caleif watches me with intense interest. "What did he say?"
I relay Estingoth's words, and she nods thoughtfully. "The connection has weakened him temporarily. He needs time to recover his strength."
"And meanwhile, I have these to deal with," I gesture to the dark veins on my arm.
"They may fade as he regains strength," she says, though uncertainty colors her tone. "But we should accelerate your training regardless. The more control you have, the better you can resist the transformation."
I flex my fingers, watching the gauntlet shift slightly with the movement. For the first time, I truly understand what I'm dealing with—not just a powerful weapon, but a sentient artifact housing a being who was once as human as I am.
"Alright," I say with newfound determination. "Let's train. But no more surprises, Caleif. I need to know everything you know about this gauntlet and what it might do to me."
She inclines her head in agreement. "No more surprises."
As we leave the training chamber, I can't shake the feeling that I've glimpsed only a fraction of Estingoth's story—and that the price of wielding his power may be higher than I'm prepared to pay. The dark veins on my wrist pulse in time with my heartbeat, a constant reminder that the clock is ticking.
And somewhere, in the depths of the gauntlet, Estingoth watches and waits for his chance at freedom—or revenge.