The Curse of the Fallen King
Harry opened his eyes and looked around—a place unknown to him, yet painfully familiar.
Rain fell furiously over a battlefield sown with ruins and fire. Corpses lay scattered everywhere; among them were figures wearing wizard hats and knightly armor. Blood flowed through the ground like a dark river, and the flames gnawed at the night, casting convulsive shadows beneath clouds black as guilt.
Only two figures remained standing, face to face, while the rain lashed at them without mercy.
They were knights—armor half shattered, half covered in mud and the blood of others. Their swords still rested in their scabbards, but both breathed heavily, tense, ready. Their eyes devoured each other.
"Why did you do it? Why?" shouted one of them, young, dark-haired, his face soaked and smeared with blood that wasn't his own. His voice cut through the rain; his eyes burned like embers, fury trembling in every fiber of his body.
The other knight, blond as molten gold, wore a face of restrained guilt. His blue eyes, though burdened with remorse, still shone with a brightness that hurt to look at. He stared at the dark-haired man like someone searching for an answer that didn't exist.
"You're a knight too. You know it as well as I do. I did it to save my people," said the blond, his voice hardening into steel, trying to bury the turmoil roiling inside him. His words were a stone hurled into the storm.
"Your people? Ha!" The dark-haired man laughed bitterly, like a dry thunderclap. "Don't make me laugh. You don't think of your people. You don't think of anyone but yourself. You want to be a hero, to be praised, to walk those filthy halls as if you were a god among men."
Lightning ripped open the sky, as if the heavens themselves recoiled at his words.
The blond knight looked up for a moment, inhaled deeply, then met the other's gaze, heavier now.
"Show respect," he muttered, his restraint cracking.
"Respect?" roared the dark-haired man, his voice sharpened to a blade. "They sent you to kill them because they were faithful to a goddess you despise. You destroyed the place she built. She became a demon to save her own, to lead them to safety. And if she is a demon, then what are you? Tell me—what are you?"
His words fell like blows; his rage filled the air.
"Believe what you wish," replied the blond with a coldness that no longer sought to convince.
Then, he drew his sword.
A beautiful weapon, golden, shining with its own light—something that did not belong to mortals. The metal gleamed as if the sun itself had been reborn in the middle of the night.
"Ha, you betrayed her. She gave everything, and you abandoned her. You let them imprison her, took the sword she gave you, and now you raise it against your own son. All for the sake of reaching a false divinity. What a joke," spat the dark-haired man.
As he unsheathed his own sword, its sheath flared with a red glow, and the blade itself shone with a blinding silver-white light, brighter than any silver ever forged.
The blond frowned at the sight of it.
"You too? Why did you take that sword?" he asked, disbelief woven into reproach. "Do you dare covet my throne? Claim what runs in my blood?"
"Now you remember we share blood?" the dark-haired man sneered. "Where was that when you rejected me? I despise your blood. Only one blood rules in me—the blood of my mother. And if yours runs through my veins, it'll be because I took your life and tore your heart open with my blade."
His gaze hardened; hatred gleamed within it like a blade's edge.
Without warning, they charged at each other.
Rain and night split apart with the clash—their swords met with a metallic roar that echoed across the battlefield. Lightning carved the heavens, illuminating the scene in flashes of sacred fury. Each strike sent sparks flying, mixing with the downpour; the sound of their blades carved through the darkness like broken oaths.
"You can go with him, my child. But you're not yet ready to help him. Stay by his side—he needs company," Harry heard a voice whisper from somewhere unseen, as he struggled to make sense of the vision and the clash of steel.
The voice was soft, loving, tender—a caress amid the storm.
Harry turned toward the two men still fighting, their swords tracing lines of light through the rain. The steel seemed to slice even the storm itself. He tried to move, tried to understand—but then a sudden pull seized him, as if something were yanking at his very soul.
Before he could react, he was torn away from that burning place and dragged out of the vision.
…
Percy opened his eyes.
The air smelled of iron, ash, and rain.
Before him, a man knelt on the ground, weeping over a motionless body.
The corpse belonged to another man—blond, his armor shattered, his face streaked with blood. The field around them was nothing but ruin and fire, yet nothing in the world drew Percy's eyes more than those two figures.
The kneeling man's hair was black, tangled and matted with mud, and though his face was so battered it was nearly unrecognizable, something about him felt familiar. Unsettlingly familiar.
"Why did it have to end like this? Why?" the man cried, his voice cracking through the storm. "Why did you betray us?"
Tears mingled with the blood on his cheeks as the sky above them raged, lightning flashing like divine fury over the wreckage.
Then, without warning, reality trembled.
A presence appeared before the dark-haired man. It did not walk, nor did it fall—it simply was, as if the air itself had decided to take form.
Percy couldn't make out its face; looking at it was like staring into the heart of the sun. The figure was feminine, radiating a golden light so pure it burned the eyes. Yet Percy could feel her—her anger, her grief, her power. That woman was no human.
"You killed your own father," the woman said, her voice like restrained thunder. "And now you weep for him? You are beyond forgiveness."
The man lifted his head, staring at her without the faintest trace of fear, as though divine words could no longer touch him.
"To you, our lives are just a game, aren't they?" he said hoarsely, glancing at the blond man's body. "A spectacle to see who gathers the most followers. You are no gods… just prisoners of your own arrogance." He rose slowly, staggering, but firm. "I killed your son. What will you do now?"
The woman's eyes hardened. Divine fury swelled around her; her light grew, warping the very air. Percy felt his lungs tighten, as if the sky itself were pressing down on him.
"Very well," murmured the woman, nodding slowly. Her voice vibrated through the air as though the whole world were listening. "You killed my son. So be it. You will face your sentence… and carry my curse until the end of time."
"I'm already cursed," the man spat, hatred blazing in his eyes. "From the moment a drop of your blood ran through my veins."
A golden sword appeared in the woman's hand. The weapon was not forged—it was born from light itself. Without hesitation, she drove it through the man's chest. The sound of metal piercing flesh mingled with the roar of thunder.
He didn't scream. He only closed his eyes as hot blood spilled over the mud.
The goddess released the hilt. The sword vanished—but it did not leave.
The blade dissolved into pure radiance and slid into the wound, fusing with his heart. The man collapsed to his knees, gasping, while Percy watched the wound seal with a sickly glow. It wasn't healing—it was a brand. Eternal.
When the woman vanished, the world began to break.
The ground shook.
The air cracked like shattering glass.
Lightning fractured into jagged lines of energy that sank into the horizon, while the sky itself tore apart with a sound that didn't belong to this world.
Percy blinked.
Suddenly, he was no longer there.
The rain still fell—but there was no ground beneath his feet.
He was standing on water.
The sea stretched endlessly below him, reflecting lightning like a mosaic of broken mirrors. When he looked down, he saw lights spiraling into the depths—flames that refused to die, sinking slowly, like souls returning to the abyss.
Then, a voice rose from the sea itself—soft, yet filled with power.
"Don't go near him, Percy. He's dangerous… in ways you cannot understand. Don't."
The voice seemed to come from the waves, as if the ocean itself were breathing warnings.
"It's better to stay away," it added, each word resonating in Percy's chest, as though the sea were speaking directly to his heart.
Before he could reply, he felt a sudden pull.
Something invisible dragged him, as if a current had claimed him.
In the midst of that pull, a second voice whispered.
It was different—warm, human, gentle.
"Do what you wish to do. Nothing holds you back, little one."
Percy had no time to think.
The world shattered once more.
He woke up with a start.
Sweat drenched his sheets; his breath came in ragged gasps. He sat up and pressed a hand to his forehead, his heart pounding violently.
"Argh…" he groaned, wincing as he tried to gather his thoughts.
Across from him, Harry was already awake, calmly changing clothes. He looked at Percy for a moment before Percy met his gaze.
"A nightmare?" Harry asked.
Percy nodded silently.
"Me too," said Harry, with a seriousness far beyond his years. Then he sighed and added with weary humor, "Maybe Mom was right. Eating that many sweets was a bad idea."
Percy let out a small laugh. The two got dressed in silence and left their room.
In the kitchen, Sally and Mor were waiting with breakfast. The smell of toasted bread filled the air, but an unusual stillness lingered at the table. Mor and Sally exchanged a glance before turning their eyes toward the boys.
Harry spoke first.
"Mom, can we take breakfast to him?"
Sally blinked, puzzled. "To him?"
"Yes. Umm… he didn't tell me his name," Harry admitted, scratching his head.
Sally smiled softly. "I see. Of course—you can take him something. I'll prepare it now."
Mor smiled too, though her look toward Harry was deeper, almost knowing.
"I'll go too," said Percy seriously, and Mor regarded him for a moment before smiling again—though differently this time, with a wisdom that made her seem older than the world itself.
"By the way," Percy asked, "what's his name?"
Mor gave a light laugh, resting her chin on her hand.
"Oh, I can't say. A knight must introduce himself."
Harry and Percy exchanged glances and nodded at the same time.
"Then we'll go ask him," said Harry, determined.
And so, without realizing it, both boys were about to approach the echo of a story that fate itself had tried to forget.