The night was far too still.
Marcus stood at the edge of the shattered throne room, staring into the rift that had split the floor. A faint crimson glow pulsed deep below, like the slow beating of a buried heart. The echoes of Varnel's laughter still lingered, twisting through his thoughts like smoke he could not breathe out.
He took a step forward. The ground trembled beneath his boots. Shadows rippled around him, whispering words he couldn't quite understand. Each syllable burned his mind—ancient, powerful, familiar.
Marcus: "What are you trying to tell me?"
No answer came—only the wind, carrying the scent of ash and steel.
Then he heard it—soft footsteps behind him.
Mary's voice: "Brother?"
Marcus froze. His heart skipped a beat. Slowly, he turned.
There she stood, pale and trembling, holding a lantern that flickered weakly against the gloom.
Marcus: "Mary? How did you—"
Mary: "I followed you. The villagers said you came here alone after… after the dream."
Marcus felt his blood run cold. The dream. The curse. The beast. None of it should've touched her.
Marcus: "You shouldn't be here. This place—it's alive."
Mary: "Alive?"
Marcus: "It watches. It listens."
The ground beneath them gave a low growl, like the purring of some unseen beast. The lantern's flame wavered, painting her face in trembling gold.
Mary: "Brother… what happened here?"
Marcus looked away. His reflection stared back at him from a broken mirror on the wall—its eyes glowing faintly red.
Marcus: "A promise was made long before I was born. And I… I'm paying the price."
Mary stepped closer. "You're scaring me."
Marcus forced a breath. He wanted to lie, to tell her it was nothing—but the air itself trembled with truth.
Instead, he said softly, "If I ever lose myself, Mary… run. Don't look back."
Mary shook her head. "No. You're my brother. I'll never—"
A loud crack split the air. The rift widened.
Marcus grabbed her hand and pulled her back as the floor collapsed, revealing a spiral staircase descending into the depths. From below came a strange hum, rhythmic, mechanical—impossible.
Marcus: "Stay here."
Mary: "I'm not letting you go alone!"
Marcus: "Mary, please—"
Mary: "If you go, I go!"
He sighed, half in defeat, half in fear. "Fine. But stay behind me."
They descended.
Each step echoed like a heartbeat. The air grew colder, denser, until their breath became mist. The deeper they went, the more the walls began to change—no longer stone, but metal, etched with ancient runes glowing faint blue.
Mary: "Brother… this isn't human work."
Marcus: "No. It's older."
At the end of the stairs lay a vast underground chamber. In its center—an enormous sphere, half-buried in the floor, its surface pulsing with veins of light. Around it floated shards of armor, broken crowns, and rusted swords.
Mary whispered, "What is it?"
Marcus: "A heart… but not of any creature I know."
A voice filled the chamber—mechanical, ancient, echoing through their bones.
"Heir of the Black Flame… your arrival was foretold."
The sphere cracked open, and a beam of light shot out, searing the floor. Marcus shielded his sister, his sword forming instinctively in his hand.
"The curse you bear is not yours alone. It was forged by kings and gods to bind what they feared most."
Marcus: "Who are you?"
"I am the Keeper of Echoes—the last memory of the First War."
Mary clung to Marcus's arm. "First War?"
Marcus frowned. "The one between men and monsters?"
"No… the war that birthed them both."
The ground shook. The sphere shattered entirely, revealing within it the skeleton of something massive—part man, part dragon, crowned with horns of obsidian. From its chest hung a pendant carved with the sigil of a wolf devouring the sun.
Marcus felt something stir inside him—the same black fire that burned in his dreams.
Mary gasped. "Brother, your eyes—"
They glowed crimson again, brighter than before.
Marcus took a step forward, drawn to the pendant. "This symbol… I've seen it before."
"It is the mark of the Abyssal Covenant—the first brotherhood to walk the four continents. Their blood built empires, and their sins birthed monsters."
Marcus: "Then my curse… came from them?"
"Your curse came from your own bloodline."
The words hit harder than any blade.
Marcus staggered back. "You're saying my family…?"
"Yes. Your forefather was one of the Twelve who opened the Gate of Devouring. The curse you bear is their legacy—the monster within you is the crown they forged."
Mary fell silent, her face pale.
Marcus clenched his fist, voice trembling. "Then I'll destroy it. I'll break this chain, even if it kills me."
The voice faded, replaced by a whisper that seemed to come from the corpse itself:
"Break one chain… and another will rise."
The chamber began to collapse.
Marcus grabbed Mary and ran, the ground splintering beneath them. As they reached the stairs, the corpse's pendant shattered—and the black mist that erupted from it chased them like a living storm.
Marcus turned and swung his sword, carving through the shadow.
The flame of his blade roared, brighter than ever.
They burst from the ruins into the cold morning air, coughing, trembling.
Mary fell to her knees, sobbing. "What was that place?"
Marcus looked toward the rising sun—its light cut through the smoke, painting the world in gold and blood.
Marcus: "A grave. For gods who thought they could control monsters."
He turned away, his eyes distant, his heart heavy.
"If what that voice said is true…" he whispered,
"…then my bloodline is the key to the curse."
And far in the distance, unseen from the human eye, dark banners were being raised across the kingdoms of Logustus.
Rumors spread of nobles seeking forbidden power.
Of missing soldiers.
Of beasts appearing where no beasts should be.
And deep within the capital, a council of cloaked figures whispered the same name—
Marcus.
The storm had begun to gather.
To be continued…