Cursed-Soul

The candle's flame quivered, casting restless shadows that danced across the room's cracked walls. An oppressive stillness hung in the air, as though the entire town held its breath, teetering on the edge of an unseen precipice.

Keiran sat on the bed's edge, elbows resting on his knees, fingers interlaced and trembling slightly. His gaze was distant, unfocused, as if searching for answers in the worn floorboards. Vael paced silently, his movements restless, occasionally casting furtive glances toward the door. Selara stood by the window, her silhouette framed against the dim light filtering through the grime-streaked glass. Below, guards patrolled with mechanical precision; their rhythmic footsteps echoed like distant war drums, a grim reminder of the town's enforced order.

Armon's recent proclamation lingered in their minds:

"Tomorrow night, a new Selection begins."

It wasn't merely a threat—it was a decree that sent ripples of dread through the already fractured town.

Keiran finally broke the silence, his voice subdued and tinged with guilt. "He's gone because of us."

Vael halted mid-step, his jaw tightening. "He made his choice."

Selara turned from the window, her eyes reflecting a storm of emotions. "That doesn't mean we should accept it."

A heavy pause followed, each grappling with the weight of their decisions.

Asheron had been captured in their stead, delivered to Armon like a sacrificial lamb. They were uncertain of what he might have revealed, if anything. But the implication was clear:

They were next.

Beneath the factory, Asheron's world had shrunk to encompass only blood, steel, and the incessant drip of rust-tainted water. The air reeked of oil and iron, clinging to his senses like a relentless fog.

He remained suspended—arms bound overhead, body slack, breaths shallow but steady.

For now, the guards had left him, but he knew they'd return. They always did. They relished his pain, savoring the illusion of breaking him.

But Asheron didn't scream.

He waited.

Eyes half-closed, blood tracing paths down his neck, he managed a faint, defiant smile.

"Let the bastard come."

Throughout the night, sleep eluded the trio.

Keiran stood at the room's center, gripping the tunnel key tightly. Its cold weight felt disproportionate, burdened by the gravity of their situation.

"We can't afford to wait," he asserted, his voice cutting through the silence. "The Selection is tomorrow or maybe he will delay we cant be sure. That gives us one night."

"To do what?" Vael inquired, his brow furrowed.

Keiran's gaze lifted, revealing a newfound determination.

Fire.

"To uncover what's hidden beneath this town. To trace the tunnel's path. And perhaps... discern Armon's intentions."

Selara nodded, her resolve hardening. "And if we're caught?"

"Then we erase our tracks."

Moving like phantoms, they navigated the town's underbelly—hoods drawn, footsteps silent, shadows their only companions.

After leaving the town entering the factory and making their way they were outside the tunnel. The tunnel entrance groaned open once more, exhaling a breath of cold, stale air that carried whispers of forgotten secrets.

Vael conjured a small flame, its glow barely penetrating the oppressive darkness. The tunnel seemed to devour the light, as if even fire feared to exist here.

They advanced cautiously, passing remnants of a bygone era: collapsed shelves, rusted vehicles—a testament to an evacuation or perhaps a containment long ago.

Then, they encountered it.

A door, distinct from the others.

Reinforced metal, adorned with a symbol: a crowned skull encircled by chains.

Exchanging wary glances, Keiran stepped forward. The key in his grasp seemed to tremble, as if recognizing its counterpart.

He inserted it.

With a hiss, the door unlocked.

Beyond lay silence.

Not the emptiness of abandonment, but a silence that observed, that waited.

The corridor ahead differed markedly. Smooth walls, dormant electric lights lining the ceiling—it felt deliberate, constructed with purpose.

Selara whispered, "This wasn't built by the townsfolk. It predates the factory."

They pressed on, each step drawing them deeper into antiquity.

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Then they saw it.

A circular chamber dominated by a black throne at its center.

The walls bore ancient runes, their meanings lost to time, yet they pulsed faintly under Vael's light. Surrounding the throne stood twisted statues—figures of the drowned, kings crowned in flames.

Vael shuddered. "What is this place?"

Keiran's heart pounded as he fixated on the throne. An inexplicable familiarity stirred within him, as if a dormant voice had awakened.

"Rule, even as your kingdom crumbles..."

Dizziness overtook him; he staggered.

Selara steadied him, concern etched on her face. "Keiran?"

"I'm fine," he murmured. But he wasn't. The throne wasn't merely an artifact—it was a scar upon the world.

And it beckoned him.

They departed hastily, perhaps too hastily.

Something unseen trailed them, not in pursuit, but in observation.

As dawn's first light crept over the rooftops, they reconvened in Selara's room, enveloped in silence.

Sleep had become a luxury they couldn't afford.

The nature of their discovery eluded them—it wasn't salvation they had unearthed.

It was history. Buried. Resentful.

Keiran clutched the key, now warm from the tunnel's breath.

"Whatever the Selection entails," he said, "it's connected to that place."

"And Asheron?" Selara questioned.

Keiran met her gaze, his eyes steely.

"We retrieve him. And we obliterate that throne."

Next day. The first light of dawn crept over the horizon, casting elongated shadows across the cobblestone streets of Eldermire. A heavy silence enveloped the town, as if the very air was laden with anticipation and dread. The usual morning bustle was conspicuously absent; shutters remained closed, and the streets lay deserted, save for the rhythmic march of the guards.

Keiran stood by the window of their modest lodging, his gaze fixed on the square below. His fingers unconsciously traced the edge of the key now hanging around his neck—a tangible reminder of the secrets they had unearthed beneath the town. The memory of the throne room, with its ominous symbols and oppressive aura, was still fresh in his mind.

Vael sat at the small wooden table, methodically sharpening his dagger, the rhythmic scrape of metal on whetstone the only sound breaking the silence. Selara leaned against the wall, arms crossed, her eyes reflecting a storm of emotions.

"The Selection is maybe today," Keiran murmured, more to himself than to the others.

Vael paused, looking up. "We need a plan. We can't let them take more innocent lives."

Selara nodded, pushing off the wall. "But we can't act recklessly. We need information. We need to know how the Selection operates."

Keiran turned to face them, determination hardening his features. "Then we observe. We gather intel. And when the moment is right, we act."

The town square, usually a hub of activity, was eerily still. At its center stood a raised platform, hastily constructed from dark, weathered wood. Flanking it were two towering iron cages, their bars rusted but sturdy. A palpable sense of foreboding emanated from the setup.

As the sun climbed higher, townsfolk began to emerge from their homes, drawn by a mix of curiosity and obligation. They gathered around the square, their faces a mosaic of fear, resignation, and suppressed anger.

Keiran, Vael, and Selara melded into the crowd, hoods drawn, eyes vigilant.

A sudden commotion at the far end of the square drew their attention. A procession of guards marched in, their polished armor gleaming menacingly. At their forefront was Captain Aric, his expression a mask of cold authority.

Behind the guards, a line of children was herded into the square. Their ages ranged from barely walking to the cusp of adolescence. Their eyes were wide with confusion and fear, small hands clutching at each other for comfort.

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Mothers stifled cries, fathers clenched fists, but none dared to intervene.

Keiran's jaw tightened. "This isn't just a Selection," he whispered. "It's a public display. A message."

Vael's eyes narrowed. "We can't let this happen."

Selara placed a restraining hand on his arm. "Not yet. We need to understand their endgame."

Captain Aric ascended the platform, his gaze sweeping over the assembled townsfolk.

"By decree of Lord Armon," he began, his voice carrying effortlessly, "these children have been chosen for the Selection. They will serve the greater good of Eldermire."

A murmur of dissent bubbled up from the crowd but was quickly silenced by the guards' pointed glares.

Keiran's mind raced "Eldermine". The throne room beneath the factory, the ancient symbols, the aura of malevolence—it all connected. The Selection wasn't merely about control or subjugation. It was ritualistic.

As the guards began leading the children toward the cages, a child's wail pierced the air.

"Papa!"

A young girl, no older than six, broke free from the line, sprinting toward a man in the crowd. Tears streamed down her cherubic face.

The man, her father, instinctively stepped forward, arms outstretched.

Time seemed to slow.

A guard moved to intercept, drawing his sword.

Keiran felt a surge of energy, a pull from deep within. Without conscious thought, he extended his hand.

A gust of wind erupted, knocking the guard off balance, sending him sprawling.

Gasps echoed as all eyes turned to Keiran.

Vael seized the moment, drawing his dagger. "Time to act."

Selara nodded, her stance shifting, ready for combat.

The square erupted into chaos.