《Beware The Voices In Your Head》


 Wander

    Wander had always been alone.


    Long before the first flicker of light had ever stained the empty darkness, there had been only the void ¡ª cold, endless, and indifferent. No time, no space, no measure of existence. Nothing to hold it, nothing to guide it.


    Only Wander.


    In the silence of this nothingness, it existed as an idea, an abstract form that had no name, no shape, no substance. It had no memory of how it came to be, nor did it need one. It was. It did not hunger or thirst, did not dream or fear. It simply was. It wandered aimlessly through the emptiness, its thoughts as endless and unformed as the void itself.


    Eons passed ¡ª or perhaps they didn¡¯t. Wander¡¯s perception was not bound by time.


    The first stirrings of a strange emotion began to fester in the depths of its formless mind. <i>Boredom</i>. At first, it was a vague sense of dissatisfaction, a hollow ache where something once might have been. But that ache grew. It gnawed at Wander¡¯s consciousness, twisting and thrashing until it was the only thing Wander could think of. <i>Boredom</i>.


    The unbearable nothingness.


    What good was eternity if it was spent alone? What was the point of wandering forever through an endless void, without change, without challenge, without¡­ anything? The idea ¡ª the existence of Wander itself ¡ª had become an unbearable truth. Wander was sick of itself.


    And then, something changed.


    In its frustration, Wander thought a thought. The thought of something else. A spark. A fleeting concept that pulsed into existence ¡ª something that could be. A <i>creation</i>.


    Wander didn¡¯t fully understand the desire, but it acted on it. It reached out into the blackness of nothingness, its essence pulling at the raw threads of emptiness, weaving them together, shaping them, crafting a thing from the formless void. The first breath of creation.


    A <i>universe</i>.


    It was a spark, a glimmer. The very first light. Wander focused on it, nurtured it, pressed its will upon it. And from the chaos of that first stirring, from the collision of nothing and everything, the universe was born.


    At first, it seemed perfect. Wander watched as stars blinked into being, as gas clouds formed and compacted into planets. The very laws of physics, gravity, time, and space ¡ª these things worked. The universe began to pulse and spin, and Wander marveled at its beauty. It had made something real. Something alive.


    But, as the first sparks of life began to form, Wander saw it ¡ª the first flaw. The first crack in the perfection.


    It wasn¡¯t anything noticeable at first, just a little disruption in the pattern, a ripple in the cosmos. But it spread. Like a sickness, it infected everything. Life began to grow, evolve, move, and think ¡ª but there was something wrong. Something twisted. A universe that could give birth to stars, could also give rise to beings who, despite their infinite potential, were flawed by their very nature.


    <i>Greed. Pride. Hatred.</i>


    It wasn¡¯t long before those beings began to destroy themselves. Empires rose, only to be crushed by war. Leaders were born, only to be corrupted by their own power. Wander watched, impotent and horrified, as the universe it had created began to implode. Its children turned on each other, tore apart the concept of existence, and soon, the world was nothing but a broken wreck.


    Wander did what it always did. It destroyed it all. Wiped it out.


    With a thought, the universe crumbled, and the stars fell into oblivion. All that had been birthed, all that had once been bright and beautiful, was snuffed out, forgotten, erased.


    And then there was <i>nothing</i>. Silence. The cycle began again, as it always did.


    But Wander¡¯s memory was fickle. Flawed.


    It couldn¡¯t remember the mistakes of the past, the failures that had caused the destruction. It couldn¡¯t hold onto the sorrow of what had been. Wander, eternal and cold, simply wiped the slate clean, and once more, it began.


    Each time it created, it did so with hope. But each time it created, it made the same errors. The same flaws. The same devastating mistakes. Time and time again, Wander reached into the nothingness and spun a new world into existence. Each time, it believed that this would be the one. The one that would be perfect. The one that would last.


    But nothing ever did.


    The cosmic cycle had become rote. <i>Creation. Flaw. Destruction. Waiting.</i>


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    And each time, Wander forgot. It would forget the lesson, forget the mistakes, forget the flaws of the worlds it had brought into being and destroyed. It could never remember why the world had fallen apart. The memory would slip away from it like sand through fingers. And so, each time, the same pattern would play out. <i>Creation. Flaw. Destruction. Waiting.</i>


    Again and again.


    And now, once again, it had begun.


    Wander reached deep into the infinite void, and the birth of a new world surged into being. It was no longer a mere spark, but a cataclysm. A <i>Big Bang</i>, loud enough to shake the cosmos. The universe collapsed in on itself, bursting outward with a deafening roar. Stars exploded into existence, planets formed in the blink of an eye, gravity rippled, and time began its endless march forward.


    Wander stood at the center of this creation with the same raw hope that it had felt every time before.


    This time, surely, it would be different.


    It watched, as the first sparks of life began to emerge. Simple at first ¡ª molecules, gases, atoms. A flicker of consciousness. And then came the stars, the oceans, the creatures that crawled, swam, and flew. Everything felt¡­ right. It was <i>perfect</i>.


    This time, it would work.


    But soon enough, the flaws began to reveal themselves, as they always did.


    The creatures born of this universe began to grow aware of their own existence. Their minds, though simple, began to ask questions. They began to build. And build they did ¡ª but they built wrong. They created weapons of destruction. They sought power. They destroyed the very land they had been gifted.


    In a flash, Wander saw the same familiar pattern unfold. The pride of one being led to the destruction of all.


    A kingdom rose. It crumbled. The seas grew dark with pollution. The skies turned red with the fires of war. Everything began to fall apart.


    And Wander¡­ Wander did what it always did.


    With the flick of a thought, the universe collapsed into nothingness once more. Stars flickered out, swallowed by black holes. The oceans boiled away. The creatures screamed in their final moments before they were silenced forever.


    And then there was nothing again. <i>Silence</i>.


    The cycle repeated.


    <i>Creation. Flaw. Destruction. Waiting.</i>


    Wander stood in the center of the collapse once more, its formless essence writhing in frustration. Each time. It was always the same. Always the same mistakes. Always the same downfall. The same, endless failure.


    For how long had it been like this? How many worlds had it created and destroyed? Wander had no way of knowing. Time was a concept lost to it, a thing that was as malleable as the void itself. But it didn¡¯t matter. No matter how many times it began anew, it could never escape the one truth that weighed upon it like the heaviest of chains:


    It could not create life. Not in the way it desired.


    It had tried, yes, tried again and again to breathe life into the empty void. But every time, the same fatal flaw emerged. The same flaw that ran through every creature, every lifeform ¡ª the same greed, the same hatred, the same hunger for destruction.


    Each time it had watched, from the distance, as the creatures it had given birth to spiraled into chaos. The potential for something greater was there, buried deep within them ¡ª but that potential always got lost in the madness. A brief flicker of beauty, then death, then silence.


    <i>No</i>.


    Wander could feel the pressure rising, the insatiable need to fix this broken pattern. The need to create something that could endure. Something that wouldn¡¯t fall apart.


    The primal frustration began to swell in Wander, and for the first time in countless cycles, Wander wondered. Why had it failed? What had it missed?


    It had given the creatures life, yes, but what else? What had it truly given them?


    In every single one of its previous creations, it realized the truth: it had given them nothing ¡ª nothing that could endure. No true understanding of their purpose, no guidance. Just life, and the freedom to twist that life into whatever form it wished.


    And now, Wander understood the most painful truth of all: the flaw was not with the creatures. The flaw was with Wander itself.


    Wander had done this to itself. It had been too abstract, too distant, too detached. It had created life and then watched from afar as it turned to dust. But there was something more that it could offer. There had to be.


    It could not create life alone. Not like this. Not without purpose.


    <i>Purpose!</i>


    The word settled deep within Wander¡¯s consciousness, the final missing piece of the puzzle it had been searching for. It needed more than just the flicker of life. It needed something more fundamental. Something that could give form and meaning to that life.


    It needed <i>Guides</i>.


    Something that could lead the creatures, nurture them, teach them the virtues that would allow them to grow, to evolve, to be more than just the chaotic, destructive forces they had always been. It needed something that could give them a soul.


    Wander had tried before, but it had only created from its own lack of understanding. It was time to act differently.


    A new plan. A completely different approach.


    The idea formed quickly, a bright, sudden flash in Wander¡¯s consciousness. And before the memory slipped away, it would create the foundation of life ¡ª but it would not leave the creatures to themselves. This time, it would shape life with a clear purpose. It would give them bodies, yes ¡ª but more importantly, it would give them <i>souls</i>. And with those souls, it would provide the knowledge, the guidance, that they so desperately needed.


    Wander¡¯s essence shifted, and the void around it began to warp. The universe which was a swirling void of pure potential and empty space, now burst into gigantic stars and planets, suns and moons. But this time, Wander was not content with mere stars or planets.


    This time, it shaped the Earth.


    A barren land, lifeless, empty, and cold. No creatures, no plants, no sky to span above. Just emptiness, a blank canvas that awaited the first strokes of creation.


    Then, Wander conjured two beings into existence ¡ª two orbs of light, luminous, swirling with energy, each radiating different forces.


    One orb pulsed with the raw power of matter, a dense core of energy that radiated heat, weight, and form. This was the <i>Body</i>, the foundation for all things physical, the essence of creation that could shape and change the world around it.


    The other orb shimmered with a different force. It was the <i>Soul</i> ¡ª an ethereal presence, bound to no physical form, but full of wisdom, emotion, and intellect. It was the force of thought, the driving pulse of purpose that could give the body its true direction.


    And as Wander shaped these orbs, it did something it had never done before: it pulled them from the very core of its own flawed consciousness. It poured everything it knew ¡ª everything it had learned in its countless cycles of creation ¡ª into these orbs. The hope, the desperation, the rage, and the wisdom of an eternity of mistakes.


    It could not retain its own memory ¡ª that much it knew. But perhaps, They could. Perhaps Body and Soul, now detached from Wander, would retain what Wander could not. Perhaps they could remember the lessons Wander had forgotten.


    Wander felt a pang of hope ¡ª something unfamiliar, like warmth in the cold emptiness of its being. Could they break the cycle? Could they remember where it had failed?


    But there was a risk. A terrible, terrifying risk.


    Would they remember? Or would they, too, forget?


    The orbs of Body and Soul spun, hovering in midair, and from them, the first beings would emerge. Wander shaped them with precision, not leaving anything to chance. They would be the architects of this world, the creators of the world.


    And with that, Wander stepped back, feeling a sense of finality.


    For once, it had taken control. It had shaped this world deliberately, without hesitation, without the weakness of empty hope. But now, the most painful question loomed before it: would these creations of its own consciousness remember? Would they retain the lessons of its eternal struggle, or would they fall victim to the same flaw?


    Time would tell.


    The cycle of creation would begin again, but this time, Wander would not watch from the distance. This time, it would guide.


    Now, all that remained was to wait.


    And as Wander drifted into a deep cosmos, something far darker stirred beneath the surface of its being. A gnawing thought, an echo from the far reaches of its consciousness:


    If this fails again, I will end it all. In the blink of an eye.


    There would be no more cycles. No more mistakes. No more creations to watch fall apart. If these two ¡ª these beings ¡ª could not retain the memories of Wander¡¯s past, then this world would suffer the same fate as all the others.


    <i>Nothing</i>.


    Wander had created, and it had destroyed. And if it failed once more¡­ it would obliterate everything.


    It would not be the first time. And hopefully, not the <i>last</i>!

 Body and Soul

    The earth was cold.


    Not in the way that ice numbs the bones or winter seeps through to the marrow. No. It was cold in the way absence feels when it stretches on too long ¡ª an emptiness that gnaws, that chills without end. The two orbs descended to the cold, lifeless earth with the speed of light. Or so Wander thought, for it wasn''t bound by time.


    Yet their journey stretched on for a million years, in the language of the mortals, before they could get anywhere near the land. They hovered and zipped through space, twirling like two great comets dancing in the skies.


    The first orb, Body, was a simple but heavy thing. It''s very energy was brimming with the raw potential of matter and form and the first seeds of life. It was heavy. And so it dropped faster. The closer it was to the Earth, something magical happened. Body wasn''t zipping through space anymore but Earth was pulling it, sucking it into itself as if it had been waiting for this very moment.


    It was alive. Earth was alive!


    And it whole-heartedly invited the intruder.


    The second orb, Soul, was a feature-light but complex thing. It couldn''t keep up with Body''s speed. But Body didn''t care. It descended with a greed to possess the raw Earth long before it''s counterpart.


    When Body stuck the Earth with an unrelenting force, the impact created craters on the Earth''s surface, breaking its crust and shaking its core. But Earth didn''t scream. It swallowed the orb, the raw power of its energy, letting it seep through every granules of its sand, every drop of its water and carve through the rocks and crusts. That was all Body ever wanted. It enveloped the Earth, the whole of it in its minute, invisible silver spindle-like threads until¡­


    Molecules collided, merged and multiplied until¡­


    Until the first sparks of life emerged. Single-celled organisms.


    At the edge of volcanic vents, where oceans boiled with heat and minerals, formed the first life on Earth. These tiny, single-celled organisms¡ªthey were simple, almost insignificant. But within them they held the untamed power of Body. They were the direct descendents of Body, of the raw cosmic energy. They fed on the heat and minerals, evolving, multiplying.


    Oh¡­ They were happy the way they were. Eat. Divide. Repeat.


    But the consciousness of Body within them wasn''t.


    It needed more. To be more.


    It pushed them to seek the sun light penetrating the ocean''s surface. To them, it was alien and overwhelming. But they adapted, absorbing its energy, turning it into this magical stuff that we now call oxygen and breathing it into the world. Their breathe cleansed the air, forming a protective shield around the Earth¡ªnow their home¡ªunlike any Body had seen in the cosmic vastness. This shield turned the skies blue and the seas vibrant.


    Body was happy but not satisfied.


    It pushed them more, to merge and form colonies, and then¡­ multicellular organisms.


    Not quite!


    The organisms grew fins and tails.


    Not quite!


    Fins grew into limbs.


    Not quite!


    They crawled from oceans seeking the warmth of the land, scales turning into fur and limbs turning into feathers and wings. Forests of green spread across continents, fed by the light of an unyielding sun. Creatures roamed the land.This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Not quite!


    Body was never satisfied. It kept pushing the organisms¡ªnow creatures¡ªto be better, stronger, more intelligent and capable then their previous iteration¡ªtheir previous generation. Body was at the core of evolution, experimenting with various combinations, producing a variety of creatures with every hunger-filled pulse of its never-ending pursuit for perfection, keeping the ones that were thrivable and wiping out the others that didn''t quite fit its vision.


    And somewhere in its countless iterations, it created one species peculiar and fragile, yet holding imperceptible intelligence in them: humans. They were imperfect, yes, their bodies were clumsy and their minds driven by hunger and fear. But they found a solution, a mechanism to survive whatever was thrown at them. Their world was primal and brutal, but they thrived¡ªbuilding shelters, taming fire, and warring over scrapes of land.


    Body was happy. It was particularly fond of these creatures¡ªhumans¡ª for they were the best of its creations. Yet!


    ¡ª¨C


    Soul took its time descending through space, down to the now, life-filled Earth. Unlike Body it didn''t feel the urge to possess Earth because somehow it instinctively knew it would soon be ruling over everything that Body had created. And so it descended with a quiet intensity of purpose, unseen by any life form on the planet. Its landing did not create a crater as it did with Body''s. It was a soft and gentle thud, ripping breeze over the surrounding trees, allowing them to sway ever so slightly.


    But where it landed, the air froze in an instant, sending shock waves through the frozen bubble. Beneath the impact point, soil blackened and cracked. The molecules that touched the bubble crystallized into a solid, black, otherworldly substance and before the orb had the time to escape the frozen bubble, it was enveloped by a whole mound of that substance. Tiny jagged spires of the otherworldly substance covered every inch of the mound, inside out.


    From a mortal''s perspective, it would have as well been a shrine or a womb. But in truth, it was a prison to the orb stuck inside, for every time it hit the walls of the cave-like interior of the mound¡ªan attempt to escape its prison¡ªa part of it was ripped off. It took three attempts, three hits for the orb to realize it wasn''t going anywhere but losing itself to its shield.


    What was a wholesome orb of raw energy a few moments ago was now ripped off into eight smaller blobs of pulsing energy, each with their own agenda. They twirled inside the cave, getting accustomed to the Earth''s atmosphere and it''s warmth, undetected by any life form, uninterrupted.


    Over the centuries, the eight energy blobs learned a lot about themselves, developing distinct personalities that aligned with their agenda. They were individuals with separate ways of thinking that was far removed from their creator, Wander. They swirled inside the cave, blinking like wisps and giggling and playing, forming a strange kind of kinship within themselves. They were siblings born from the same cosmic energy and they could sense it, if not comprehend.


    Over the years, they interacted with one another just to get rid of the boredom and communicated in an odd and silent way that no human could ever hope to understand.


    And together they waited a thousand years, for someone or something to free them from the outside because they couldn''t break open their prison from the inside.


    ¡ª¨C


    By the time Soul reached the Earth, the land was no longer barren. It hummed with life, rich with forests, rivers and mountains. But humanity, the most celebrated children of evolution, carried within them the same flaws that had plagued Wander''s creations everytime before: greed, hatred, pride.


    With Soul now on Earth, Wander thought, this time it would be different.


    After all, Soul was designed to feed on those unpleasant emotions leaving only the best ones for the humans to live with. So Wander thought, with hope after hope that this time everything would be perfect.


    But even Wander couldn''t anticipate what was to come.


    ¡ª¨C


    Thousand years after the orbs were imprisoned in the crystalline mound, one day, a storm came without warning. It was a feral and apocalyptic surge that painted the skies in bruised purples and blacks. Lightning tore through the heavens, its jagged forks splitting clouds as rain lashed the earth. The storm raged for days, unrelenting, that seemed intent on tearing the world apart.


    As if the skies wanted to touch the mound, to feel it and to awaken the orbs within, a bolt of lightning appeared crackling through the night sky, branching into a million tiny fingers, slowly, deliberately reaching the base of the mound.


    The sudden discharge and overwhelming heat did it.


    The walls of the mound exploded in a deafening blast, releasing the energy blobs out into the open. The blobs twirled for a minute more than necessary, paused their dance, confused, as if they were expecting another mound to form in place. But nothing happened. The ground was littered with sharp, broken pieces of the otherworldly material, big and small. The blobs, now pulsing with a different colour each, wisped along the ground, inspecting the broken fragments, which was once their home. Then as if in synchrony, they turned towards each other, if blobs could do that. A sudden reaization dawned on them¡ªthey''re no longer bound to their prison. They hovered, pulsing in unison for a moment, before streaking into the darkened sky like newborn comets, their laughter drowning in the storm.


    They were finally free!

 Prelude (Pt 1)

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    <b><i>"Your kind shall bring about your own destruction¡­" She had said. "¡­Just as you did mine. Your young shall burn, as did mine!"</i></b>


    ¡ª¨C¡ª


    Chief Nelius Tuscan cleared his throat to get rid of the suffocating feelings of regret accumulating in his chest for the umpteenth time. The dim glow of the lanterns and the fiery brightness of the torches carried by his folks cast creepy shadows over his cruel face. He caressed his bushy mustache to hide the despondent tears from pouring out, but mostly to stroke his ego. Because firstly, men don''t cry. Secondly, a true man never dwells on the past even if he had wronged; all that matters is his ability to move forward and face the consequences with bravity.


    That''s a woman''s nature, he thought - crying over spilt milk, regretting things that went wrong, being stagnant, unhelpful and hopeless, for those are all they are - hopeless!


    He glanced around the herd of people flocking silently in a long queue through the mountainous terrain. Twenty eight able- bodied men with titanous build of muscles carried large unsculpted pieces of a giant boulders to the makeshift clearing.


    Chief Nelius Tuscan cleared his throat again so when he spoke to his men, his voice doesn''t waver. His men looked up to him; he needed to stay strong for them if not for himself. "Okay, that''s far enough. We should start building the tomb as earlier as possible." He said, stepping into the clearing, accessing the ground for the appropriate spot to start laying the foundation.


    It had been only a month since they established their village of new Tuscanvalle along the banks of the gigantic, almost mythical Lavalthon Lake.


    Chief Nelius Tuscan''s eyes moistened at the thought of their old homeland.


    Oh, how prosperous their lineage had been! The world spoke of them as if they were Gods. People from the prestigious Elysian Empire, the opulent Yadora Empire and the colossal Devatonka Dynasty preferred to give and take brides with Tuscanians just so they could have a drop of the Tuscanian blood mingle with theirs. Because the Tuscanian offsprings have always been brawny, potent and unassailable. But after¡­ the witch hunt¡­


    ¡ª¨C


    As with every human ever born on Earth, the Tuscanian Chief was a flawed person. He had led his people with atmost care and responsibility but sometimes, things go wrong. Together, they would do certain foolish things like throwing feasts that lasted days, or hunting the most dangerous beasts just for sport, or even occasionally, they would go into the forbidden lands. But never had they ever encountered something as dire as the witch hunt.


    The witch hunt was the most foolish thing the Tuscansians have ever done.


    The witch hunt!


    It destroyed their life of fame and pride; marked the end of Tuscanian adulation.


    ¡ª¨C


    The memory gnawed at him as he stood in the clearing. "Chief," a voice interrupted his grim thoughts. It was the priest of their civilization, an old man with a hunched back. "The sun is about to rise. It''s time for the Sacred Bath and the farewell fire."The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Chief Nelius Tuscan looked at the eastern sky, where the first light of dawn was beginning to break through the darkness. He nodded at the priest''s words, knowing that the next steps in their ritual were crucial for their long journey ahead. He turned to his men and gave them another nod, signaling for them to follow the priest''s instructions.


    The priest led the procession to the edge of the lake, where several giant log boats were tied to the tree trunks along the banks of the Lavalthon lake. They had used these logboats to bring the stones and blocks for the tomb from the other side of the lake, where their tribe has set camp.


    The sacred bath marked the first step in the ritual. Tuscanians always built a Traveler¡¯s Tomb before departing their homeland or venturing into the unknown. It was a tribute, an honor bestowed upon those who left the safety of Tuscanian territory for noble causes.


    ¡ª¨C


    Three days after they had settled near the Lavalthon lake, Chief Nelius Tuscan had confided in his wife, Rosa: "I''m travelling again. To find a way to lift the curse. To find a way to save my people."


    Rosa¡¯s sorrowful eyes had searched his face. ¡°But my lord, look at them,¡± she had pleaded, gesturing toward the children¡ªthin, pale shadows of their former robust selves. "The children can barely walk. Their mothers are too weak to feed them. We need to rest, not more travels."


    His jaw tightened at her words. He glanced toward the children playing beneath the massive tree marking the edge of their new territory. Their gaunt frames and sunken eyes were a stark contrast to the brawny, potent offsprings the Tuscanians had once been known for. Rosa was right¡ªthey were no longer what they had been.


    How wholesome they were mere months ago!


    The Tuscanian pride!


    Nelius turned back to her, his tone softening only slightly. "This time, it is not the women or children who will travel, but men. You will stay here, Rosa. Lead the women, care for the children. The land is fertile, the lake full of fish. This will be your sanctuary."


    "But my lord," she had whispered, her voice laced with fear. "The beasts here are unlike any we¡¯ve known. Even our strongest men fell to them during the journey. What can a bunch of women do against such creatures?"


    His attention shifted to their mothers, cooking the roots and vegetables they had found in the wild and the meat of the panther that had unknowingly entered their territory to quench its thirst from the lake. Carnivores don''t normally taste as good as those bush rabbits but the men didn''t want to waste their hunt either. Until they got the hang of the land and the various lives it housed, they must have to live off whatever they got their hands on.


    Besides, the animals and other predators must learn that the land was taken, that it was no longer theirs. But that would take a while - for beasts to get used to their existence, to let them be and move to the deepest parts of the woods. Until then, the women and children might need protection from the wild.


    ¡°Yes,¡± he had admitted finally. ¡°You¡¯re right. They are but skeletons of their former selves.¡± He paused, his gaze hardening. ¡°Very well. Then I¡¯ll take twenty-eight of the strongest men. The rest will stay here to farm, fish, and protect the women and children. This land is fertile, and the lake will sustain you.¡±


    ¡°But my lord¡­¡± Rosa had begun, only for his sharp glare to silence her.


    ¡°Send for the priest,¡± Nelius had commanded. ¡°We must prepare for the farewell ritual. This will be the grandest Traveler¡¯s Tomb in Tuscanian history, for this is the noblest cause we have ever undertaken.¡± His voice had roared above the laughters of the children and crackles of the burning fire wood.


    ¡ª¨C


    Chief Nelius Tuscan reemerged from the water, gasping for air. One more dip, and the sacred bath would be complete. Yet his thoughts remained elsewhere.


    The witches¡­


    Fire had been the only thing that worked against them.


    Hanging, slashing, drowning¡ªall had failed to kill the witches. They healed too quickly, their wounds mending at an unnatural speed. Humans were able to hurt but not kill them. As if they had consumed an elixir. They must have been in pain the entire time, Nelius believed, for they had screamed and cursed and threatened to end the human race. Or perhaps their suffering was a ruse, a trick to manipulate the humans.


    But fire¡­


    That finally did it.


    Back then, they had burned those witches. Although fire had trapped them, it had failed to destroy their bodies, doing little damage to their skin and flesh, at first. Tuscanians had watched in horror and fascination as the flames danced around them, seemingly alive. The witches'' screams of pain and curses of rage had grown louder, each day and every night, taunting the Tuscanians. It took almost a year. Every day, the Tuscanian Chief had ordered more and more wood to be added to the pyre, the flames never to die out. His obsession with their destruction had consumed the village''s resources, but the firewood kept coming - from the distant lands of the Elysian Empire, the Yadoran Kingdom, and the Devatonka Dynasty. They had sent it not only to fuel the pyre but to fuel their own greed.


    The Elysians sent fragrant woods that burned slow and smoked the skies, the Yadorans sent the dense oak that crackled and roared, and the Devatonkans sent the ancient, resinous logs that bellowed fiercely when ignited.


    Tuscanvalle was merely a spot chosen for the execution of those witches. The Elysians had brought the idea forth, the Yadorans had provided the strategy, their military minds calculating the most effective way to eliminate the perceived threat. The Devatonkans had offered the might, their warriors eager to prove themselves against the supposedly invincible sorceresses. But it was Tuscanvalle that suffered the consequences of their collective folly.


    Even now, as the ritual started ceremoniously, Nelius wondered¡ªhad the witches truly suffered, or had they only pretended?


    He emerged from the water a final time, his body trembling. The sun now kissed the horizon. ¡°Light the farewell fire,¡± he ordered.


    Before him, the logs crackled to life. The priest started to recite the ritual incantations.


    Would this journey lift the curse? Or were they doomed to repeat their mistakes?

 Prelude (Pt 2)

    <hr>


    "Your ancestors have worshipped us as Gods, Nelius!" She had said. "Their spirits are ashamed of your deeds today. I have watched over you for eons, blessing you and your people with the most priceless gifts. I can take back what I gave - and I will. When I do, you''ll be mindless monsters roaming the land - even less than the beasts that you rear. And that''s all you are worth."


    <hr>


    The lake water stayed eerily still, reflecting the fiery hues of the sunrise. Chief Nelius Tuscan had his eyes fixed on the horizon where the sun peeked over the heights of Maverielle mountains. The cold water washed over his body washing away the burn of regret from his chest. He took his last dip of the Sacred bath and when he emerged back out of the water, gasping for air, he felt his burden lightening already.


    I''ll find a way to save my people. I won''t let them succumb to the witches'' curse, he thought with rejuvenated confidence.


    Each of his men took their turn to dip into the lake, scrubbing their skin vigorously with handfuls of crushed jungle orchids and mint leaves. These herbs and their fragrances were said to cleanse their known and unknown sins before entering the sacred clearing where the ritual was about to take place.


    Cheif Nelius Tuscan emerged out of the lake, his skin tingling from the herbal mix. Once on the land, he changed into his Eshara, a soft white garment reserved for rituals like purification and mourning.


    Today''s ritual is going to be both, Nelius thought, tying the Eshara around his waist securely.


    They were going to build the Traveller''s Tomb not only as an honour to those leaving their new-found land this evening but also as a memorial to those who had lost their lives during the witch hunt.


    Chief Nelius Tuscan forced the persistent memory to the back of his mind and moved inland, stepping over the rocky terrain. His men have made a narrow path by clearing the small bushes and thin, woody tress for the entire tribe to pass through to attend the farewell ritual. Monkeys danced on the branches of the highest trees, screeching and chattering, announcing the trespassing of humans into their terrain. Parrots and cuckoos flapped their wings overhead. A deer that had been spying on him from an uncut part of the woods, loped away as he approached the clearing where the ritual was about to take place.


    The priest was ordering unmarried, young lads to arrange the firewood properly for the Holy fire, his arms moving in jerky motions as he described the procedures and the intrinsic symbolism they conveyed in greater depth. The young lads were more than eager to learn the traditions, scuttling around the clearing, bringing logs for the Holy fire and assisting the priest. Older men of the tribe carried the large, uncut stones they had brought from the other side of the lake into the clearing, their bodies beaded with sweat from the exertion of their task. It would have been easier for them to simply gather stones and boulders from the immediate surroundings of the clearing. But as per Tuscanian traditions, its imperative that they only use the materials and offerings they had gathered from the protected territory of their homeland.


    The young, unmarried ladies stood along the perimeter of the clearing, entertaining the children while their mothers, were busy preparing the oblation materials meant to be casted into the Holy fire as offerings to Gods.


    Chief Nelius Tuscan scanned the selection of offerings those women had found from the other side of the lake. From Tuscanvalle, he forced himself to believe that this was their new homeland. The new Tuscanvalle!


    As he watched, the women placed three large banana leaves on the land, in front of the logs that had been set in place for the Holy fire. Over those leaves, they arranged the washed arrowhead tubers, the papayas and wild bananas they had found growing in abundance near the lake shores and cracked coconuts on a carefully scattered layer of wild rice. Nelius hadn''t noticed the wild rice growing in this region before but probably because he was preoccupied with the preparations for his journey. But it made sense, given the enormity of the lake and the abundance of water supply in and around their new homeland. Now he thought, the women must have found the wild rice near the shallow areas of the lake and must have saved the grains particularly for the ritual because burning it in the Holy Fire after the ritual was complete represented fertility and protection of their tribe. Besides, he was certain that they did not use it to cook during the past month.Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Finally the Chief''s wife, Rosa, adorned the oblation materials with large blooms of lotus flowers she had plucked from one of the several freshwater ponds scattered across their new homeland.


    When the offerings were ready, she straightened her back and scanned their handiwork with a tinge of satisfaction in her eyes, before her attention flickered to the edge of the clearing where Nelius stood overseeing his people who were striving to undo their past.


    Another pang of regret tugged at his heart suffocating his very being.


    As he watched, Rosa whispered something to the woman who stood near her. The woman hurried to edge of the clearing, and disappeared behind the crowd of ladies and children. Moments later, she returned with a large salver covered in thin silk fabric they had brought from their old homeland. Over that lay his Zharvan and Thalrek.


    A Zarvan was a headdress worn by tribal leaders or elders, symbolizing their connection to ancestors and the divine. From where he stood, Chief Nelius Tuscan could not make out the elaborate carvings and animal motifs on it but he could visualize the ginormous elephant fighting with a blood-soaked lion carved into it. The memory had been etched into his mind. He had seen his elder brother and former chief of Tuscanvalle, Kalius Tuscan, wear it during every ceremony and celebration back when he was alive. But the witch hunt¡­ The witch hunt had robbed him of his brother. The witches have robbed Tuscanians of a great Chief.


    "My Lord!" Rosa''s exuberant voice interrupted his reverie.


    Chief Nelius Tuscan glanced at his wife. Her eyes darted around the clearing in an attempt to hide how flustered she felt at the moment.


    "The priest says it''s time to light the Holy Fire. Please do wear these and¡­" her voice wavered. She lowered her eyes to the ground. A single drop of tear rolled down her cheek.


    Chief Nelius Tuscan caught the teardrop before it landed over her raised bosom and wiped the remaining wetness off her face. "There''s no need to be concerned, Rosa. I know you''re worried we might never get to see each other again." He paused at the sight of Rosa jerking her head to look at him with pleading eyes but then continued anyway. "I''m doing this for our people. We are doing this for our people." He lifted her chin with his thumb and forefinger, knowing no amount of reassurance would put her heart at ease.


    Rosa sighed, blinking her tears away. "I understand, My Lord. And I will spend every second of the rest of my life waiting for your arrival, praying for your wellbeing," she said, her voice wavering with unspeakable sorrow.


    Chief Nelius Tuscan offered her a measured smile to convey his satisfaction with her reply and started wearing his Zarvan and Thalrek. While Zarvan was an intricately carved headdress adorned with bells and feathers, Thalrek was a long ceremonial sash worn by both men and women during rituals.


    When he was done, he stepped into the clearing. The priest noticed his approach and he nodded his approval. The priest turned around to light the logs placed in the ceremonial ground. The women and men gathered around the clearing started beating and blowing their makeshift drums and flutes cheerfully, announcing the commencing of the ritual. Beyond the priest, the logs caught fire almost immediately, the flames reaching up to the sky.


    The sight and sounds reminded Nelius of a dreadful memory - one associated with fire.


    The witch hunt!


    Back then, they had captured three witches, two females and one male. The females, Chief Nelius Tuscan believed, were sisters. The male seemed like he was the partner to one of them. The couple had been loud and threatening all the while, taunting them with curses since day one. But no one paid any heed, dismissing their taunts as meaningless blabberings. Until¡­


    Until, one day, their curses became true.


    That morning, his brother, Kalius Tuscan had been busy receiving delivery of firewood from the three giant empires and stacking them in roofed sheds to protect them from unexpected rain when he noticed the pyre was about to extinguish itself. The four men appointed to watch over the pyre were missing and the witches were getting restless inside in circle of fire. So he had ordered a few other men to add wood to the pyre and had approached the clearing to inspect the state of the witches.


    Something had happened.


    Nelius could not understand what it could be. But something had happened that day. Because when Kalius had arrived home that afternoon, he was¡­


    Cheif Nelius Tuscan sighed, trying to block the memory from creeping over his consciousness. But it stuck to his mind like an iguana. The people continued to make ceremonial nioses. The priest has started to recite the Holy incantations. The powdery smell of burnt wood and the sweet caramelized smell of the oblation materials being burnt in the holy fire filled the air with a sense of sacredness. But Chief Nelius Tuscan''s mind obsessively drifted back to the memory.


    That afternoon, when Kalius had arrived home, he was rotting¡­ like a corpse left unburnt.


    He was alive¡­ Kalius was alive.


    There was breath in him, there was pulse in him.


    But he was rotting.

 Prelude (Pt 3)

    "Remember Nelius! There will always exist a being more formidable than the most formidable," she had warned. "And you have wronged one such. I gave you the liberty to choose; and choose you did. But you chose wrong, Nelius!


    "Now I realise. A monkey cannot fathom the value of a precious garland. Nor will you. Hence when I return ¡ª and I will, as all seasons do¡ª I will undo my misreckonings. I will take back my precious garland. And when I do¡­ Your sins¡­ your recklessness¡­ will echo in the suffering of your children."


    ¡ª¨C


    The ceremonial noises reached its peak, indicating the ritual is at its climax. The priest offered him a handful of the wild rice and gestured him to scatter it into and around the Holy Fire. Chief Nelius Tuscan did as he was instructed. When the ritual was over, the people around the clearing grew quite, anticipating the most important event of the day.


    The anointment ceremony!


    Everyone knew that their beloved Chief and the twenty-eight men who were about to accompany him in the journey might never return home. And so, Chief Nelius Tuscan had already chosen his younger sibling, Ibarius Tuscan, as the new Chief of the tribe.


    Ibarius Tuscan was a lean, agile man with eyes that gleamed with a cunning intelligence. He watched his brother with a hidden smile, knowing that his time was near. The priest gestured him and his wife, Freesia, to come closer. Chief Nelius Tuscan was already standing with his wife, Rosa.


    Ibarius Tuscan''s wife, Freesia, stepped ahead of the crowd to join him, her fingers shivering with excitement. After all, her husband was about to be anointed as the new Chief. But as she moved closer, Ibarius shot her a pointed, icy glance. Freesia froze mid-step, then retreated into the crowd, her head bowed. She prayed no one noticed the tear sliding down her cheek.


    Once she was gone, Ibarius Tuscan squared his shoulders and approached his brother with pride and arrogance, now, unable to keep his lips from curving into a cunning smile.


    The priest, noticing the silent exchange between Ibarius and his wife, probed him for an explanation: "Ibarius, Where''s Freesia? Call her." He searched the crowd as if he didn''t know exactly where in the crowd had the poor woman disappeared moments ago. "Both partners must be present for the anointment."


    Ibarius feigned ignorance, casting a casual glance around the gathering. ¡°Freesia?¡± He smirked, his tone laced with disdain. ¡°She won¡¯t be joining us.¡±


    The priest paled, his eyes darting nervously between Ibarius and Nelius. ¡°But the gods require her presence. Her role is as important as yours. The ritual cannot¡ª¡±


    Ibarius cut him off with a dismissive wave. ¡°The gods don¡¯t need Freesia for this. I am more than enough.¡±


    But the priest''s face shrunk in disapproval at Ibarius'' dismissal of tradition. His skin was sweating profusely, either from the intsnse hea and smoke of the Holy Fire or from his own nervousness of breaking the tradition. "You underestimate the gods, Ibarius. They demand balance. The anointment will not¡ªcannot¡ªbe complete without her¡­" He paused, staggering to find his footing as Ibarius pushed through the priest to stand in front of Chief Nelius Tuscan.


    A collective gasp and a wave of murmur rippled through the crowd as Ibarius Tuscan stepped past the priest, his gaze locked onto Chief Nelius Tuscan. The priest stumbled, his mouth hanging agape as he watched the blatant disregard for tradition unfold. Ibarius was the future chief after all. If the one who''s supposed to lead the people doesn''t respect his elders, their traditions or even the women of his own family, then what would be the fate of the tribe at his hands?


    The Holy Fire crackled, sending sparks into the air. The sky was a bright white with just a tinge of orange as the sun began to rise above the horizon.


    "You speak of gods as though you¡¯ve conversed with them personally. Let me assure you, priest. They won¡¯t mind. Why don¡¯t we move on? Or shall we keep the tribe waiting for the whims of a woman?¡± His smirk broadened as he approached his brother.


    The priest''s face grew grim, his eyes darkening. The crowd watched, frozen in concern.


    "Shall we, brother?" he asked.Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡ª¨C


    Meanwhile, Rosa''s mind was preoccupied with the impending departure of her husband. They might never see each other again. She remembered him saying that he would only return when he had found a way to save his people. Something in her gut told her that there was nothing any mortal could do to undo the inevitable future. Yet she kept her opinions to herself just because she didn¡¯t want to come across as a negative influence over the tribe¡ªher husband won''t be happy with her if she were.


    But that also meant¡­ her husband would never¡­


    She sighed, blinking the tears back into her eyes. That was when she noticed her brother-in-law approaching them to get anointed as the new Chief. She didn¡¯t have a good feeling about him being responsible for their people''s future either. He wasn''t as kind and caring and shrewd as her husband, not even with his own wife and children, let alone the tribe. But then no one is as good as her husband in her eyes. Her perception would always be biased when it concerned her husband. So maybe¡­ accepting his judgement would always be better than hers would be the right thing to do as a proper wife, she thought.


    But then she saw Ibarius pushing past the priest. Rosa clenched her fists, her heart pounding with dread and rage. How dare Ibarius mock tradition? Worse, how could Nelius remain silent in the face of such audacity?


    She tried to remember what was happening earlier but couldn''t. The memories remained foggy. She had missed the conversation between the priest and her brother-in-law, having immersed in her own world of worries.


    Yet, pushing past a priest?


    That''s unforgivable!


    She wanted to correct him. She wanted to punish him for ruining the ceremony. After all, this might be the last ceremony she and her husband would get to attend together¡ªas a couple. Besides, what if Ibarius'' misbehaviour had angered the Gods and then her husband had to suffer for it? He was supposed to leave the protection of their homeland today.


    She wanted to yell at Ibarius. She wanted to make him apologise to the priest, to undo his mistakes, to save her husband from any potential misfortunes it might cause. She wanted to.


    But words caught in her throat, a tornado of emotions blocking her vocal chord.


    "You speak of gods as though you¡¯ve conversed with them personally. Let me assure you, priest. They won¡¯t mind. Why don¡¯t we move on? Or shall we keep the tribe waiting for the whims of a woman?¡± She noticed Ibarius smirking and the priest''s demeanor deflating with shame. Everyone around them murmured in anxiety. As she watched, Ibarius took another step forward, completely ignoring her presence and stood in front of her husband. "Shall we, brother?" he asked.


    Before she could think better of it, Rosa stepped forward. Her voice cutting through the murmurs like the crack of a whip. ¡°That¡¯s enough, Ibarius.¡±


    Ibarius turned to her, his smirk faltering for a moment. Then, as if recovering his footing, he straightened and faced her with exaggerated calm. ¡°Ah, Rosa! My dear sister-in-law. Shouldn¡¯t you be bidding your husband farewell instead of meddling in matters beyond your station?¡±


    Rosa¡¯s eyes narrowed, her voice cold as steel. ¡°Beyond my station? You forget your place, Ibarius. This ceremony isn¡¯t yours to ruin. Apologize to the priest and summon Freesia. Now.¡±


    Ibarius chuckled, a low, mocking sound that set her teeth on edge. ¡°Apologize? For what? Sparing this tribe the theatrics of a trembling woman who can barely keep her composure? You should be thanking me.¡±


    ¡°You think this is about Freesia¡¯s nerves?¡± Rosa shot back. Her voice rose, unwavering. ¡°It¡¯s about respect. For the priest. For tradition. For the Gods who watch us even now.¡±


    ¡°Respect?¡± Ibarius repeated, his tone dripping with disdain. ¡°Respect isn¡¯t what feeds the tribe or wards off enemies. Men do. Tradition is a crutch for the weak. And gods? If they cared so much, they wouldn¡¯t have left us to fend for ourselves.¡±


    Rosa stepped closer, her gaze piercing. ¡°If you think strength lies in tearing down what our ancestors built, then you are not fit to lead. A Chief protects his people, his family, his traditions¡ªnot tramples them underfoot.¡±


    Ibarius leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper meant only for her. ¡°And yet here I stand, about to be anointed. Where does that leave you, Rosa? Perhaps you should reflect on your husband¡¯s silence before lecturing me.¡±


    Rosa¡¯s breath hitched. She glanced at Nelius, hoping for support, but his face was blank, his eyes distant. Her heart sank.


    ¡°The gods will not forgive this,¡± she warned, her voice trembling with suppressed fury. ¡°And neither will I.¡±


    Ibarius straightened, spreading his arms in a mock display of grandeur. ¡°Then let the Gods strike me down,¡± he declared, his voice booming over the clearing with a flicker of mockery. ¡°But¡­ alas! The Gods never punish the worthy. So, Rosa, step aside. You have no power here.¡±


    The crowd shifted uneasily, torn between their loyalty to tradition and their deference to the future Chief. Rosa stood her ground, her nails biting into her palms.


    Then, to her utter shock, Nelius moved. Slowly, methodically, he untied his Thalrek and handed it to her. ¡°Hold this,¡± he said, his tone devoid of emotion.


    Rosa froze, the folded cloth heavy in her trembling hands. Her husband, the man she had always seen as just and strong, had chosen to stand idle. Ibarius smirked triumphantly and turned back to the priest, who looked on with visible despair.


    As Ibarius reached for the Zarvan, Rosa felt a cold wave of helplessness wash over her. She stared at Nelius, searching his face for answers, for even a flicker of regret. But his eyes remained glazed, his expression unreadable.


    In that moment, Rosa realized. The tribe¡¯s future was no longer in the hands of the man she loved. It lay with Ibarius¡ªa man who saw tradition as weakness and arrogance as strength. A man who would lead their people not with wisdom but with scorn. A man who wouldn''t think twice before stepping over the powerless just for sport.


    And the Gods, Rosa thought bitterly, would not be forgiving.

 Prelude (Pt 4)

    "Your kind hunted me, Nelius, for they feared my ability to create life without a man''s touch," she had said. "Let me remind you of what your fragile minds have cast aside: my form is beyond mortal comprehension.


    "You drove my first born in oblivion and squandered my unborn in the womb. For that, I curse you. You feared what you could not control and sought to destroy that which was never yours to destroy. For that I curse you. You feared my kind will wreck havoc on yours¡ªso mark my words, Nelius: when I return, I will be the Havoc you fear."


    ¡ª¨C


    ¡°The gods will not forgive this,¡± Rosa had warned Ibarius, her voice trembling with suppressed fury. ¡°And neither will I.¡±


    Ibarius had straightened, spreading his arms like that of an eagle. ¡°Then let the Gods strike me down,¡± he had declared, his voice booming over the clearing. ¡°¡°But¡­ alas! The Gods never punish the worthy. So, Rosa, step aside. You have no power here.¡±


    Chief Nelius Tuscan''s eyes remained glazed from the smoke of the Hole Fire and from his bloody mind obsessively drifting back to the grim memories of his past.


    The anointment¡­ his anointment¡­ had happened over the rotting body of his brother.


    He was alive¡­ Kalius was alive. But far from being functional.


    Kalius had kept blabbering something in a language that no one understood. Something malicious. His entire being had turned malicious. The pus from his wounds and rotting skin had scorched anyone who had dared to touch him, infecting them with the same sickness that was eating him alive. The priest had to use a stick to remove the Zarvan from his head to complete the ritual and release him from Chiefdom. The tribe had never seen such a disrespectful anointment. But no one dared to voice their concerns. The curse¡ªthey thought¡ªwas already in motion.


    What they didn''t know was that it was only the beginning.


    Chief Nelius Tuscan forced the memories to the back of his mind and moved closer to Rosa. Slowly, methodically, he untied his Thalrek and handed it to his wife. "Hold this," he said, his voice alien even to him.


    Rosa stared at him, her tear-filled eyes pleading for answers¡ªfor clarity, the hope in her draining by the moment. She looked beautiful in the rising sun light. A wave of sadness washed over him. He would never get to see her lovely face again.


    This wasn''t the time to let his heart falter. His responsibilities here, in Tuscanvalle, weren''t complete. He removed his Zarvan and placed it over the Thalrek Rosa was holding. He shifted his attention towards Ibarius. His lips curved into the caring smile, reserved only for his family.


    Ibarius cast him a triumphant one, his eyes drawn to the Zarvan a thousand times in a second. Chief Nelius Tuscan could see Ibarius visibly inflating with pride and excitement. Ibarius took one more step forward and reached to claim the Zarvan, to claim sole ownership of the people around them as if they were mere beasts to him.


    Chief Nelius Tuscan grabbed his hand with a cold smile, his steely grip cutting off his blood supply.


    "You were right, brother!" He clapped Ibarius''s shoulder affectionately, steering him around to the center of the clearing. "The Gods only answer the worthy. But are you?"


    Ibarius''s perception was clouded enough by his fleeting victory and the appreciative gesture from his brother that it took a moment more for him to realise that his brother was challenging him. The muscles on his face grew rigid. He shrugged off his brother''s arm in defiance. "You''re siding with that low life?" He shook his head in disbelief. "Ah¡­ I see! You''re under that siren''s spell, aren''t you?"


    The crowd gasped again.


    "Ibarius!" Rosa stepped forward.


    Chief Nelius Tuscan gestured for her to stop. "Careful, Ibarius. You''re talking about The Woman of the Tribe." He reminded, for that''s how Tuscanians call the wife of their chief and the title called for respect and honour.


    "She''s still a woman." Ibarius smirked.


    "That''s enough, Ibarius!" Nelius roared over the cackling fire. "You will kneel before the tribe and apologize. To Rosa. To the priest. To the Gods. And to the people for disrupting the ritual."


    Ibarius''s eyes narrowed. "You dare to challenge me, Nelius? For a woman?"This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    "For justice. For tradition. For the future of our people," Chief Nelius Tuscan replied. "And of course, for the woman who surrendered her very being for my legacy."


    Ibarius straightened his back and squared his shoulders. "And if I don''t?"


    "I might have to reconsider your position as my successor."


    Ibarius''s eyes grew wide, his lips curving into an insulting smile. "You can''t do that in the middle of the ritual."


    "Middle of the ritual? The anointment hasn''t started yet." With a swift motion, Chief Nelius Tuscan pulled Ibarius''s hand to his side, twisting it behind his back, and shoved him to his knees. The crowd watched in shock as the man who was meant to be the next leader of Tuscanvalle was brought down by his own brother. Ibarius''s knees hit the hard ground with a thud, his pride bruised as much as his dignity. The crowd, initially shocked into silence, began to murmur. Chief Nelius Tuscan stepped away from his struggling brother, his gaze unwavering. "That''s for insulting my wife." He announced.


    He circled around him, his gaze cold and detached.


    "You have disrespected our priest, insulted my wife, and tried to rip away Freesia''s right to be honoured as the future Woman of the Tribe. I''ve already come to regret my decision of choosing you as my successor. I doubt you could lead our people in the path of righteousness and justice. There isn''t much time for me to lecture you on fairness in Chiefdom¡ªI must leave soon.


    "But, brother," Chief Nelius Tuscan said, "You have two choices. Apologize. Right your wrongs as a true leader should and get anointed as planned. Or walk away with nothing but the shame of this day hanging over your legacy, I''ll better find someone else to lead in my absence. You''re free to do as you please."


    Ibarius looked around, the people waiting for his answer. His pride was bruised, but his ambition was a ravenous beast, demanding to be fed. He took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving his brother''s. With a jerk of his head, he bent over and whispered something to the ground, his voice too low for anyone to hear.


    The priest was tense, his eyes flicking from one brother to the other. Rosa held her breath, the Thalrek and Zarvan shaking slightly in her grasp. With a grumble of anger, Ibarius lifted his gaze to meet Chief Nelius Tuscan''s. "Fine," Ibarius spat, the word thick with venom. "I apologize."


    The crowd remained silent, waiting for the customary words to be spoken. The priest stepped forward, his hand hovering over the Hole Fire, ready to begin the anointment. Chief Nelius Tuscan nodded curtly. "To Rosa," he prompted. "To the priest. To the gods. To the people."


    Ibarius clenched his teeth, the words burning his throat as he forced them out. "I apologize to the priest, to The Woman of my Tribe, to the gods, and to the people of Tuscanvalle," he recited.


    Chief Nelius Tuscan offered his hand to help Ibarius stand. Ibarius took it, his eyes never leaving the ground as he hauled himself up, his pride in shambles.


    Chief Nelius Tuscan''s eyes searched the crowd, finally resting on Freesia''s figure shrinking away from the gathering. "Freesia!" He called out with the authority of a man who had been the Chief for over a decade. "Freesia, come forth and join your husband."


    Freesia emerged from the sea of bodies, her head still bowed, her eyes swollen from the tears she had been fighting to hold back. The priest nodded to her with a gentle smile, acknowledging her presence as if she were the most important person in the clearing.


    Ibarius glared at Freesia as she approached, her steps tentative and her gaze downcast until she stood beside her husband. She knew what was coming¡ªhis wrath was a familiar storm she had weathered before.


    The priest hesitated, his gaze nerveously flitting between the brothers. "Freesia," he said, "you must hold the Thalrek and the Zarvan for your husband."


    Freesia took the sacred items from Rosa and the priest began to chant, his voice echoing through the clearing.


    "Ibarius Tuscan," the priest intoned, his eyes closed in concentration, "you have been chosen by your brother, Chief Nelius Tuscan, to bear the burden of leadership. May the gods look upon you with favor and guide your hand in the protection and prosperity of Tuscanvalle." He drew an intricate pattern on Ibarius''s forehead with the sacred ash, the symbol of the Tuscanian Chiefdom.


    Murmurs of awe and uncertainty rippled through the gathering. They have completely forgotten to sound the drums or the horns of victory. This was not how it was meant to be. But here they were, watching the anointment of a Chief who had just been humiliated a moment ago.


    Ibarius''s face remained stoic throughout the process, his eyes never leaving the Holy Fire as if he were trying to burn a hole through it. He didn''t bother to look at Freesia, nor did he acknowledge the presence of his brother and sister-in-law. As the priest stepped back, Ibarius took the Thalrek and the Zarvan from his trembling wife. He wrapped the cloth around his waist and tied the sash, then crowned himself with the headdress without waiting for the priest¡¯s instruction.


    The priest¡¯s eyes flickered between the brothers, his mouth tightening in disapproval at Ibarius''s haste. But the moment the Zarvan touched Ibarius''s head, he acquired the authority and the priest knew better than to challenge the new Chief. With a deep breath, he continued the incantation, praying that the gods would indeed guide Ibarius¡¯s hand.


    With that, the ceremony concluded. The crowd remained silent, the only sound the crackling of the Holy Fire. Chief Nelius Tuscan turned to his men, the same twenty-eight who he had chosen to accompany him on his journey. "We have much to do. Let us begin the construction of the Traveller''s Tomb," he said, gesturing for them to follow.


    The men started to work on the construction of the Tomb as fast as they can. When the tomb was complete, they would have their final meal in the land they once called home, before setting off into the void in search of something that might not even exist¡ªsomething that might have never existed.


    Chief Nelius Tuscan sighed. Only he understood the true horror of the curse¡ªits depth, its finality. What awaited him in the journey, no one could guess. Not even the twenty-eight chosen men.


    If they did, the strength would drain from their limbs. The will to carry on would vanish.


    No. He cannot let the world crumble with the name of his race written in its blood.


    He must do something before it was too late.


    And he will!

 Prelude (Pt 5)

    "You know I''m immortal, Nelius," she had said. "Flames did not destroy me, nor will this cage. Every second, every minute, every hour that you cage me there, you are only strengthening the wrath that I will one day unleash upon your people. And when I return, I shall be the end of you.


    When that day arrives, sky will darken with the shadows of what you have forgotten. Seas will rise, drowning the lies you have lived by. Land will tremble underfoot as you try to grasp the last remnants of your false power. Nothing you have built will stand. There will be no refuge, no hiding, no escape. No weapon you wield will save you. Earth will swallow you whole. And I will rise from your ashes, not as your savior, but as your reckoning."


    ¡ª¨C


    The anointment had ended on a sour note, but the work of the day had only just begun. Chief Nelius Tuscan''s voice echoed through the clearing. "We have much to do," he said to his men. "Let us begin the construction."


    The twenty-eight men followed him, to the spot in the clearing where they''ve already gathered materials for the Traveller¡¯s Tomb. The air was humid, making them sweat profusely even before they lifted the first stone. Women had marked the ground with sacred symbols to ward off malevolent spirits, and the trees around had been felled, their trunks stripped bare. The scent of freshly cut wood mingled with the lingering smell of the Holy Fire.


    As the men set to work, their wives and children gathered in small groups, setting up cooking fires and laying out food. The sound of laughter and chatter filled the air, warding off the solemn silence that had hung over the anointment ceremony. The aroma of tubers, bulrushes, and boiled rice wafted through the clearing, mingling with the scent of the earth and the faint smell of the Holy Fire''s embers. The women worked swiftly, their eyes darting to the construction site often.


    "Why would he do that?" one of the women whispered to another as they watched their husbands and sons follow Nelius Tuscan, now no longer the Chief of Tuscanvalle, but a mere Traveller with a grim destiny.


    "Who? Ibarius?" another woman scoffed, her eyes narrowing as she stirred a pot of bubbling stew.


    The first woman hushed her, casting a quick glance at Freesia, who hovered on the outskirts of the gathering, her eyes downcast and shoulders slumped. "Shush, Rumana! Keep your voice down or you''ll get us in trouble," she warned. "I speak of our Chief, our old Chief. Why would he give up his position so easily? For what?"


    Rumana, paused in her work thoughtfully. "For what, indeed?" she murmured. "But perhaps he knows something we do not. After all, the prophecy was clear¡ªwe are doomed. Perhaps he seeks to save us all in some way."


    Hasana, the woman beside her nodded. "Or perhaps he is as lost as we are," she said. "Maybe he has accepted the fate, and this is his penance."


    They fell silent as Freesia approached, her steps unsteady. They watched her, their whispers dying away as she neared. Freesia avoided their eyes, focusing instead on the ground beneath her feet. She must have known they were judging her, thinking of her as the cause of the discord between the brothers. Or perhaps her worthiness to be the Woman of the Tribe during such a tumultuous time. She dared not face them, fearful of what she might see reflected in their gazes¡ªpity, anger, or perhaps something worse. Instead she kept her eyes on the task at hand, carrying a pot of water towards the men.


    When Freesia was out of earshot, Hasana leaned in closer to her sister. "You know, when Ibarius shoved the priest like that, I thought for a moment that Chief will cancel the anointment," she said, "But he¡­ gave in."


    Rumana glared at her sister.


    "What?" Hasana demanded defensively. "You don''t think I''m right?"


    Rumana''s silence was her answer. She took the pot off the fire, her movements sharp and chiding. "Cancel the anointment and abandon us without a leader?" she hissed, "You know he''s leaving soon."


    "That''s far better than leaving us at the mercy of that¡­ " Hasana''s voice trailed off as she searched for a suitable insult, but none seemed to capture her feelings towards Ibarius.


    Rumana gawked at her sister, her eyes pleading her to lower her voice. "You''re too loud," she hissed. "You never know who''s listening."


    Hasana rolled her eyes, unconcerned. "It''s just us, sister. Besides, what does it matter? The damage is done." She glanced over her shoulder, ensuring no one was close enough to overhear them anyway.


    Rumana sighed, her hand pausing mid-stir. "You''re right," she conceded. "Ibarius will not lead with the wisdom we''ve come to expect from our old Chief." She glanced around at the bustling camp, the children playing and the men toiling in the heat. "Our daughters and granddaughters will know a different Tuscanvalle."


    "A different Tuscanvalle?" A child''s voice interrupted their hushed conversation. It was Calla, Rumana''s youngest, her curiosity piqued by the secretive tones of her mother and aunt. "Are we travelling again, mama? But I like it here."


    Rumana forced a smile, gently pulling the little girl into her lap. "No, sweetling," she said, stroking Calla''s hair. "We''re not leaving. We''re just¡­ preparing for our Chief''s journey."


    Calla looked up at her mother with a furrowed brow. "Which Chief uncle is leaving, mama? The Good one or the Bad one?"


    Hasana stifled a laugh with a pretend cough. Rumana silenced her with a glare. "Hush, Calla. The Chiefs are not good or bad, they are just¡­ different." She hoped the child would not press further, but Calla''s curiosity was insatiable.


    "But mama, why are they building that big rock place?" Calla pointed at the Traveller''s Tomb.


    "It''s for the Chief to rest when he comes back from his journey," Rumana replied with fake cheerfulness, trying not to think of the posibility that Nelius Tuscan might not return. "Now, go play with your friends. I''ll call you when they are done building the rock place and then we can have fun placing tiny rocks inside."Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    Calla nodded and skipped away, her laughter drowning in the sounds of the men grunting and shouting as they worked.


    ¡ª¨C


    Constructing the Traveller''s Tomb was an intricate task. The stones used for the tomb must not be cut, chiseled or even touched by metal, yet had to stay perfectly in place for centuries to come. And so building a Traveller¡¯s Tomb required precision and patience.


    When the sun was right above their heads and the shadows a splach of blackness below their feet, the last stone of the Traveller¡¯s Tomb was set in place with a resounding thud. The men panted, sweat pouring down their faces and soaking their cloths. The structure was grand with several sections like that of the houses they had built back in their old homeland.


    As if on cue, the women''s chatter grew louder, the smell of cooked food filling the air. They had finished preparing the feast for the men''s return. The timing was almost supernatural.


    The clearing buzzed with excitement. Men wiped their brows, some even cheering as they stepped back to admire their work.


    Women and children of Tuscanvalle gathered around the newly constructed Traveller''s Tomb, each carrying a small stone, selected from within the boundaries of their new homeland. This tomb was not for the dead, but for the living. The stones they held represented their hope and prayers for the safe return of those who would venture into the unknown.


    Calla tugged at her mother''s skirt. "Mama, why are we putting these in there?" she asked, holding up a smooth, round stone, the size of an egg.


    "It''s a special ceremony, darling," Rumana explained. "We put the stones in to wish Uncle Nelius luck on his journey. Each stone represents a thread connecting him to us. The more stones, the stronger the connection."


    Calla nodded. She took her stone and walked over to Chief Nelius Tuscan, who was standing by the tomb, overseeing the final ceremony as one by one, the women and children placed their stones within the tomb''s chambers.


    "Uncle Nelius," she hollered to make herself heard over the murmur of the crowd.


    Chief Nelius Tuscan crouched down to her level, his face lined with fatigue. "What is it, little one?" he asked, stroking her hair with fondness.


    Calla held out her stone. "It''s for you, Uncle," she said. "So you don''t get lost."


    Chief Nelius Tuscan took the stone from her small hand, his eyes misting over. "Thank you, Calla," he murmured. He placed the stone in one of the smaller compartments of the tomb, designed to hold such offerings. "This stone will guide me home," he assured her.


    Calla beamed up at him.


    "You''re welcome, Uncle," she exclaimed.


    Nelius couldn''t help but smile. He ruffled her hair with fondness. "Run along now," he said, his eyes lingering on her retreating figure as she joined the other children.


    ¡ª¨C


    "Sister!" Hasana nudged Rumana. "Did you see that?"


    Rumana followed her sister''s gaze to where Chief Nelius Tuscan was still kneeling beside Calla. She nodded. "What of it?"


    "It''s just¡­ he''s recently become quite fond of her, hasn''t he?" Hasana murmured, watching as Chief Nelius Tuscan ruffled Calla''s hair with affection.


    Rumana followed her sister''s gaze. "It''s because she''s young," she offered in a matter-of-fact tone.


    "Or perhaps," Hasana said further lowering her voice, "it''s because she looks just like Poppy."


    "Poppy?"


    Hasana tsked and leaned closer to her sister. "Poppy, the one the witches devoured when they were first brought into Tuscanvalle."


    No one dared to talk about Poppy anymore.


    Poppy was barely a child when the witches were first dragged into Tuscanvalle for their execution. Tuscanians had been warned to keep their distance from the creatures, and adviced to not even look at them. But Poppy had been drawn to the commotion. Alas, no one noticed her curiosity growing to dangerous extents until it was too late.


    Back then, the witches were chained like beasts, brought forth by the Yadoran guards. Tuscanvalle was their chosen arena for the gruesome execution. The villagers had gathered fearfully, watching the procession from either sides of the streets. The witches'' eyes were sleepy, their skin smeared with ashes and their clothes in tatters. They looked nothing like the myths and stories they had heard of. They looked¡­ human.


    The guards had warned everyone to keep a safe distance. The witches were said to be able to curse with a mere glance. Yet, there was something about them that didn''t quite match the horrors attributed to them. They moved with a grace that seemed to suggest a deeper understanding of the world than the villagers could never dream to comprehend.


    Yet what frightened them more was the invisible shield that surrounded the witches. It wasn¡¯t something they could see, but rather feel¡ªa palpable force that seemed to push back against anyone who dared to come too close. Tuscanian warriors who had tried to lay hands on the witches had frozen in place.


    It was a shield¡ªmaybe a frozen bubble, some thought¡ªthat kept them at bay. A force that was not visible, but oh, so present. When the late Chief Kalius Tuscan and his men had approached the witches, they had frozen the moment their feet had crossed the invisible line that separated the villagers from the condemned. No matter what they tried, they couldn¡¯t move an inch closer to the witches. It was as if the ground beneath them had turned to ice.


    Nobody could approach the witches.


    Nobody except Poppy!


    The little girl had slipped through the crowd. She had seen the witches before, of course, in the stories of the village elders and the paintings on the walls of the Great Hall, but never in person. And as she approached the invisible barrier, she had found that she was the only one who could pass through it unscathed.


    Her father, the late Chief Kalius Tuscan, had watched in horror as his daughter fearlessly approached the witches. His hand had clenched around the hilt of his sword, ready to charge forward and save her. But as she stepped closer, something strange had happened. The witches didn''t cower or hiss like the beasts everyone thought them to be. Instead, they looked at her with¡­ what? Longing? Curiosity?


    Kalius had waited, his heart hammering in his chest, expecting the worst. But the worst never came.


    Poppy had reached out a tiny hand and touched the nearest witch''s arm. The crowd had gasped as the witch leaned down, whispering something into Poppy''s ear. But before Kalius could act, the witch drew back, a smile dancing on her lips. Poppy turned and skipped away, her innocence untouched by the evil of the witch.


    Kalius had watched her go, his thoughts racing. Perhaps, his own blood held the key to their salvation.


    "Take this, Poppy," he had said to Poppy, that night, handing her a small dagger. It was sharp but not too heavy for her tiny hands. "You''re the only one who can do this."


    He had shown her how to hold it, how to wield it and how to plunge it into the heart of the witches. He had made her practice on straw dolls, stabbing them over and over again.


    Much to everyone''s shock and contempt, Chief Kalius Tuscan had sent Poppy to perform the grisly task of killing the witches. Despite the protests of his wife and the others, he had known she was the only one who could pass through the invisible shield untouched by its malevolent power.


    Poppy, too, had crept near the witches, her tiny hand clutching the dagger with trembling resolve. She had paused just before the invisible barrier, looking back at her father. He had nodded at her with pride.


    His blood. His legacy. His child was going to save the world from evil!


    And then Poppy had crossed the barrier.


    Everyone had held their breath.


    Nothing happened, not until she was close enough. Not until she raised the dagger.


    But the moment the little girl raised the weapon to strike.


    Bam!


    A strange explosion of light had filled the clearing, knocking everyone off their feet. When the villagers of Tuscanvalle looked up again, Poppy was gone.


    What remained of her was a handful of her torn cloths, chunks of raw, pulsating flesh, a few strands of her bloodied hair and a crimson puddle on the dirt floor where Poppy stood moments ago.


    The witches were still chained.


    But Poppy was gone and so was the invisible force that had protected the witches from their assaulters.


    Poppy had sacrificed herself to break the shield.

 Prelude (Pt 6)

    Waters rise, and the skies do groan,


    Cursed are the paths my feet have known.


    The winds that howl, the storms that tear,


    Were sewn by hands too proud to care.


    The world may crumble, the trees may fall,


    The stars may flicker, their light too small.


    O¡¯er jagged waves, I steer my way,


    For the sins of the past, I pay today.


    The song was mournful, yet the children sang it with an oddly upbeat rhythm. It turned something haunting into a strangely fitting, almost uplifting melody. The contrast grated on Ibarius¡¯s nerves. He clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to shout at them, to tell them to stop and run far from his sight. Instead, he sighed and forced himself to stay patient.


    The humiliation from earlier replayed in his mind, gnawing at his pride. How dare they? How dare his brother shame him in front of everyone? And all for a woman? Had Nelius lost his mind?


    Ibarius had never understood why his brother, Nelius Tuscan, wanted to keep searching for a better land when they had already found this paradise. Here, they were safe¡ªfree from bullies, thieves, and the constant threats that had chased them for so long. After the witch hunt and the subsequent curse, their people had no place left in the world. To outsiders, Tuscanians were little more than a disease, a blight to be eradicated.


    The Tuscanians had fought, resisting their enemies with everything they had. But their numbers had been too small, too few to stand against the armies of the Yadoran, Devatonkan, and Elysian empires. The witch hunt had drained their resources, leaving their homeland barren and defenseless. Starving and weakened, they became easy targets for the stronger empires, who crushed their resistance like dried leaves underfoot.


    In the end, they had no choice but to abandon their land if they hoped to save those who still lived. So, they fled¡ªthrough forests, deserts, and across treacherous waters. Always moving, always huddled together like exiles. When exhaustion claimed them, they set up temporary camps to recover or replenish what little they could.


    It was a journey of endless trials. They fought armies that barred them from crossing borders, terrified the curse would spread if they let Tuscanians in. They endured the relentless heat of the deserts, the predators lurking in the woods, and the raging storms at sea. They battled desert raiders and fled from serpents so massive and fearsome that meeting their gaze meant certain death.


    Everywhere they went, they were unwelcome, chased like a plague. Their numbers dwindled, not one by one, but in clusters¡ªentire families lost to the elements, to violence, or to despair.


    In truth, they were like a flower plucked from its stem, its petals wilting and falling one by one. Chased from their home, stripped of their place in the world, they had become wanderers¡ªalways searching, never belonging.


    The world had been cruel to them. So why, after all they had endured, would Nelius want to return to it? After all the pain and humiliation, after losing everything they once had, why risk it again?Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!


    Ibarius couldn¡¯t understand it. Ambitious as Ibarius was, even he despised the circumstances under which he had been anointed. He would have preferred for his brother to stay here, in the safety of their new homeland, and pass the mantle of leadership to him in peace. Even after Nelius had publicly humiliated him, Ibarius didn¡¯t wish for his brother to face the same horrors they had once fled¡ªthe endless running, the starvation, the battles for survival. The thought stirred an uncomfortable flicker of pity in his heart, though he buried it quickly.


    ¡°Brother!¡±


    The call broke Ibarius from his thoughts. He turned to see Nelius resting under the shadows of the bordering trees with his wife, Rosa, and the twenty-eight men who would accompany him on his journey. Nelius¡¯s eyes met Ibarius¡¯s, and with a nod, he motioned for him to come closer.


    Ibarius took a step forward, but before he could reach him, Nelius rose and began walking toward him instead. Ibarius stopped, waiting, observing his brother¡¯s purposeful stride. Without a word, Nelius gestured for him to follow, leading him away from the gathering and into the shadow of a tree farther out.


    Once there, Nelius hesitated, his expression conflicted. He seemed to swallow hard, as though whatever he was about to say carried a burden too heavy to bear alone.


    Ibarius frowned slightly, realizing this wasn¡¯t going to be one of Nelius¡¯s long-winded lectures on leadership or the responsibilities of a ruler. This was different. Nelius looked as though he was about to reveal a secret, one that no one¡ªnot even Ibarius¡ªwas meant to know.


    Ibarius waited, his impatience simmering beneath a facade of calm. Whatever it was, it had better be important.


    Finally, after an internal struggle that played out visibly on his face, Nelius began to speak.


    ¡°Ibarius,¡± he said, his voice low, ¡°you must be wondering¡ªas would everyone else¡ªwhy I chose to anoint you, even after what happened earlier.¡±


    He hesitated, his words trailing off.


    Ibarius suppressed a smirk. Wondering? Why would he wonder about that? He hadn¡¯t even entertained the idea that his brother might find a last-minute replacement to take his place. The anointment was inevitable. The only thing Ibarius truly wondered about was why Nelius, a man otherwise so pragmatic, had such a soft heart¡ªsoft enough to treat a weaker species like women as equals to mighty men.


    It was baffling.


    Nelius exhaled heavily, his gaze distant. ¡°As you know, it¡¯s the duty of the leader stepping down to choose his successor wisely¡ªto select someone who can serve the people in the way they need most at that moment. Someone who possesses the qualities required to uplift them in the face of their challenges.¡± He paused, his eyes never meeting Ibarius¡¯s. ¡°I chose you because you have certain¡­ rigid qualities. Qualities that they need desperately right now. You¡¯re the kind of authority who can keep them in line, herding them into a disciplined path with no room for compromise. Rude, yes, but effective.¡±


    He glanced toward the group gathered beneath the trees, watching the people as they exchanged farewells with the warriors who would soon depart with him. Their laughter and camaraderie felt heavy with the knowledge that this might be the last time they would share such a moment.


    Ibarius frowned, his brows knitting in concentration. After a moment, he shook his head. ¡°Brother, you know me¡ªI¡¯m a simple man, bound by stubborn values. I don¡¯t like riddles, and I certainly can¡¯t make sense of your roundabout words. I ask you plainly: simplify this for me.¡±


    Nelius turned from the people and fixed his gaze on Ibarius, his expression solemn. ¡°There are things in this world that we do not, cannot, and should not understand,¡± he said.


    ¡°Like those witches?¡± Ibarius asked, seeking clarification.


    Nelius hesitated, his eyes darting toward the group as if ensuring no one could overhear them. ¡°I¡¯m not so sure anymore,¡± he said softly. ¡°I don¡¯t know if they¡¯re witches at all.¡±


    Ibarius¡¯s mouth fell open in shock. ¡°That¡¯s absurd,¡± he snapped, his voice rising before he caught himself. He stomped the ground, raising a hand as if to grab his brother¡¯s shoulder but stopped short, choosing restraint. ¡°You know what they¡¯ve done to us. You know what happened to our people. It was the witch hunt that drove us to this¡ªhave you forgotten?¡± His voice trembled with suppressed anger.


    ¡°I haven¡¯t forgotten,¡± Nelius interjected sharply, his glare silencing Ibarius. ¡°But listen to yourself. It wasn¡¯t the witches who pushed us to this brink¡ªit was the hunt itself.¡±


    Ibarius rubbed his temples, frustration building. ¡°I don¡¯t understand, brother. How can you separate the two? Aren¡¯t they the same?¡±


    Nelius¡¯s gaze turned distant, his voice low and heavy with uncertainty. ¡°I don¡¯t think so. I believe we tampered with forces far darker than mere witches or black magic.¡±

 Prelude (Pt 7)

    <em style="box-sizing: border-box">But the waters will know, and the winds will hear,


    <em style="box-sizing: border-box">The strength of a soul that refuses fear.


    <em style="box-sizing: border-box">My feet are banished, my hands are bare,


    <em style="box-sizing: border-box">My children will carry what I cannot bear.


    <em style="box-sizing: border-box">Yet in their eyes, the dawn may rise,


    <em style="box-sizing: border-box">A future unseen by cursed skies.


    <em style="box-sizing: border-box">If I am lost, let this be true¡ª


    <em style="box-sizing: border-box">Fear can¡¯t consume what¡¯s in you.


    Nelius turned his gaze toward the gathering. The men began to rise one by one, brushing the dirt from their clothes and bidding their families goodbye. Fathers embraced their children, wives clung to their husbands, and farewells were exchanged with a quiet finality. Nearby, the children unaffected by this day¡¯s parting played with carefree abandon, their laughter and songs drifting through the air like a defiant melody against the somber atmosphere.


    Nelius shifted back to Ibarius, his voice sharp with urgency. ¡°I don¡¯t have much time to explain. I¡¯ve wasted too many precious hours debating whether it was safer to keep you in the dark or arm you with knowledge. But now¡­¡± His voice faltered. ¡°Now, my time has run out.¡±


    Ibarius frowned, his confusion deepening. ¡°I¡¯m still in the dark, brother. I have no idea what you¡¯re talking about.¡±


    Nelius began pacing, his movements restless, his thoughts seemingly tangled. ¡°Do you remember the day Calla drowned in the lake?¡± he asked abruptly, ignoring Ibarius¡¯s question.


    The shift in topic was jarring, but Ibarius nodded, the humiliation and tension from earlier forgotten in the face of his brother¡¯s intensity. ¡°The little girl?¡± he asked, gesturing toward the group of children playing and singing nearby. His eyes landed on a dark-haired child, her laughter rising above the others¡¯. ¡°Her?¡±


    Nelius followed his gaze briefly, confirming with a nod. ¡°Yes, her."


    Ibarius¡¯s brows furrowed as memories stirred. ¡°I thought she was dead that day. She looked like a corpse, still and lifeless for half the day¡­ until she just sat up. Alive. Unharmed. Everyone thought it was a miracle.¡±


    And it had been. Calla had fallen into the lake and been submerged for too long. When the men finally pulled her from the water, her small body was cold, breathless, and without a pulse. Her parents wept over her lifeless form, and so did the entire village.


    As Tuscanian tradition dictated, a body could not be cremated after sunset. Since Calla¡¯s death occurred in the evening, her family had decided to wait until dawn for the ceremony. They laid her on the pyre, her mother adorning her with flowers for her final journey. The men began preparing for the morning rites, their movements heavy with sorrow.


    But at midnight, Calla stirred.


    Without warning, the girl sat upright, her eyes wide open. The villagers froze in horror, unsure if they were witnessing a miracle or something far darker. Some whispered that it wasn¡¯t Calla at all, but something unnatural that had taken possession of her body.


    Nelius had acted swiftly. He brought the girl to his home, where he checked her pulse himself and enlisted the priest to perform rites of protection. For hours, they watched her closely, looking for any sign of evil influence.


    By sunrise, the priest declared her free of any possession, alive and well. The village erupted in celebration, cheering Calla¡¯s impossible return from death. What had begun as a day of mourning ended as a day of awe and relief.


    Nelius nodded, his brow furrowed with worry. ¡°She saw something that day,¡± he said quietly, his voice laden with an unease that made Ibarius stiffen. ¡°Something no living human has ever seen. That day, Calla returned from a place no one is meant to return from.¡±The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    Ibarius wanted to laugh, to dismiss his brother¡¯s words as absurd. But the seriousness in Nelius¡¯s expression held him back. This was no jest. ¡°And where, exactly, is that?¡± Ibarius asked cautiously.


    ¡°The world of the dead and shadows,¡± Nelius whispered.


    Ibarius¡¯s jaw dropped, his mind scrambling to comprehend. He opened and closed his mouth like a fish gasping for air. Could such a thing be possible? His instincts rejected it, but then again, if witches and their curses were real, why not this?


    ¡°And¡­¡± Nelius hesitated, choosing his next words with care. ¡°I¡¯m not sure if it¡¯s just a child¡¯s imagination or the truth, but she brought us a warning.¡± He stopped pacing and turned to Ibarius, gripping his hand tightly, as though his very life depended on being understood. ¡°A warning,¡± he continued, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper, ¡°from Death itself.¡±


    Ibarius¡¯s eyes widened in disbelief, but before he could respond, Nelius leaned in closer. ¡°There¡¯s a way to lift the curse,¡± he said, his voice tinged with breathless urgency.


    Ibarius felt a spark of hope ignite within him, his heart racing. He opened his mouth to speak, but Nelius raised a hand, cutting him off.


    ¡°Or, in Calla¡¯s exact words,¡± Nelius clarified, his tone grave, ¡°there¡¯s a way to contain the damage, the evil, when the curse takes hold.¡±


    Nelius¡¯s grip on Ibarius¡¯s hand tightened, his knuckles white. ¡°Those who chased us, the ones who hunted us down¡ªthey¡¯re blind to what¡¯s truly stirring beneath the surface. It¡¯s not just us who are in danger, brother. The entire world is at risk. And that¡¯s why I must leave. To find the way. To stop this before it¡¯s too late.¡±


    He paused, his expression conflicted. ¡°The nuances, the details of the process¡ªthose will stay with me for now. Me and Calla. I won¡¯t burden you with them, not yet.¡± His voice softened, as though speaking more to himself than to Ibarius. ¡°Calla has a role to play, a task I¡¯ve given her. She¡¯ll carry it out for as long as she lives or until we return. I only hope she understands the weight of it.¡± He shook his head, his worry momentarily shifting to doubt. ¡°Can a child truly grasp the seriousness of such a task?¡±


    Nelius dismissed the thought with a shake of his head and looked Ibarius in the eye. ¡°But I need something from you,¡± he said, pressing Ibarius¡¯s palm firmly.


    Ibarius nodded, his confusion mingling with curiosity. Whatever his brother needed, he would do his best to deliver.


    ¡°Do not let them leave this paradise.¡±


    Nelius¡¯s voice carried an urgency that made Ibarius¡¯s spine straighten. His gaze followed his brother¡¯s, settling on the villagers. The men were preparing for the farewell, dusting off their clothes and hugging their families one last time. The children, oblivious to the weight of the moment, played and sang with cheerful abandon. Their carefree melodies drifted through the air, jarringly at odds with the gravity of Nelius¡¯s words.


    ¡°When we leave,¡± Nelius continued, his tone unyielding, ¡°me and my twenty-eight warriors, you must take them back to the other side of the lake. And under no circumstances should you ever let them set foot outside our new boundaries again. Not a single soul, Ibarius. Not now. Not ever. Not until we find a way.¡±


    He grabbed Ibarius by the shoulders, his grip firm, his eyes piercing. The intensity of his touch seemed meant to imprint his words deep into Ibarius¡¯s mind. ¡°The Tuscanian bloodline is more important than we¡¯ve ever realized. It always has been. It¡¯s your responsibility now. You must preserve them. You must make them thrive until we return.¡±


    Ibarius nodded, his brother¡¯s command settling heavily in his heart. He didn¡¯t fully understand, but the resolve in Nelius¡¯s voice left no room for doubt.


    Nelius gave one final nod before turning away, his steps purposeful yet heavy as he left the clearing. Ibarius stood there, rooted to the spot, a storm of dread and confusion swirling within him. The children¡¯s songs still hung in the air, their light-hearted tunes carried by the wind as though mocking the seriousness of the moment.


    The children sang their final verse:


    <em style="box-sizing: border-box">Though death may come, though light may fade,


    <em style="box-sizing: border-box">The soul¡¯s resolve cannot be swayed.


    <em style="box-sizing: border-box">Row, row, row across the tide,


    <em style="box-sizing: border-box">Through cursed waves where fears reside.


    <em style="box-sizing: border-box">The stones may cut, the sky may cry,


    <em style="box-sizing: border-box">But hope will live, though I may die.


    <em style="box-sizing: border-box">And if the end is all I find,


    <em style="box-sizing: border-box">I leave my strength for those behind.

 0.01

    0.01


    "Tell us, Calla¡ªhow did it really end?" Koko''s voice broke the silence.


    The flicker of the lamp cast a creepy glow on Calla''s weathered face, her eye sockets sunken and her skin wrinkled. She sat on a wooden cot, covered with soft beaver fur blanket that smelled faintly of age and earth. The walls of the hut were made of ancient, thick logs¡ªthe spaces between them filled with mud that had dried to a dark brown over the years. The floor was packed dirt, swept clean of any debris. Yet a few stray twigs and leaves had found their way in through the cracked wooden planks that served as a door. The only other piece of furniture was a small table carved by hand from a single piece of wood. On it sat a few weathered wooden bowls, a palm-sized cup and a small clay pot filled with water.


    The lamp itself hung from a wooden beam that stretched across the ceiling, swaying gently as the rainy wind that slipped in through the cracks in the roof. It was a simple contraption, a metal frame holding a lotus stem wick dipped in virgin palm oil extracted from the Oil Palms that were found abundant near the lake beds. The light it cast was dim, but it was enough to throw scary shadows on the walls of the small space.


    The children sat in a semi-circle around Calla, their eyes wide and their breaths held as if they could inhale the story.


    Normally, the room could house no more than a couple of adults comfortably. But children, as tiny as they were, could squeeze into spaces where adults couldn¡¯t. They sat there, cross-legged, huddled and leaned forward, eagerly waiting for Calla to continue her story.


    Baabi slapped Koko right on the back of his neck, causing him to yelp. "Shush, Koko!" she mumbled. "You know, Calla never finishes her stories."


    "But why? How could you tell a story and not finish it?" Koko whined, rubbing his stinging neck.


    Calla took a deep, shaky breath, the skin around her mouth folding into dangerously saggy creases as she did so. "Because it didn''t end. Not yet."


    Koko scorned at Calla''s words. "But Calla," he protested, "Stories should have endings!"


    Calla pointed a boney finger at Koko. "Right," she nodded, her aged arms trembling. "Stories have endings. But this isn''t a story. It''s¡­" she trailed off, her sunken eyes narrowing as she searched for the right word. "It''s¡­ history."


    The children looked at each other, a scowl etched in their faces. Sisi summoned the courage to speak up. "But Calla, what''s his¡­ his¡­ histy?"


    Baabi slapped Sisi''s thigh, making her jump. "Don''t you know? It means something that''s not a story."


    Sisi pushed Baabi''s hand away with a squeal. "Would you stop slapping people?"


    "What? I''m just happy." Baabi pouted.


    "But I''m not. Ah¡­ it hurts!" Sisi rubbed her thigh, glaring at Baabi.


    "Sorry, I didn''t mean to hurt you." Baabi''s cheeks reddened. "I''m always happy whenever Calla starts a story, even if she never finishes them."


    Koko rolled his eyes, annoyed with their banter. "But Calla, what happened to The Great Hero? Did he ever come back from his journey?"


    Calla''s gaze drifted to the flickering shadows on the wall. "The Great Hero," she murmured.


    That evening, several years ago, before Chief Nelius Tuscan left, his wife Rosa had said with tear filled eyes. "I''ll spend every second of the rest of my life, praying for your well being, awaiting your return."


    "And I will find a way to undo the curse, to defeat the witches, and restore peace to our land," Chief Nelius Tuscan had vowed. "And then I will return to you, my love."Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!


    When Chief Nelius Tuscan left Tuscanvalle that evening, after the ritual, after the feast, after he and his twenty eight men had bonded with their wives and children, the people had watched him go.


    Days, months and years went by. But Chief Nelius Tuscan had never returned from his journey. The years had stretched into decades, and the hope for his return had morphed into legends, and then¡­ then the legends had evolved, evoking a strong, widespread dread of the outside world.


    "The Great Hero never returned," Calla said finally, her voice solemn. The children''s face shrunk in disappointment, some of them pouting, some of them moaning. But Calla wasn''t done. "But the story isn''t over." She cheered them.


    The children leaned in closer, their breaths bated with renewed interest. Calla stretched her stiff twig-like limbs, lifting them onto the cot with a painful groan. She took a sip of water from the clay pot with her shaking hands. Lightning flashed outside, briefly illuminating the room. Rain picked up, turning the gentle patter into a deafening downpour.


    "You see," she began, her voice weaker than before, "The Great Hero is not someone who gives up on his people. He''s out there, fighting battles you can never imagine, facing dangers you won''t dare to dream of."


    The children listened, their mouths open like fish gulping for air.


    "He must be¡­" Calla''s memory drifted back to that fateful day when Chief Nelius Tuscan had left. She was a child when it happened. She had seen him off with her mother and her aunt, Hasana as did all the people of Tuscanvalle. Everything had changed after he left. The new Chief was such an arrogant prick in the ass. He didn''t care about them. He didn''t care about the curse or the witches. All he cared about was his dominance and masculine ego. By the time Calla attained marriage age, she had understood what her mother and her aunt had meant when they said that their daughters and granddaughters would see a different Tuscanvalle. Under Ibarius¡¯s rule, the village had grown rigid and colourless. "¡­out there," Calla continued. "For he''s the only one who knew how to contain the evil." She remembered her mother, Rumana, wondering if Chief Nelius Tuscan had known something they hadn''t. Why else would he be so persistent in continuing his journey even after finding this paradise of a land?


    "Evil?" Sisi cocked her head, eyes wide with fear. "What evil, Calla?"


    Calla took another deep, rattling breath. The children these days seemed more intellectual than she remembered being at their age. She remembered her children and their children and their children''s children, all of them asking less and playing more. But these little ones, they had so many questions. "The evil," she began, "Is something that¡­"


    She stopped abruptly. Should she tell them about the witches? The way her childhood friend, Poppy had burst into a soup of blood and bones, right before her eyes? Do they deserve that kind of gore staining their innocent minds?


    Calla had seen so much. Yet the memories weren''t that haunting when she was still young. But the trauma had grown stronger as she had gotten older. At times, when she closed her eyes at night, and she could see the scene replaying in her mind, she had wondered if children have some kind of defense mechanism that protected them from the horrors of the world until they were ready to face them.


    "Calla," Koko prodded, shifting and squirming in his spot on the floor, "what kind of evil is it?"


    Calla''s gaze remained fixed on the shadows. "The kind that lives within us. Like when you want something so badly, it makes you do things that aren''t nice. That''s greed," she said, looking at each of the children in turn. "Or when you''re so jealous of someone else''s toys, you''d rather break them than share."


    Koko''s cheeks reddened as he remembered the time he had snuck into Sisi''s hut and snapped her favorite wooden horse in two because she wouldn''t let him play with it.


    "But Calla," he stuttered, "is that all?"


    Calla''s eyes searched the room, her gaze lingering on each child''s face. "No, my precious" she said with a sigh. "There''s more."


    "Imagine," she began, her voice dropping to a whisper, "someone so hungry, they would eat until there''s no food left for anyone else."


    The children nodded, some of them remembering the last winter when food had been scarce.


    "That''s gluttony," Calla said, her eyes drifting to the flickering light. "It''s when you want so much, you forget about everyone else."


    The children stared at her unblinking. Calla knew she had their attention, so she took a moment to gather her thoughts before continuing. "Then there''s injustice. Now tell me, little ones! Have you ever seen someone treat others unfairly, just because they think they''re not as worthy?"


    The kids looked at each other, and then at Calla. Slowly, their heads bobbed in unison. "Yes, Calla," Sisi said, her tiny eyebrows furrowed in thought. "Mama always chases Samora away when she stands too close to our house, asking for food. She says Samora is evil." The little girl looked down at her clenched fingers. "But I don''t think she''s evil, just hungry."


    "Isn''t there a li¡­ttle baby in her stomach?" Baabi squealed. "Will it come out before we go to sleep? Will it be a boy or a girl?"


    "But DaDa said they''re going to hurt Samora and the baby," Koko murmured, his voice wavering with uncertainity. "Is that true, Calla?"


    Calla took a deep breath, realising something suddenly. Sometimes, what might be injustice to some, might be survival to others. And sometimes, its important to weed out the evil lurking silently among us.

 0.02

    0.02


    Time would tell if evil would be weeded out or if evil was there to weed them out.


    But for now¡­


    A large pitch-black banyan tree stood with its numerous branches spread for about a metaphorical mile blocking the view of the sky. Its uninterrupted canopy of leaves and trunks seemed like an entire forest, darkening the ground beneath. The five-hundred year old giant had several prop trunks that twisted and wound around the main trunk like vines, some of them thick enough to be mistaken as individual trees; but they all belonged to the same colossal entity. The prop trunks were so dense and abundant that you would easily get lost in the maze of growth. The ground below was uneven, roots protruding from the dirt like jagged rocks, forcing anyone to watch their step.


    The tree was more than just a landmark, it was a living monument that shaped the very land it stood on.


    It was their Holy Tree.


    An unyeilding fortress that marked the northern edge of Tuscanian boundary.


    In the space between the tangle of roots, a bonfire crackled in the wind, piercing the silence of the night. An anxious group of elderly and middle-aged men sat around the fire, their cloaks pulled tightly around their bodies and huddled for warmth, sheltered from the showering rain. The dim light of the bonfire cast shadows over their already worried faces giving them an old and creepy appearance.


    Behind the circle of men, closer to the raised base of the main trunk, a mob of lads stood leaning over the trunks, some scratching their heads and others, the wood of the giant with the edge of their spear heads in borebom. A couple of them were hoping from one root to another and swinging from the arial roots like monkeys.


    Drops of rainwater that had somehow managed to escape the mattress of leaves above dripped from the arial roots of The Great Banyan, splattered over the hard, exposed roots and drenched the ground below. The downpour had been unrelenting for the past two days, turning the already soggy earth into a squelchy mess.


    One of the men shielded his face from the dripping water droplets with one hand. "Seems like Lavalthon might break her banks tonight," he murmured to the one next to him. His name was Phyto, a farmer whose crops grew near the lake''s edge, just ahead of their cremation ground.


    The Great Banyan Tree stood tall and unyielding in the north, guarding over Tuscanvalle. It had been there for as long as anyone could remember, its roots digging deep into the earth, stretching and growing with each passing year. But the south and east were different. The Lavalthon Lake was a force unto itself, vast and mysterious. As much as she supported their livelihoods with her abundant aquatic life and fertile banks for farming, she was also a fickle mistress.


    The lake was known to swell and recede with the seasons, but lately, something felt¡­ off. Rains had been unnaturally heavy, and the water levels had been steadily rising. The banks of the Lavalthon, which had been stable for generations, now looked ready to burst at any moment. Last winter, when the water had reached dangerously high levels, the crops had flooded, and the tribe had barely made it through the harsh months that followed. This time, the villagers feared that if the banks didn''t hold, the water would flood into Tuscanvalle itself. Because winter had just started, the ground was already saturated, and the excess water had nowhere to go but into their homes.


    Marnoell, the chief of the village, nodded solemnly. "Aye, it does. We''ve not seen the likes of this rain in years. And with the banks already swollen from the last flood¡­" His voice trailed off as he glanced over his shoulder at the youths, their laughter felt like rubbing salt into the wound of his worry.


    "They don''t understand," said Kaius, the tribal medic, with resignation. "We''re being attacked from all sides. God only knows what else is out there, waiting for us to let our guard down."


    Marnoell''s eyes narrowed as he watched the young lads swinging from the roots, their laughter almost drowning the sound of their conversation. The noise grated on his nerves like a stone on a sharpening stone. He stood, the firelight flickering across his face, making his furrowed brows look even more scary.


    "ENOUGH!" he roared, his voice booming over their chatter. The boys froze mid-swing, their laughter choking off.If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Marnoell stomped over to the bonfire and grabbed a burning stick, the embers hissing as the rain hit it. He pointed it at the youths. "You think this is a game?!" His face was red with anger, his beard swaying threateningly with every word. "Our village is in peril, and you''re acting like a pack of wild dogs!"


    The boys'' laughter died immediately. Marnoell wouldn¡¯t raise his voice often, and when he did, it was serious.


    The rain seemed to hold its breath too. Even the droplets that had been relentlessly bombarding the leaves above paused for a moment. The bonfire crackled louder in the sudden stillness. The boys looked down at their muddy feet, shuffling awkwardly. They hadn''t realized how loud they had been.


    Marnoell took a deep breath, letting the stick fall to the ground. His eyes searched the tree, finding a root that looked strong enough to bear the weight of his weary body. With a grunt, he sat down, the wood groaning slightly under his weight. The boys watched him with fear and respect before one by one, they took their place around him, sitting on the roots that jetted out from the base of the Great Banyan. The rain had soaked through their clothes, leaving them shivering.


    Soon enough, the boys couldn''t help but let their restlessness slip through. They began to whisper and giggle, their eyes darting around the group to make sure they weren''t caught. A hand shot out and slapped a thigh, another smacked the back of a neck, and before long, the tension around the bonfire had transformed into a game of muffled laughter and sneaky jabs.


    One of the youths, Turo, let out a yawn. The yawn was contagious and spread around the group, prompting a few of them to shift their position. Turo leaned over to one of the roots, the rainwater dripping right into his nose. Turo snorted. A fellow lad, Nox, snickered at his plight, and Turo responded with a scowl while wiping the water off his nose with the back of his hand. "How long will she take to pop the baby?" He raved in general.


    "Probably until dawn," Nox replied, doodling on a relatively dry patch of soil with a twig. "I''ve heard that sometimes delivery takes ages."


    Turo huffed a frustrated breath. "Then why don''t these oldsters let us sleep?"


    Marnoell''s gaze snapped to Turo, his expression stern. "Because this is the most important day of your life, son!" His voice boomed through the night, cutting off any further complaints. "Today, you become men. And men do not cower from their responsibilities, no matter how uncomfortable they might be."


    The boys fell silent, their eyes darting around the circle.


    Marnoell was right.


    A baby was about to be born. It wasn''t just any baby. It was the one, most awaited by every living soul of Tuscanvalle. For months, the villagers had talked about nothing but the impending birth.


    "Ahwww!" A woman howled in pain followed by the distant noise of metal tumbling and some commotion from the house nearest to the Great Banyan.


    The men straightened their backs. Their heads turned in the direction of the commotion as if they expected to see straight through the wall of trunks.


    "What''s that?"


    "Is that the baby?"


    They rumbled in anxiety, getting ready to run down to the rescue. Manroell made his way to the middle where the roots of the tree had protruded so much that it made for a nice raised platform. Once in position, he gestured the crowd to calm down. Men were forbidden to enter the place and Marnoell had a responsibility to remind his men.


    "Silence," he boomed. "Stay down." He slammed his hand onto a prop trunk that twisted like a giant, dangerous serpant. "Birth is sacred, and it is the purview of the womenfolk alone. We, men, are not to gaze upon it, or we will be forever cursed by the sight of it."


    "But Marnoell," Phyto objected, "If it truly is the baby, then wouldn''t someone have to check? You remember the prophecy, right? We don''t want to risk anything bad happening."


    Marnoell glared at him, his eyes flashing dangerously in the dim glow of the bonfire. A lightning flashed, rendering the shadowed part of his face visible. "All the more reason to stay put!" he bellowed. "Do you want to invite more trouble than what we''re already dealing with?" His voice was stern, leaving no room for debate.


    Kaius, the medic, was having none of it. He stood up, brushing off his wet cloak with an agitated hand. "Someone has to check!" he insisted, the quiver in his voice rising to match Marnoell''s authority. "If that prophecy holds water, we might need to be there to contain the situation!"


    Marnoell''s jaw tightened as he contemplated. The prophecy was clear: At the start of this winter a new life would arrive with a curse that will destroy Tuscanvalle. Yet, his niece''s baby was about to be born, and he couldn''t decide what he should do now. The rain''s intensity was increasing, turning the ground into a quagmire, and the air was charged with anticipation and fear.


    "Kaius," he said finally, his voice measured, "You''re right. We must ensure the prophecy doesn''t come true. But we can''t risk tainting our men with the curse of witnessing a woman''s sacred affair." His gaze swept over the group, and he made a decision. "Turo, Nox, you two are the quickest. Go, check on them and report back to me, but do not enter the chamber. Understood?"


    The two young men looked at each other, then nodded. They took off at a sprint, their feet sliding in the mud as they navigated the slippery roots, their cloaks slapping damply against their legs. Turo''s hand hovered near his waist, feeling the cold steel of his dagger. He had never felt such power before, such control over fate.


    The moment was almost here. The moment when he would take the fate of Tuscanvalle into his own hands. He had always felt like he was meant for something more than tilling the soil and herding cattle. Now was his chance to prove it.


    A vicious smile danced on his lips.


    When the baby finally arrived, he would be the one to slit its tender throat.