The sun dipped behind the rolling hills as Aethren wandered through the small village, his mind torn between the tranquility of his surroundings and the weight of his destiny. The shard hummed faintly in his chest, an ever-present reminder of the immense power he carried and the responsibility that came with it.

The village seemed peaceful, yet something about it felt off. The people were kind but guarded, their smiles fading quickly when they thought no one was looking. Whispers filled the air, too low for him to catch, but their wary glances spoke volumes. Something troubled them, something that went beyond a stranger’s arrival.

Aethren found himself at the village inn, a modest building with wooden beams darkened by time. Inside, the air was warm, filled with the scent of spiced stew and fresh bread. He settled into a corner table, keeping his back to the wall. Old habits die hard.

The innkeeper, a stout woman with kind eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor, approached him cautiously. “You’re not from around here,” she said, placing a steaming bowl of stew before him.

“No,” Aethren replied. He hesitated for a moment before adding, “I’m just passing through.”

The innkeeper nodded, but her eyes lingered on him, or more specifically, on his chest, where the faint glow of the shard peeked through his tunic. “Passing through, eh? Well, you picked an... interesting time to visit.”

Aethren arched an eyebrow. “Interesting? Why’s that?”

The woman looked around as if ensuring no one was listening before leaning closer. “Strange things have been happening,” she whispered. “People disappearing. Shadows moving when they shouldn’t. The elders say it’s the work of an ancient curse, but...” She trailed off, her voice trembling slightly. “No one knows for sure.”

Aethren frowned. The shard pulsed faintly, as if responding to her words. He had encountered curses and dark forces before—most of them linked to the shard’s origins. Whatever was happening here, it wasn’t coincidence.

“Has anyone tried to stop it?” he asked.

The innkeeper shook her head. “We’re just farmers and tradesfolk. What can we do against shadows and curses? The last man who tried—Garrick, the blacksmith—he vanished three nights ago. All we found was his hammer, lying in the middle of the field.”

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

A Call to Action

Aethren’s meal sat forgotten as he processed the innkeeper’s words. He had come to this village seeking a brief respite, a moment to gather his thoughts before continuing his journey. But the shard’s faint hum grew louder, a subtle reminder of the power he carried. He couldn’t ignore the villagers’ plight, not when he had the means to help.

“I’ll look into it,” he said, his voice steady.

The innkeeper blinked, surprised. “You will? But—”

“I’ve dealt with... things like this before.” He placed a handful of coins on the table. “For the food. And for any information you can give me.”

The woman hesitated, then nodded, her gratitude evident. “Bless you, stranger. If you’re serious, you should speak with Father Arlen. He’s the village priest and knows more about the curse than anyone else.”

Father Arlen’s Tale

The village chapel was small but well-kept, its stone walls etched with faded carvings of ancient symbols. Inside, Father Arlen, a frail man with a white beard and piercing blue eyes, greeted Aethren with a mixture of suspicion and hope.

“You’ve come to help?” the priest asked after Aethren introduced himself.

“I’ll do what I can,” Aethren replied. “But I need to know everything about this curse.”

Father Arlen sighed, sinking into a wooden chair. “It’s not a curse,” he said, his voice weary. “At least, not in the way most think. It’s a remnant—a shadow left behind by an ancient battle. Long ago, this land was a battleground for two powerful forces. One wielded light, the other darkness. When their conflict ended, the darkness didn’t vanish. It seeped into the land, festering, waiting.”

He paused, his gaze distant. “Every generation, the shadow stirs, feeding on fear and despair. It draws people into its grasp, using their own emotions against them. The stronger the will, the harder it fights to consume them.”

Aethren felt a chill run down his spine. The shard pulsed again, its glow brighter now, as if reacting to the priest’s words. “Where is it coming from?” he asked.

Father Arlen pointed toward the hills. “There’s an old ruin at the edge of the forest. A place once sacred, now defiled. That’s where the shadow dwells.”

Into the Forest

As night fell, Aethren stood at the edge of the forest, his cloak wrapped tightly around him. The air was heavy, the silence oppressive. The shard’s glow illuminated his path, casting long, flickering shadows that seemed to dance with a life of their own.

The forest was unlike any he had seen before. The trees were twisted, their branches reaching out like skeletal fingers. The ground beneath his boots felt damp and unsteady, as if it might swallow him whole. Every step forward was a battle against the weight of the oppressive atmosphere.

The shard pulsed steadily, guiding him through the darkness. It seemed to resonate with the energy of the shadow, pulling him toward its source. As he pressed on, he began to hear whispers—soft, insidious voices that spoke of his fears and doubts, his failures and regrets.

“You’re not strong enough,” one voice hissed.

“You’ll only bring more suffering,” another sneered.

Aethren clenched his fists, refusing to give in. “I’ve faced worse than you,” he muttered, his voice firm. “You won’t break me.”

The Ruins

After what felt like hours, he emerged into a clearing. In the center stood the ruins—a crumbling stone structure that pulsed with a dark, malevolent energy. The shard in his chest burned brighter now, its light cutting through the shadow like a blade.

Aethren stepped forward, his eyes scanning the ruins for any sign of movement. The whispers grew louder, coalescing into a single, ominous voice.

“You should not have come here.”

The air around him grew cold, and the shadows began to coalesce, taking on a humanoid form. The figure loomed before him, its eyes glowing like embers in the darkness.

“You are not the first to challenge me,” it said, its voice echoing with malice. “And you will not be the last.”

Aethren drew his blade, its edge glowing faintly in the light of the shard. “We’ll see about that.”