Playful birds chirped melodiously in a splendid tapestry of roses, dahlias, begonias, and hyacinths, to name but a few of the floral residents. Gracefully they swooped beneath a wooden arch, which spanned a gravel path winding through lush greenery. Roses with thick, thorny vines, reached toward the overcast sky, wrapping around the arch and adorning it with splashes of pink, red, and white.

A team of diverse servants, each of a different species, diligently tended to the garden, their expertise evident in the well-manicured flowers and perfectly trimmed shrubbery. Their coordinated efforts made quick work of the maintenance required to keep such an opulent garden in pristine condition.

In the distance, a faint roar of a dragon echoed down from the hazy mountaintop, a reminder of the real danger of living in this mythical realm. The servants paused momentarily, glancing up instinctively at the sound, before promptly resuming their tasks, as if accustomed to such distant calls amidst their daily routine.

“M’lady?” An Elven servant, whose voice possessed a sweetness akin to honey, approached a stone bench and bowed in a non-traditional manner.

The woman’s pointed ears twitched subtly at the servant's approach, yet she remained still, absorbed in the book that rested comfortably in her hand. Her presence radiated timeless elegance to her Elven lineage, but she didn’t flaunt it. Her alabaster skin shimmered with an ethereal glow while her eyes, deep and luminous like the heart of an ancient forest, were a captivating shade of green, reflecting a profound wisdom and kindness that naturally drew others toward her. Silvery-blonde locks intricately braided with strands of gold and pearls that caught the light with every subtle movement and flowing like a waterfall, cascaded down her back.

After finding a suitable spot to pause in her reading, she gently closed the book, placing it beside her. Her movements were deliberate and graceful, embodying the quiet power and elegance that surrounded her.

“Silvia?” The Elven woman asked, locking eyes with her.

Silvia bowed again, hiding her flushed cheeks. “I must apologize, Lady Neia, but the master of the house wishes to speak with you.”

Neia brought her hand to her mouth while she closed her eyes and chuckled. “Don’t be so flustered, my dear. If Claude would like to see me, so be it. I can not deny his charm.”

Neia grinned in Silvia’s direction to ease the flustered girl.

“M’lady, it just…” Silvia trailed off searching for the right words to her charge. “I’ve heard from the young master that the royal church paid Claude a visit. They were asking some rather disturbing questions about sorcery.”

Just as Silvia had feared, Neia’s radiant smile, which had brought her so much joy, faded into oblivion. The once cheerful atmosphere grew heavy and muddied, thick with an undercurrent of despair, despite Neia's efforts to maintain a facade of happiness.

Claude had assigned Silvia to be Neia’s charge, but with them both being of wood elf decent they became closer over the years of her stay here. Neia’s kindness and caring nature stood out; she treated Silvia with respect and warmth, unlike many others, and Silvia deeply wished for her to stay.

Despite her lack of formal education, Silvia understood the tensions at play with the church. Wood Elves had their own teachings and beliefs, but the longstanding rift between sorcery and the church was no secret. They preached that magic stemmed from the gods, granted through prayer and devotion. But the truth was that inherent traits are passed down through bloodlines and that was heresy. Those who wished to wield magics must use tools blessed by certified members of the clergy. This ideological conflict weighed heavily on Neia, whose own connection to magic was old and forbidden and the last of her kin.

“Don’t be sad, Silvia. We all knew this day would come.” Neia reached out and swiped away a tear running down Silvia’s cheek. “I too wish I could stay in this fantasy forever.”

Neia offered a graceful courtesy bow to Silvia before turning toward the grand building. Her skirt trailed elegantly behind her, whispering softly against the gravel, lending an air of majesty that made her every step seem regal. Her dress was complemented by a delicate belt of braided gold thread, cinching her waist and accentuating her silhouette with understated elegance. Long, flowing sleeves cascaded down to her wrists, ending in cuffs embroidered with tiny pearls and gemstones that caught the light like stars.

Silvia followed quietly, her head bowed, trailing behind Neia’s long skirt. As Neia walked through the garden, the other servants paused their tasks to bow in respect. At the entrance, the double doors to the foyer were opened by two attentive servants. Neia stepped over the threshold, with Silvia quickly rounding to her left side as the doors closed behind them. Neia’s heels echoed on the pristine marble tiles, which exuded a sense of opulence and exotic charm.

The walls of the foyer were adorned with rich textures in deep jewel tones, providing a dramatic contrast to the lightness of the marble floors. Intricate tapestries and large-scale art pieces, inspired by distant cultures, hung tastefully on the walls, adding layers of depth and history to the space.

Exotic plants in expansive, decorative pots brought life to the room, their lush greenery providing a vibrant contrast to the cool tones of the marble. Nearby, a bar cart adorned with crystal decanters and ornate glassware suggested evenings filled with sophisticated relaxation.

Elegant chandeliers dangled from the high ceiling, their designs reminiscent of faraway lands. Additional lighting came from wall lamps with intricate, hand-painted holders, casting flickering shadows that enhanced the room's exotic ambiance.

Silk rugs with intricate patterns were thoughtfully placed, adding warmth and a touch of artistry to the floor, their colors harmonizing beautifully with the overall palette of the walls. The air was subtly scented with incense and exotic spices, completing the sensory experience and enveloping the room in an ambiance of luxury and tranquility.

“Neia, my dear. It’s a pleasure to see you this early in the morning. Breakfast is being made… It’s your favorite.” Claude said in a smooth, melodic voice that carried an air of authority, and a knack for putting others at ease.

His presence exuded both command and elegance as he gracefully descended the white pine risers. His hand glided effortlessly along the polished dark mahogany handrail, supported by intricately twisted wrought iron balusters. The balusters formed a captivating pattern, alternating between spherical accents near the risers and the handrail. His skin, a deep shade of crimson, shimmered subtly under the light, hinting at an exotic and powerful lineage. His striking gold eyes, reminiscent of molten metal, contrasted beautifully with his sleek, obsidian-black hair.

Claude’s attire was a testament to his affluence and refined taste. He wore a tailored, deep violet velvet coat, adorned with intricate silver embroidery that glistened with every movement. Beneath the coat, a midnight blue silk blouse complemented the ensemble perfectly, while fitted black trousers accentuated his graceful yet confident stance. Around his neck hung a delicate necklace with a large, flawless sapphire, reflecting his appreciation for the finer things in life. His elegantly curved horns, polished to a fine sheen, were adorned with subtle gold filigree that wrapped around their bases, adding a touch of opulence to his already striking appearance. Behind him, his tail swayed gently, showcasing a gold ring near the tip, etched with mysterious runes that were both decorative and intriguing.

As Neia approached, she bowed to Claude with precision, keeping her back straight at a fifteen-degree angle and forming a diamond with her hands at her forehead. “Kon Tria,” she greeted.

Claude reciprocated the bow with grace and gestured for her to join him at a long table with five chairs along its sides and two at each end. He took his place at one of the end chairs while Neia seated herself at the closest side chair to him. The table, initially bare except for a white tablecloth, soon came to life as a dwarf servant arrived with two plates of food. Another servant of gnome descent moved along the wall to draw open the red satin curtains, allowing sunlight to stream through the tall windows. Dust danced in the glimmering morning sun rays, adding a warm ambiance to the room.

“Claude about-”

As Neia began to speak, Claude raised his hand slightly, the sunlight catching and cascading off the many rings adorning his fingers. Each ring, a testament to his status and taste, shimmered brilliantly, casting small reflections across the room. The motion was gentle yet commanding, an elegant interruption that conveyed his desire to speak.

“You no doubt have heard by now that the royal church paid me a visit. We knew this day would come.”

Neia chuckled. “The church finally pulled their heads out of their ass’s and did some detective work?”

“They may have been biding their time to gather information to blackmail me. Fear not! As much as they would like me to hand you over on a silver platter, I have higher morals.”

“You have always been the better of your kin.”

Claude placed a hand on her shoulder and leaned in closer. “I wish I could have done more, Neia.”

“You've done enough to hide a sorceress like me.” Neia placed her hand on top of his. “It’s time I take my leave.”

A loud, sudden bang from the front room door jolted them both from their seats. The sound reverberated through the house, followed by rhythmic clinking of metal armor, a chilling herald of authority. As the noise grew louder, heavy footsteps marched in unison, creating an ominous echo down the corridor.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Emerging from around the corner was Claude’s son, Fabian, his presence commanding immediate attention. His expression was one of steely determination, a stark contrast to the warmth his face once held. Behind him, four imposing figures followed closely, their armor gleaming in the dim light. Each soldier carried a spear with precision, and their uniforms were adorned with the distinctive markings of the royal army, signifying their elite status. The air was thick with tension as the group halted, their presence a foreboding omen of the news they brought.

“That's her, the heretic!” Fabian pointed towards Neia with precision. “My father has been hiding her for many summers. She's been eating our food and corrupting our servants with her filthy wood Elf beliefs.”

Claude sprang from his seat, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. With a resounding thud, he slammed his hands down on the table, his face a mix of shock and anger. The sudden movement sent a shiver through the room, and the tension in the air seemed to crystallize as he faced the intruders.

Claude’s eyes locked onto Fabian, searching for answers amidst the unexpected intrusion. “Fabian, what is the meaning of this?”

Fabian swept his long blonde hair out of his eyes with a swift motion, then stood tall, striking a proud pose. “That Elf has used you, father. From the moment she banged on our door beaten and bruised.”

“You imbecile.”

In unison, two armed guards marched forward and tightened their grip upon Neia’s arms, forcing her out of her chair. She screamed as she kicked the chair to the floor, reaching out a hand to Claude. One of the other guards who was still by the threshold quickly intervened and knocked him to the ground, his breath catching as the cold metal of the spear pressed threateningly against his throat. The guard’s eyes were stern, leaving no room to question his intent.

Silvia’s heart pounded in her chest, driven by both fear and determination. The double doors of the mansion opened and she watched Neia struggle against her captors. Silvia knew she had to make her move to help her friend. With swift precision, she darted forward, aiming to disarm one of the guards. Her sudden action caught one of the guards off guard, allowing her a brief moment to gain the upper hand. But the risk was immense, and Silvia braced herself for the consequences that would follow her daring intervention. Her crimson blood glistened in the sunlight as it ran down the shaft from being pierced in the heart.

With the last of her breath she reached out to Neia and said. “I… am... sorry.”

The guard tossed Silvia aside with a grunt of disapproval. Neia’s eyes became dull and lifeless as her friend laid on the ground before her.

This was not how she wanted to die. Not how she wanted her friends to die. Her mind became numb and the next moments were a haze as she was dragged to Blackshell’s town center.

The early morning brought with it the early risers who were already out and about in the center market. An icy breeze swept through the cobblestone streets, carrying with it the scent of fresh baked bread and a small hint of fear. The townspeople gathered in a semicircle, their faces a mix of curiosity and apprehension, whispering amongst themselves.

A stone pillar in the center of the square loomed ominously, surrounded by dry logs stacked with meticulous precision. The wood creaked ominously in the biting cold, a harbinger of fate intended for those who were labeled heretics of the church. Guards worked with practiced efficiency, their expressions hardened, showing neither pleasure nor remorse as they prepared for what came next.

Neia was escorted to the grand pillar and chained to it, like every other heretic before her, without resisting. She hung her head low, Silvia’s motionless body still fresh in her mind. Claude whose hands were bound tightly with rough rope, winced as he was forced to his knees. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat a reminder of the helplessness he felt. He stole a glance at Neia and despite that despair had twisted her features, a spark of defiance still lingered in her eyes. He didn’t want to give up, for her to give up.

“Neia… Fight.” Claude muttered under his breath.

The closest guard slapped the back of Claude’s head. “Shut up.”

A scrawny man, donned in white robes signature of the royal church, climbed a makeshift platform to address the ever growing crowd. High above on the crickaty landing, he cleared his throat and prepared his speech.

“My fellow citizens of Blackshell. We are gathered here today to witness the burning of the last heretic. She is the last of the sorcerers whose bloodline has tormented this land for far too long. Our very own Duke of Blackshell, Claude Von Struss, has been her harbinger.”

Gasps spread through the crowd.

“Yes, It was a shock to me as well, my own father would shelter a criminal in my very home. I just learned of this heretic’s deeds and I, like every good citizen, reported it to the church. My heart weighs heavily with this burden. I broke fast with this witch for many summers.” Fabian stood beside the cleric smugly, weaving his lies to the public.

Claude bit his lip, but he could no longer hold his anger. “You think they will give you the title of Duke, Fabian! You've stained our family name. You will-”

“You weak old man!” Fabian interrupted Claude with his booming voice. “You know nothing. You have failed me in the people and are no longer fit to be Duke.”

“You are no son of mine.”

The tension in the air was palpable as the crowd's anticipation quickly turned to confusion and unease. The cleric motioned to the guards who carried torches and dropped them at the feet of Neia. Her stoic presence amidst the flames spoke volumes, her silence echoing louder than any cries ever could.

The fire crackled and roared, consuming the timber with relentless fury, casting dancing shadows across the gathering. The cleric's murmured prayers were a faint whisper against the backdrop of the blazing inferno, while Fabian's eyes widened as he watched in great glee.

Despite the heat and smoke, Neia remained composed, her gaze fixed forward, still lifeless and dull like a dying forest. This unexpected display left the spectators with a sense of discomfort and introspection.

As the flames reached their zenith, the silence hung over the crowd like a shroud. In that moment, Neia transcended her fate as the red and orange flames turned a ghostly green that matched her glazed over eyes.

“Those who wronged me, listen well! You may have broken my spirit, burned my body, but you shall never snuff out my bloodline. Your actions today will have ramifications for generations.”

The flames wrapped around Neia’s body like a raging storm starting from her legs to her head. The heat was relentless, a suffocating presence that threatened to consume everything in its path. Yet, amidst the chaos, Neia's resolve remained. Her eyes, though surrounded by the blackened remnants of what was once her skin, held a fierce, unwavering determination. It was as if she had become one with the fire, embracing its fury rather than succumbing to it. Her quickened breaths, though a sign of the body's instinctive response to pain and fear, seemed to defy the flames with their persistence.

“With my final breath I curse your bloodlines with no affinity to magic. You and your kin will go through your days knowing the wonders of magic but never being able to wield or be touched by it.”

Her voice, though faltering, carried across the crowd with a haunting resonance, weaving through the crackling of the flames. Neia’s proclamation etched itself into the minds of all who heard it, a curse that would ripple through generations, casting a shadow over the bloodlines of those who had condemned her.

The townsfolk stood in stunned silence, grappling with the weight of her words, realizing the implications of the curse. The flames continued their relentless dance, but Neia's spirit had already transcended the physical realm, leaving behind a legacy of defiance and the power of her final words. Her curse would linger, a spectral reminder of the consequences of their actions, intertwining with the very essence of the world they inhabited.

As the last vestiges of her presence were consumed by the fire, those who stood witness were left to ponder the cost of their choices, the echo of her curse a constant reminder of the fragile balance between power and justice.

***

Aaron woke up in a cold sweat, papers stuck to his face from laying on his desk. His neck was stiff from the awkward angle at which he had fallen asleep. The lights in the office had turned off automatically hours ago, leaving only the soft glow of the moon peeking through the blinds to illuminate the room. The gentle hum of the hvac system was the only sound breaking the silence of the empty office.

He rubbed his eyes and scanned the room, momentarily disoriented. The scattered documents on his desk were a testament to the long hours he had spent poring over financial reports. He was on the last stack of papers from the daunting pile his boss had assigned earlier that day. Despite the exhaustion weighing him down, Aaron felt a surge of determination to complete his task.

He glanced at the clock on the wall and noted it was still relatively early—just past midnight—giving him a sense of relief that he might still catch a few hours of sleep. The thought of heading home to his warm bed lifted his spirits. Satisfied with his work, he tidied up his desk and put everything in order for the next day.

Before leaving, Aaron took a moment to stretch his legs and gather his thoughts. He grabbed his coat, turned off his computer, and made his way to the exit. The quiet hum of the elevator was a welcome sound as he descended to the lobby. Finally, he clocked out for the night, stepping into the crisp night air, looking forward to the promise of a new day.