The black ground grumbles beneath my feet. It is the same in all directions; dead, black stone. There is no life to be seen anywhere. No trees, no scuttering wildlife, no humans going about their meaningless day-to-day lives.

I, Sarenth, am alone.

I move on, only stopping to examine the cracks in what would have been fields filled with wheat or potatoes back before the curse killed this land. A strange hue emanates from these cracks, carrying with them an arcane pulse, that resonates in my mind. I am getting closer, it would seem.

As I move further and further east, the cracks appear more frequently and their magical counterpart is more present in the air around me. I reach out and the familiar golden light of soul magic covers my hand. Surprisingly, it is not the heavy dread of death, that I feel, but rather the light, dancing touch of life. Is the curse finally starting to degrade? There is no way of telling. Not yet, but I hope I will find an answer soon. Ever since the Ravenmother Wars half a century ago this land has been incapable of sustaining proper life. From the concealed part of my robes I pull out a small bottle stitched from the hide of a Urigo native to Alaniiren, the Summerlands. My homeland. The Ashen Blood, as I have come to call the substance, I carry, scorch my throat but it no longer hurts. Most of my meals in the two decades, I have called the Blackened Fields my home, have consisted of this liquid. It is the only 'food' I have been able to scavenge from the black and grey rocks. A sudden spasm accompanied by bloodied coughing brings me to halt. My legs break beneath me and I fall to the ground, weakened of body, but not yet of mind. Resolutely, I force myself to stand and continue in the supposed direction of the magical source I have been tracking. If I do not reach my goal soon, I fear, it might never happen.

A stranger approaches. If one is to travel from Alaniiren in the North to Therem in the South by land, one would have to cross the Fields. Plenty of desperate souls prey on these travelers, and this man has the look of a common marauder. I gather the necessary energy to cast an offensive spell, just in case. Though, I should think my ragged robes, face mask and hood, not to mention my ash-pale skin, would be enough to mark me as someone not to be messed with. But you never know. One true mark of desperation is the loss of common sense. I’m nearing the man. Two meters before our paths cross he draws his sword, if you can call it that. Its edge is jagged and the leather on the hilt seems rotten, but there is no doubt that it can still perform its primary task. Unfortunately for him, I am prepared. I reach into the depths of his soul, my arm representing the magic’s route. A black light floats in front of my bent fingers. This man is strong of spirit despite his situation. If I was adept in telepathy, I might even have found myself tempted to crack open his mind and spill of his secrets. But instead I relieve him of his life-giving soul, a little trick I learned from studying the curse. Hopefully in death the bandit will see the folly of his actions.

Towards evenfall I come upon a small caravan of wagons camped for the night. I see at least three soldiers standing guard around the encampment; all of them dressed in the same white-blue color scheme. In the back of my mind, I recognize it. Flashes of memory. Home. Childhood. My mother with her books and my father with his herbs and pots. These are the colors of the Telani bloodline, the rulers of the great city Mareel. My family. I look down at my own robes and grunt. Once, they sported the same colors, before the ash greyed them.

Caught up in my own thoughts, I never notice the guard closest to me walking forward with his spear pointing right at my chest.

“Halt!”, he bellows. “Who goes there and with what business?”

“Easy now”, I reply with a calming gesture with no hint of surprise showing. “I am simply passing through. My business lays elsewhere and is entirely my own.”

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

As I step into the light of the nearest torch, the guard flinches as if I had just revealed my monstrous T’chisai fangs. “Are you wearing Telani robes? Did you steal them?”

Aggresive, but probably tired. “I got these at the academy in Mareel.” My words awaken some recognition in my new acquaintance’s face, it seems, but it does not push him of his illusionary pillar of authority, unfortunately.

“You are Alaniirenian, huh? What are you doing here in the middle of nowhere?”

“As I said, my business lays elsewhere. I'm a traveller, not unlike yourself” I try to make my way past him but he cuts me of.

“What is your name?” he asks with a look that tells me that he does in fact not care about my name at all.

“Iliaren Colia”, I tell him though it has been years, since anyone has used my brother's name.

“And where are you from, mister Colia?”

“Mareel, as I said. Now please, either let me pass through your encampment or let me be.” Judging by the change in his eyes, he does not approve. I sigh and summon the necessary magic. He has forced my hand.

“Listen, you…” he starts but is interrupted as the tether linking his soul to his flesh is broken. He drops to his knees and lingers there, still staring into the void, until his bones finally give in. Determined, I step over him and enter the encampment.

I would have preferred to stay in the darkness around the circle but it would take up too much precious time. Instead I attempt the nearly impossible task of blending in.

The people here seem to be either jolly or in despair; some sit around bonfires laughing at whatever dull joke his neighbor just told. Others try to hide their weeping by shrouding themselves in shadows.

All, however, turn their attention to me when I walk past.

A fire-haired man even goes as far as to call the guards. Dammit. I had hoped, I could avoid further distraction tonight. Before the guards can stop me, I summon an orb of dark light between my hands and I feel the same energy pulsate from my eyes. It only grows more intense as I guide more power into my spell. I lock gazes with one particular woman amongst the terrified crowd that has gathered around me. She clutches her round belly tight, as if she knows what is about to happen. Then, I let go.

With me as its eye, a storm of life-magic envelops every single body and soul it can get close to. Screams of terror tear through the night, then there is silence. It does not matter. I knew plenty, who considered the dark arts of soul-magic evil, but death is as much a truth of existence as life itself. What does it matter if it comes a little sooner?

Ones more, I cast the spell needed to track the pulse and find it even more powerful than prior to my outburst. I have to wonder. Did my spell fuel the curse? Or did I throw tinder onto the fire that will burn away the corruption? Hopefully, time will tell but right now, I have little choice but to follow the path laid out for me.

That path becomes clearer and clearer with each step. Silence fills my head, and yet my skull is on the brink of bursting. Night has conquered day as it always has, but this time, it feels different. No, I realize, it is different. There is no light, no moon, no stars. Ogliara himself seems to have given up on this land as well. But not me. Not yet.

I swear, twenty years ago I would have broken under this pain a long time ago, but now I am fueled by righteousness; it is my duty, my purpose, to cure the Blackened Fields of its ancient curse and thus save the rest of Tarensia, maybe all Vaft, from its grasp. The thought invigorates my legs and I stumble ever onwards.

Long after I collapsed on the ground, I come across a pit of darkness. But this darkness is somehow deeper than the rest of the world and staring into it is like looking into my own soul. My breath grows shorter and I am certain someone - or something - is watching me. Desperately, I try to locate it, but I see nothing. “I have gone blind”, my voice echoes from a hundred worlds away. Does it matter?

And then it hits me. The impact flings my body twenty meters backwards. I never hit the ground. Suspended in a limbo, a voice speaks to me in a tongue, I shouldn’t understand and yet it is all clear. It shows me a painting from beneath the earth, one of golden farms and breathing trees. The air isn’t clouded with ash but with hopes and dreams and the smell of fresh tears. Mine. I am in the middle of it all, responsible for the glory. I won’t ever allow corruption to manifest itself again. This painting is beautiful.

The voice hands me a gift. It is the power to make the painting come true, to return the Fields to their former beauty. I reach out for the pulsating, black orb, the very thing I have been searching for these past countless years.

And then I fall.