Desmond's hands trembled as he closed the dusty tome he'd been poring over for hours, its pages filled with obscure symbols and fragmented spells. His search for understanding had led him to the book—a record of ancient alchemy techniques, but so far, he'd found only snippets of useful information. The pendant lay on his desk, unmoving, as if mocking his inability to uncover its secrets.

But there was one passage that resonated with him, a note scrawled in faded ink at the edge of the page: All power has a price, and the higher the power, the steeper the cost.

Desmond didn't care. He had already gone too far to turn back.

Clenching his jaw, he reached for the pendant and pressed his fingers against its cold surface. Instantly, a chill shot up his arm, spreading through his veins. His head throbbed, but he pushed aside the pain, closing his eyes to focus on channeling the power. He had memorized a small spell, a summoning of a simple elemental flame, intending to see if the pendant would amplify it.

"Incendere," he whispered, his voice barely above a breath.

Nothing happened at first. Then, a pulse from the pendant surged through him, far more powerful than he anticipated. A flame erupted in his palm, a twisting column of blue fire, brighter and hotter than anything he'd ever seen. It scorched the air, lighting up the room with a ghostly glow.

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The power was intoxicating.

Desmond stared in awe, transfixed by the flame's eerie beauty. But the awe turned to horror as he felt his energy drain, his strength bleeding away into the pendant. The fire in his hand began to flicker, uncontrollable, and he struggled to keep it stable. His vision blurred, his heartbeat pounding in his ears as he fought to control the flame. The pendant's energy surged through him, but it felt like it was consuming him rather than obeying his command. His strength waned, and the fire in his hand twisted wildly, almost as if it had a life of its own.

"Enough!" Desmond gasped, willing the flame to disappear. But the pendant held on, refusing to release him. Panic seized him as he felt his life force being drawn out, feeding the unnatural fire. Finally, with a final desperate effort, he tore his hand away from the pendant.

The flame vanished, leaving a lingering heat and the smell of scorched air. Desmond staggered, his legs weak, collapsing into his chair. His hand throbbed, his skin pale and tinged with a faint dark mark where the pendant had touched him. He clutched his chest, gasping, his body drained as if he had sprinted for miles.

It was then he realized the truth: the pendant's power wasn't his to control. Every spell would demand something in return—strength, life, or perhaps something even deeper. Desmond's ambition flared briefly, questioning if he could learn to master this, to wield the pendant without it draining him so ruthlessly.

But his fear was stronger.

He sank back, eyes fixed on the pendant, which now seemed to glow with a sinister satisfaction. His mind reeled with the implications of what had just happened. Whatever power he sought, it would come at a cost, one that he wasn't sure he could afford. Yet even in his exhaustion, he couldn't tear himself away from the pendant's pull.

The curse had marked him, and there was no escaping it now.