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The witching hour wove its final threads, the dark veil of Teharun thinning. Midnight, attuned to the nuances of the raging energy currents, suddenly straightened, her sleek body tense with anticipation. Yves mirrored her tension, fingers clad in gloves ready for swift response. Her heightened senses detected what eluded him. He reacted with her, observed her. He understood instantly — it had returned.
The Vicha. The hideous thing that had trailed Yves and Midnight since they crossed the Bahatu, the Whispering Moors. The insidious echo of their ill-fated encounter with the coven that had settled in these haunted realms. The curse.
Without a moment's hesitation, they ascended the narrow stairs, Yves trailing Midnight with his pouch of ground poltin already at hand. Tossing the powdered sagen roots generously, Yves sketched a warding semi-circle around the lighthouse entrance before he threw his weight against the creaking door. The storm outside raged, winds and waves colliding with the lighthouse like thousands of specters demanding entrance. Yves forced the door open without magic. It yielded slightly, enough for the storm's fury to thrust its way in. Yves, his body soaked within seconds, made no move to shield himself. The witching hour restrained him from employing shard shields to repel the weather onslaught. Amidst the downpour, he couldn't help but rue the timing — of course, it chose now to catch up with them.
Midnight needed to make sure. She ventured outside, crouching low, her claws gripping into the rocky ground, her body pressed tightly against the lighthouse. She remained frozen in her posture as the wind and rain battered against her, fur swirling in the tempest. Yves lingered in the doorway, holding on to the frame for dear life. There was no point completing the wardening circle from the outside, as the winds would sweep the poltin right out of his hand. He strained to utilise his second sight. Yet, all that he could capture was the harsh panorama of the coastal battleground, where the storm obliterated the boundary between sea and land. His compromised eyesight, coupled with the storm's interference with the magical currents, rendered him useless. Where his second sight long faltered, Midnight could spot the curse several kilometres away. Despite the howling wind, turbulent waves, and Teharun’s enveloping darkness, she found its presence.
"Curses on all witches," Yves muttered, instantly feeling a chill run down his spine and panic rush through his veins as the words escaped his mouth. Before him, Midnight whirled around. It was still witching hour. You did not speak during witching hour. You did not speak. You did not speak. You did not speak. What worthless wizard speaks during witching hour? Shut up.
His words were worthless, of course. Not meaningless. They carried great meaning, profanities coming straight from the crevices of the heart. But they were ultimately powerless against any actual curse. Only witches could convey such malevolent spells. Yves wanted to believe that this reflected their pettiness, foul character and utter inferiority. Wizards did not engage in such underhanded ploys. They killed each other face to face. And yet, despite his disdain for their methods, Yves found himself envious of their abilities to manifest their malice when all he could do was yell into the wind.
Having been cursed a shameful eleven times, three by the same witch, this was the latest manifestation — to his shame, the second Vicha that ever haunted him. The weight of the curse pressed upon him, its irritating mark woven into his right shoulder. How was this possible? How could it already be here? It was incredibly enduring and so much fucking faster than the last.
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Yves’ expression blanked. Was someone feeding it?
The Vicha was a malevolent force that relentlessly pursued them. The curse moved slowly, but it never wavered, never rested. They needed to outpace it, outrun it for at least another full moon before it dissipated — unless some damned witch was trailing and feeding it!
Back inside, the air felt charged. Midnight guarded the door, while Yves rushed underground. They needed to leave the lighthouse immediately. There was no more time to sift through the jumble of tomes and scrolls scattered about. With haste, Yves tossed out all the bulky artefacts from the Chest of Useless Artefacts into the Chest of Disappointing Discoveries. The time for sentimentality had passed; it was survival now. He stuffed the chest with essentials — tomes, artifacts, his meticulous notes and clothes critical for the journey ahead. Crystals, valuable jewels, a handful of coins, and even three potatoes were thrown into the mix, the latter an impulsive addition born out the fleeting desire for real sustenance.
The Lightning Staff was too long to fit even diagonally, wherefore Yves secured it externally using the chest’s various straps and buckles. Attaching the Bow of Light in the same way would be too inconvenient, so for now, Yves just threw the weapon next to the chest.
His belts and pockets filled with the indispensable — the Lightgiver Wand, his daggers, potions. He already wore his most versatile warding chains and four rings. Two additional rings, plucked from a metallic jewelry box, represented a negotiable currency in a world where gold could bend the law. In unpredictable and hostile surroundings like this, you never knew whether you could hold on to a travel chest, so you always needed exchangeable valuables at hand, quite literally. He also pocketed the leather case from the corner shelf.
Despite the urgency, Yves took a moment to ensure the energy reservoir sustaining the lighthouse's core protection and illusion spells was intact. It did not take long. Midnight had not yet called out to him. Uncertainty lingered like a specter in Yves' thoughts. The lighthouse, a testament to his illusionist craftsmanship and resilience, stood exposed to the unknown. Would he come back with healed eyes, no longer dependent on anything he stored here, or would he not return at all?
In some twisted way, the undefined future did not change the feeling of pride that gripped him right now, a silent acknowledgement of the sanctuary he had built, and an innate desire to keep it hidden. If you had any self-respect as an artefact hunter, you did not want an intruder to find your prime hideout’s protection half-assed. Even if chased and cursed, you need to have at least some pride in your work.
On a more fundamental level, it was easiest to see yourself in something that reflected you. You needed a place that belonged to you, and a place you belonged to. Even broken things, existing almost invisible between the most desolate lands and the deadliest seas, could serve such a purpose. Even if this place was only yours because no one else wanted it, you took care of it.
Yves heard Midnight growling from above and realised he had stopped in front of his chest. For another long moment, he could not tear himself from the spot. He felt for the inner lining of his multi-layered overgarment, finding the small but oh so distinct square outward bulge of the fabric.
Midnight roared down at him from the trapdoor opening. She roared, despite the witching hour.
Yves sprang forward, slammed the chest shut, secured the buckles and straps, and threw on his coat. He had a custom backpack for the ethereal mirrors, each mirror nestled in its own protected compartment. Over the flat and sturdy backpack, he secured the Bow of Light. It was tied to his back with a belt system that ended in an elongated plate that ran from his shoulder to his hip, from which the bow could be released without having to remove the entire belt system. The straps and plate doubles as a secure fastening for the backpack.
The chest, now bearing the weight of Yves' most vital possessions, awaited transportation. Yves tapped it with his Levitation Staff, and it responded obediently. It trailed behind him as he rushed up the stairs and exited the door. In his wake, the floating light orbs extinguished, leaving the broken lighthouse without light yet again.
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