He looked at Elara, expecting her to break into mocking laughter, to turn this dark turn into one of her twisted jokes. But her expression was anything but mocking—she wore a solemnity that looked unnatural on her wide eyes darkened, pupils almost pinpricks, as if she were reliving something awful.

The horror of it crashed over him, a wave of disbelief that left him speechless. This wasn’t just insanity—it was grief, anger, and sorrow, a legacy of suffering that throbbed faintly through her words mirrored in the hunger pulsing through his wand. Each surge of power, each flash of light, was born of rage and despair. He was holding the last remnant of a people’s vengeance—a weapon of retribution. And she’d brought him here to wield it.

“Grief tastes like honey,” Elara murmured, her voice high and breathless, “but anger? Oh, that’s different. Bitter, stings on the tongue, makes you want to spit, doesn’t it?” She cocked her head, considering, then withdrew a small spoon from her cloak with a theatrical flourish. “And this, of course, is Edward the Spoon, Prince of Damcyan!” She looked at him with a solemn reverence, like she expected him to bow.

Henry stifled a sigh realizing this talk, whatever it had been, was over.

“Right. Hi again, Edward,” he said, the confusion in his voice barely masked by familiarity.

Elara shook her head, disappointed, as if he’d missed something profound.

“Edward’s no mere spoon,” she said, leaning close, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “He’s a beacon. A symbol of courage, wielded by only the bravest souls.” She brought the spoon close to her face, her eyes shining. “I knighted him myself, you know. He has tasted honeyed grief, too.”

Her words pricked at his mind, strange gaps in her story and questions he wasn’t ready to ask. Why him? Why could he wield the wand when others couldn’t? But the crushing weight of it all kept those questions locked inside, leaving only the raw, awful realization of what he’d become part of.

The words slithered into Henry’s mind, igniting some dark, buried spark. Her rambling nonsense—why did it feel so close to the truth? Why him? Why was he bound to this cursed wand while others had fallen? A creeping weight coiled in his gut, like a shadowy thread tying him to a history drenched in sorrow, and it pulled tight, refusing to let him look away.

His voice wavered as he finally spoke, barely more than a breath. “You… you brought me here for this?”

Elara’s eyes widened, her grin stretching too far as she tilted her head at a sharp, impossible angle. She thrust Edward the Spoon inches from his face, eyes gleaming with a mad fervor. “Oh, indeed, Henry! Edward insists upon it!” She tapped the spoon’s handle against his chest, each tap a hollow echo. “But why stop there? More than a weapon, more than a—what was the word? Martyr? Destroyer?” She let the word “destroyer” hang, as though tasting it, a wicked gleam in her eye.

“But what if,” she murmured, her gaze darting around as if fearing unseen listeners, “you’re here to remake it all? Every bit of rot and ruin. Or… to drown in it. Edward hasn’t decided yet.” Her grin faltered for a moment, flickering like a dying flame, before she held the spoon close to her ear, tilting her head as if absorbing some whispered secret. “He’s telling me there’s still… oh, possibilities!”

With that, she drifted away, holding Edward aloft like a royal scepter, her figure melting into the shadows, her laughter trailing off as she vanished into the cavern’s depths.

Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

Her words lingered as Henry returned to the group of villagers, Elara’s revelation repeating in his mind like a bell tolling. The weight of the wand felt heavier in his grip, and as he looked around at the villagers’ weary faces, a flicker of guilt sparked in his chest. These people were looking to him for protection, not realizing the terrible history he carried with him.

When he addressed them, his voice was steady, a careful blend of confidence and sympathy. “I won’t lie to you. Your city is gone, destroyed by the mists. But I won’t let you fend for yourselves out here. At daybreak, I’ll go ahead and clear the city of any monsters that might still be lurking. Then we’ll gather whatever you can carry and make our way to Frieter.”

A wiry man at the back shook his head. “That won’t work. In our state, they’d just turn us away for being mist-plagued.”

Henry frowned. None of them bore the telltale red streaks of mist infection, but he knew the paranoia that ran deep in mist-ravaged places. He glanced at Elara, who was now polishing Edward’s tiny handle and holding it aloft like a gleaming talisman. She noticed his look and gave an exaggerated shrug, practically a dance, then held Edward in front of his face, as if the spoon itself had something profound to add. He cleared his throat, feeling absurdly serious, and turned back to the group. “Alright, then. What do you suggest?”

A woman with streaks of gray in her hair stepped forward, her voice quiet but filled with cautious hope. “There’s another place—Warrens Run. It’s further, in the opposite direction, but they’d take us in. And if you protect us along the way, they’ll set you up with horses for the journey.”

Henry nodded, feeling the responsibility settle over him. He was still reeling from Elara’s revelations, but now, with these villagers depending on him, he felt a renewed sense of purpose. Without another word, he led them deeper into the cavern, where they could find some measure of safety for the night.

The cavern’s vast, shadowed expanse loomed around them, the walls glistening with damp patches of moss and strange mineral deposits that gleamed faintly in the torchlight. Metal crates were scattered across the floor, half-buried in dust and debris. Each crate looked different—some sleek and covered in odd distinct symbols, a red knight leaning against a tower, others dented and scarred, as if they’d been abandoned in haste.

Elara held Edward aloft like a scout, waving him in front of each crate.

“Prince Edward detects…hmm, danger! And…ooh, what’s this? A whiff of secrets!” She pressed her ear to the spoon, listening with an exaggerated look of concentration. “Edward says to tread lightly here, Henry. Very lightly.” She smirked, glancing over her shoulder with a glint in her eye. “One wrong step and…oh, the horrors we might unleash.”

Luka kept his shoulders hunched, glancing nervously from one crate to the next. The innkeeper walked nearby, her arm around her young daughter, whose wide eyes flickered over every shadow in the cave. The girl clutched a ragged stuffed toy, her small fingers wrapped tightly around its worn fabric.

As they approached the main hall of the cavern, Henry felt a chill run down his spine. Above them, high on the jagged outcroppings, hung the twisted forms of children’s bodies, a haunting reminder of the darkness that had consumed this place.

Elara looked up, her eyes bright with twisted fascination, and raised Edward to her lips. “What do you say, Edward? Does this not remind you of the dark halls of Damcyan? The skeletons! The shadows! And oh, the endless echoes…” She laughed softly, an unsettling sound that lingered in the cold air. Henry forced himself to look away, focusing instead on thoughts of his family. Somewhere, his mother and sister were in this cursed world, and that thought filled him with both determination and dread.

“You know, maybe this wasn’t a good idea…” but Henry trailed off as the villagers huddled against the wall next to the elevator eager to be close to an escape

As they settled into uneasy sleep, Henry drifted off, his mind still burdened by the weight of the wand and Elara’s haunting words. But as his thoughts slipped into dreams, he found himself back in the forest, though everything felt…wrong.