In the grand hall of the palace, the atmosphere was tense as Kohran the Grim, cloaked in layers of exotic fabrics adorned with charms and arcane symbols, stood before the assembly. Beside him was Bazzle, his face twisted in a sly grin as he introduced the enigmatic sorcerer to the court.
Kohran cleared his throat, his voice deep and dramatic, echoing through the room. “I am Kohran the Grim, master of the arcane arts, seeker of the hidden realms, and conqueror of supernatural entities beyond mortal comprehension.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the gathered nobles, their eyes widening in awe—or perhaps fear.
Aza, standing to one side, chimed in smoothly, “We are indeed fortunate to have such a formidable force at our disposal. This… situation calls for the expertise of someone who truly understands the dark and treacherous forces that could be at play.”
Kohran nodded solemnly, his expression grave. “I have heard troubling whispers, my Sultan,” he continued, addressing the ruler with a tone of deep respect. “What lurks in this palace may not be an ordinary spirit, but a fallen angel. Such beings are rare, their powers immense. Should this entity remain unchecked, it could wreak havoc on your kingdom.”
Nahra stood slightly off to the side, observing the entire spectacle with narrowed eyes. There was something about Kohran’s demeanor that felt… theatrical. His words seemed overly dramatic, and the way he boasted about his abilities only fueled her skepticism. Beside her, her father—the Sultan—watched with his usual impassive expression, giving nothing away.
“I understand the risks, Kohran,” the Sultan said calmly, his gaze piercing. “But I have seen no evidence that this is anything more than a minor nuisance. After all, the supposed ‘angelic’ entity hasn’t harmed anyone, save for a rather curious transformation.” He cast a pointed glance at his advisor, who fidgeted uncomfortably, as if still haunted by the memory of being turned into olive oil.
Bazzle smirked, stepping forward. “This is no mere nuisance, Your Majesty. What if the spirit decides to act more aggressively? We cannot risk the safety of the royal family—or the stability of the kingdom. Kohran here has dealt with beings far more powerful than what we’re facing. Isn’t that right, Kohran?”
The sorcerer nodded, his face a mask of solemn confidence. “Indeed. I have bested spirits that would make this angel seem like a mere wisp of mist. The fact that it managed to perform only a partial transformation on your advisor suggests it may be weakened or bound in some way. But even weakened, such an entity is dangerous, capable of manipulating the very fabric of reality.”
Nahra’s expression remained calm, though she couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that something was amiss. She glanced at her father, noting the subtle tightening of his jaw. He was playing along, but she knew him well enough to sense his skepticism.
Aza took a step forward, feigning concern. “Your Majesty, this is not a time for doubt. If Kohran believes this is a fallen angel, then we must take precautions. It would be wise to trust in his expertise.”
Nahra’s eyes flicked between Kohran and Aza, her instincts prickling. The way Aza spoke, the way he tried to steer the conversation—it all felt too deliberate, as if they were trying to manipulate the Sultan into a specific course of action.
The Sultan’s gaze remained fixed on Kohran, his face an unreadable mask. “Very well,” he said slowly. “If you believe this spirit to be such a threat, I will allow you to pursue your investigation. However, I expect results, not rumors or exaggerations. My palace is not a stage for theatrics.”
Kohran inclined his head, a thin smile on his lips. “Of course, Your Majesty. I will bring only the truth to light.”
Nahra’s fists tightened at her sides. She sensed the duplicity in Kohran’s words, but for now, she held her tongue. Her father was no fool; he would not be easily swayed. Still, she made a silent vow to keep a close watch on both Kohran and Aza. There was more to this than they were letting on, and she would find out what it was.
In the stillness of the night, the moon cast a gentle glow over the courtyard as Nahra moved with her new staff, her movements precise but slightly unsure. She twirled the staff through the air, feeling the faint hum of power within it, though it was frustratingly unresponsive. There were no instructions, no guide, nothing to indicate how she might unlock its full potential. She scowled to herself, annoyed by the lack of clarity. Of course, buying a weapon from the black market didn’t exactly come with a manual.
As she focused, attempting to channel the weapon’s abilities, she heard a familiar chuckle from behind her.
"Princesses shouldn’t play with weapons," a warm voice teased.
Startled, Nahra turned swiftly, finding her father, the Sultan, standing a few paces away, his face illuminated by a faint smile. She hadn’t heard him approach, and for a moment, her heart fluttered with the shock of being caught. But as her father’s laughter reached her ears, she relaxed, albeit sheepishly.
“Father!” she exclaimed, straightening and gripping the staff tightly. “I—well, I didn’t expect you to find out about my little… excursion.”
The Sultan’s smile softened, his eyes filled with a warmth she rarely saw in public. “Oh, I know more than you think, Nahra. A secret trip to the black market isn’t so easily hidden from me.” He stepped closer, his gaze taking in the staff with a curious glint. “But I won’t punish you for it. In fact, I think it was wise of you to seek a means of protection in these uncertain times.”
Nahra’s surprise deepened, but before she could respond, her father extended his hand. “May I?”
She handed him the staff, watching as he held it with a natural ease, examining its craftsmanship and balance. “I may be an earth magic user, but the fundamentals of magic are universal. Let me show you a few things to help you understand this weapon.”
Nahra’s heart swelled with both pride and relief. She knew her father had trained warriors, had even been a formidable one himself in his youth, but he rarely spoke of it, much less showed his skills to her. To see him here, guiding her, was more than she’d ever hoped for.
Stolen story; please report.
“First,” he began, holding the staff in a firm grip, “you must connect with the weapon, not just physically, but with intention. Focus your energy, and imagine it as an extension of yourself. This isn’t just a tool—it’s a partner in battle.” He extended the staff, and the faint hum she’d felt grew stronger, resonating as if answering to his touch.
Nahra watched closely as he demonstrated a few basic movements, fluidly shifting his stance, his gaze steady and focused. He handed the staff back to her, encouraging her to follow his example. As she attempted to mimic his movements, he adjusted her grip and stance, his touch gentle yet guiding.
“Good,” he murmured as she began to flow through the movements with more confidence. “Feel the energy within you. Direct it to the staff, as if you’re lending it your own strength.”
As she followed his guidance, Nahra felt the staff respond, a faint pulse that grew with each movement, aligning with her rhythm. She could sense something more within it, a hidden power waiting to be tapped, but it required patience, trust. The weapon wasn’t just responding to her commands—it was testing her, seeing if she was worthy.
After a few minutes, her father stepped back, watching her with a nod of approval. “You have talent, Nahra. More than I think you realize. And in times like these, talent alone isn’t enough. We must be prepared.”
She glanced up at him, catching the solemnity in his gaze. “Father… what is happening? I feel as though forces are moving around us, forces we can’t see or understand. It’s as if something—someone—is fighting a battle we don’t know about.”
The Sultan sighed, his face etched with a mixture of worry and resignation. “You’re perceptive, Nahra. There are forces, indeed, ancient and powerful, that have set their eyes upon our kingdom. But not all of them are visible, not all of them can be fought with swords and spears.” His gaze softened as he added, “Your beloved Malin’s journey is at the heart of it all. He has set something in motion that neither he nor we fully understand. And as he walks his path, we must be vigilant on ours.”
Nahra felt a pang in her chest at the mention of Malin. She had known his journey was dangerous, but to hear her father speak of it as a catalyst for unseen battles made it all the more real. “Is there… anything we can do to protect him?”
The Sultan reached out, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Your desire to protect him shows your strength, Nahra. But sometimes, we must trust in a higher plan, trust that the path we walk, though dangerous, leads to something greater. Your presence, your support, may be the very thing that guides him through this trial.”
His words filled her with a mixture of determination and comfort, and she felt the weight of her purpose settle on her shoulders. She nodded, feeling her resolve solidify. “I understand, Father. I’ll be ready. For him, and for our kingdom.”
He gave her a proud smile, then gestured to the staff in her hands. “Then let’s continue. You’ll need to master this weapon quickly. I’ll teach you as much as I can, but the rest, Nahra… the rest is up to you.”
They trained together under the starlit sky, father and daughter, their shared strength and determination binding them closer. The staff responded more readily now, humming with a vibrant energy as Nahra moved with increasing confidence, each strike and sweep growing sharper, more purposeful. Her father’s guidance was steady, his words laced with wisdom and experience, preparing her not only for the battles to come but for the unknown forces that lay in wait.
As they finished, the Sultan gave her a final nod of approval, pride shining in his eyes. “You are ready, Nahra. Remember, strength is not only in your weapon, but in your heart. And you, my daughter, have a heart of fire.”
Nahra held the staff close, feeling its weight but no longer daunted by it. She was ready, and she would face whatever lay ahead with the courage and resilience she’d inherited from her father—and with the strength of her love for Malin.
As Kohran moved down the halls, he muttered to himself, almost giddy with his own genius. "A weak spirit, of course. Hardly worth my time. Fleecing the King was child’s play—honestly, what do they think is haunting them? Probably just a restless echo or some small, errant entity that happened to slip through a crack. They’re lucky I even bothered."
He smirked, glancing over his shoulder, a touch of mockery in his tone as he continued. "Oh, Kohran, you magnificent genius," he whispered to himself. "You’re practically doing charity work here. They should be paying double for my—"
His voice trailed off, his self-congratulatory monologue cut short as he felt an unnatural chill roll through the air, sharp and biting. His steps slowed, and he noticed his shadow—the dark outline of his form on the stone floor—starting to ripple. He froze, his mind fumbling for an explanation as the shadow took on a strange life of its own.
"What in the…" he began, his voice barely a whisper, a nervous laugh bubbling up as he tried to dismiss the sensation. "A mere trick, that’s all. Shadows don’t… they can’t…"
Before he could finish, the shadow began to lift, as though drawn upward by some invisible hand. Kohran watched in horror as the shape of a massive feline head and spine emerged, tearing his shadow from the floor with a silent but menacing snarl. The cat’s mouth opened wide, its fangs glinting as it seized the shadow, ripping it free with a horrifying display of strength and malice.
"No! No, this isn’t—this isn’t supposed to happen!" he shouted, stumbling back, his voice tinged with a mix of panic and disbelief. His eyes darted around the dim hallway, desperate for an escape. "What… what is this thing? I-I’m supposed to be the one in control!"
The shadow creature, unphased by his protests, tightened its grip, and an ear-splitting, ghostly scream ripped through the hall—a sound that made Kohran’s blood run cold. It was his shadow’s voice, a part of him being torn away and silenced forever. The sorcerer’s eyes widened, and he stumbled back, his hands raised defensively.
"All right… okay, all right," he muttered to himself, forcing down the rising panic. "Just… just a spirit, yes, just a small… insignificant…" His voice faltered as he tried to convince himself, the words failing him. The creature’s gaze, piercing and ancient, held no mercy, and the air around him felt charged with a darkness he had never known.
Turning sharply, he bolted down the hallway, the bravado he’d flaunted moments ago replaced with sheer terror. "No spirit," he gasped, his voice a frantic whisper as he fled. "This is no ordinary spirit. It’s something… something else. Something ancient… a monster."
As he raced toward his quarters, his mind scrambled for answers, his earlier arrogance crumbling. "I’ll need a full team… maybe two. Artifacts, wards, whatever I can get my hands on! I can’t do this alone. Not with that… that thing roaming around."
Throwing himself into his room, he slammed the door shut, pressing his back against it as he tried to steady his ragged breathing. "Kohran, you fool… what did you walk into?" He muttered, his voice filled with fear and disbelief. "If I survive this, I’m charging triple."
The room around him seemed to close in, his own thoughts racing as he tried to grasp the magnitude of what he’d encountered. His hands shook as he reached for his tools, his mind frantically piecing together a plan, any plan, that might offer him a chance against the shadow creature that lurked somewhere within the palace’s walls. This was no spirit he could con or banish with ease; it was something far darker, something he was entirely unprepared for.