The Tyrant’s territory was an oasis of calm centered in a region of chaos. A place where even the wind itself dared not tread least shattering the pristine stillness draw the inhabitant’s ire.

Crushing the tall golden stalks of grass that poked in and out of the broken stone walkway Selt worked to reach the temple’s base. Every foot forward felt like he was plunging deeper into a storm, the waves of spiritual pressure from the beast hidden above growing in intensity as they cascaded down the steps to buffet his very soul. It was as if the universe itself was trying to warn him off his chosen path.

For a normal spiritualist who hardens and develops their soul every day, the beginnings of this undirected force might’ve been trivial to withstand, but for Selt it was a struggle to just approach the ancient stairway. Only his desperate desire to succeed allowed him to go against the current. The fear of failure was enough to strengthen his spirit and allow him to trudge into the depths of the storm.

When at last he reached the start of the bone covered steps his legs were shaking and his breath came in ragged heaps. Selt gazed up the long slope he had left to climb, knowing his journey of hardship had only just begun. To make matters worse the continuous onslaught of spiritual pressure made stopping for a reprieve anywhere in this territory impossible, every second he spent here further strained his already burdened soul.

He took his first of many steps. The roar of force that met him almost enough to send him toppling back down. A small burning sensation flared to life in his chest, warning him of the permanent damage his soul might face if he chose to press forward.

He took a second. Not succeeding here would be accepting the cursed fate destiny had planned for him.

With every step further the burning sensation in his chest began to grow, he took the damage his soul was suffering as the consequence for defying the will of the heavens. By the time he had made it halfway up the staircase he was on his hands and knees crawling. The mental strain and physical exhaustion was almost enough to make him pass out while the fire within his chest had grown to a bonfire.

After what felt like an eternity of fighting off the encroaching blackness his stone scraped fingers curled around the edge of the final step. He could hardly feel the cool stone under his touch as his body worked to move off of willpower alone. With a strength that had long since abandoned him he clawed his way up and over the lisp of that last step.

To his already overburdened senses there was no further change in pressure when flopping onto the floor of the temple’s single room interior, what was another rock thrown atop a mountain of stone already trying to crush him. The inferno within him which had blazed to the point of tears not long ago had cooled into a disturbing numbness, but his mind was far too taxed to care about such trivial things.

It took his blurred vision a moment to adjust to the room’s dim lighting. The deep shadows of the temple’s interior were barely pierced by the rays of light that snuck in through cracks of the aged walls and ceiling. When his sight finally did adjust, even the all-consuming exhaustion couldn’t steal away the feelings of excitement that came with what he saw.

The tribute the neighboring clans paid the Tyrant over the many decades, a large mound of gleaming bronze and silver marks intermixed with beast cores and other priceless artifacts, lay tucked away in the far left corner of the room. It was enough wealth to make a beggar out of any clan. If he could bring back even a fraction of the treasure sprawled out before him it would be enough to upend his family’s declining status.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Slowly moving his shaking arms, he placed his palms against the cool stone floor and vehemently struggled to push himself to his knees. Little by little his body rose from the ground, lances of pain darting across his limbs as the blackness creeping in at the corner of his vision swirled with resentment at the physical effort.

His body badly needed time to recover, the effort it took to get here was far more than he had anticipated but his goal was staring him right in the face. If he could just stumble over snatch up a few of the more powerful artifacts it would all be worth it.

With every bit of willpower he could muster, Selt rose to his feet, eyes fixated on the pile of wealth that would change his fortunes forever. He went to take a step forward, his soul willing to press on while his body was at its limits. His foot touched the ground as the darkness in his vision flared. There was just enough time to curse his destiny once more when his legs gave out and the stone floor rushed up to meet him.

* * *

Fenrir was having the most pleasant dream. In it he was once again a young pup circling around the numerous pairs of legs as people from all over the land came to pray to the Evoker’s shrine. He was looking for his master, but the mass of foreign smells from all the visitors made it all the harder to single out the one he was after.

There was a flash of purple and he spun with hope in his heart as he caught the familiar sight of the priest’s robes. His tail drooped as he saw the male wearing it, one of the shrine’s keepers but not whom he was looking for.

Fenrir let out a brief yip in surprise as something from behind picked him up, he tried to wrestle out of the arms in a panic when he caught the scent of the one he had been searching for. He swirled around in excitement, happy to see the face of the one he had missed for centuries when a noise in the present distracted him from the memory. Desperately he tried to reimmerse himself back in his slumber hoping to catch a glimpse of his long dead companion but dreams are a fickle thing.

Like trying to piece together smoke the more he tried to force it the more distorted the image became. The scene broke apart just as the one who held him spoke, “And just what are you up to little one?” Her voice echoed in his mind like the whisperings of a ghost.

Fenrir lifted his head carefully from where he lay tucked behind the center altar, not wanting to accidentally topple the structure with a brief tap of his snout as he looked to see what could have possibly awoken him from such a pleasant memory. The temple’s bare and worn interior was a stark contrast from the colorful and lively image that lingered in his mind.

His home looked the same as it always did, not a tattered tapestry or cracked stone tile out of place. Just as he was about to dismiss the sound and go back to trying to recapture fragments of the past, a discrepancy caught his eye. In the afternoon light at the temple’s entrance lay the fallen form of a human.

At first Fenrir thought the boy must be dead as his senses washed through him without detecting a trace of a presence, but where his spiritual sight failed his mortal eyes detected the faint rise and fall of the stranger’s chest. Not dead then, but certainly close to it.

More curious than concerned he padded over, giving care to shrink his size to that of the average Nox so that he could move freely in the temple’s interior. He was halfway across the room when the boy convulsed, his arms and legs flailing out to his sides. It was then that Fenrir realized the probable source of the child’s predicament.

With a thought he veiled his spirit, the action as simple to him as breathing.

Immediately the human stopped squirming as the pressure so close to crushing his soul lifted. There was a loud intake of breath before the motion of the child’s breathing started to even out. Not able to tell the extent of the damage, but more curious than ever as to what could have prompted such a weak individual to scar their soul, he settled down content on waiting for the human to awake.

And just what were you up to little one. Fenrir thought looking down at the boy’s blood-caked hands.