In a distant land, lies a kingdom, in ruin, barren, abandoned by gods. A vast empire reduced to rubble, not even a footnote in history. The grand streets of its capital – covered waist-high by dust, massive spires broken down and buried beneath. The now-empty palace halls, inhabited only by the whispers of the arid winds. Not a single living soul remembers even the kingdom’s name. Not a single living soul has walked upon its ruins for centuries. And yet one inhabitant remains, his humanity long lost, the pallid figure resembles more a husk than a man. Rugged robes of elegant patterns drape over his parched skin, once fabulous jewelry, tarnished, barely hold upon his fingers. A brazen mask of royal craftsmanship obscures his disfigured face. He walks upon the remnants of his once beloved home. He walks without a grander purpose, any resemblance of hope has long been lost. All that he may do now is to reminisce upon his youth and upon what has brought him to this moment, no matter how long ago it may have been. He was alive once, truly alive, a being of flesh and blood yet far weaker than now. A millennium ago, he, as far as he can remember, was a court wizard, an advisor to the prince, his dearest friend. The young mage was ambitious, eager and knowledgeable, and yet so naive, so fragile. His mind was truly a blessing, and yet his body accursed, riddled with disease. He knew at that time that he was not long for this world. He feared it. He dreaded the moment he would draw his final breath. His dreams, his ideas, his gifts upon the world, would be unspent, and he could not bear the thought. And so he sought a way, as all dying men do when cursed with time too short. The royal libraries offered nothing more but dusty philosophies and parlour tricks masquerading as magic. The court physicians, earnest though they were, could do little more than prolong his suffering. The prince, as always, stood beside him, like a brother in all but blood. “For you”, he said, “for your genius, no door must be locked”. The promise was sincere, and so unlocked they were. Together, they delved deeper into the womb of the earth, beneath the foundations of the oldest palace tower, beyond sanctioned scrolls, into the forbidden, the whispered, the burned. There, they found what should have remained forgotten – doors, ancient, wrapped in chains, buried by those who had the wisdom to fear it. The prince could not sense it, but for the wizard, they pulsed with promise. He opened them with his magic, with what little strength he had left. Inside was a chamber, its air thick and sweet like rot beneath perfume. In its centre, a throne of obsidian roots and upon it, a corpse, however, not truly. It was neither alive nor dead, just there, waiting. It was strange, like a fragment of a grander being, either damned or divine, both grotesque yet beautiful. It spoke, its voice never rose above a whisper, and it spoke to him, not the prince, only him, for he was the only one worthy to hear it or perhaps the only one who needed to hear it. It offered not a cure, not mere salvation, but better yet, elevation. To rise above mortality, not in defiance of death, but in alliance with something greater. But it demanded a price, a vessel, a face to parade in, one of authority and a mind trained to rule. The wizard agreed, ever so reluctantly. The betrayal came not with sword but with silence, with compliance. The process was gradual, the corruption grew slowly until the prince was devoured from within. What emerged wore his face, but its eyes gleamed with abyssal depth. The people bowed, and the land began to wither. Dust claimed the fields, and the rivers ran dry. The wizard endured. His flesh wasted away, his veins no longer carried blood but memory. He lived, and lived while all that was worth living for was reduced to ash. He betrayed the world to escape death, and in doing so, buried it. Now only he remains, endless and alone, even the being he once served, its hunger satiated, seemingly moved on. And in that, perhaps, is the truest curse.
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by Hubert Klepczyński
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