Chapter 14: Whispers in the Ruins
The sun was barely a pale glow above the treeline when Eirlys, Cedric, Eñric, and the small party of scouts emerged from the edge of the forest. Before them, the land unfurled into a bleak valley, where the remains of an old village lay crumbling beneath a canopy of fog. It was scattered ruins—shattered stone, broken beams, and collapsed rooftops stretching out like the bones of some forgotten giant.
Eirlys dismounted from Stormfell, her breath misting in the cold morning air. The eerie stillness that blanketed the area put her on edge. There were no sounds of birds, no rustle of wildlife. Just silence. Too much silence.
"We should be cautious," she said softly, glancing at her companions.
Cedric scanned the surroundings with a steely gaze. His greatsword hung at his side. "I don’t like this," he muttered. "This place reeks of death."
Elric dismounted with a fluid grace, his sharp eyes already studying the faint paths that wove through the ruins. "It’s like the land itself has forgotten how to live here."
Eirlys nodded, her hand resting on the hilt of the Frostblade. The chill of its ancient power still pulsed through her, though it did little to warm the unease gnawing at her insides. They had been traveling for days, moving ever closer to Drak’lor, but now, standing at the outskirts of this forsaken village, she felt the weight of their journey more keenly than ever.
"This village," she began, her voice steady but low, "was once known as Eveska. It’s been abandoned for decades—since the first rumors of Morven’s curse began to spread. The people fled... or so the stories go."
Cedric frowned. "Then who left the smoke?" His finger pointed ahead.
Eirlys followed his gaze and saw it—thin tendrils of smoke rising lazily from what remained of a cluster of buildings at the heart of the village. The sight struck her as odd. There were no signs of life, no movement—just those small, steady streams of smoke, as if the village had fallen asleep and forgotten to wake.
"Scouts," Cedric called out to the soldiers flanking them. "Fan out. Keep your eyes open."
The scouts, battle-hardened men and women, nodded and began spreading out into the village ruins, their hands on their weapons, steps quiet but deliberate.
Eirlys, Cedric, and Elric remained together, moving cautiously toward the center of the village where the smoke rose. As they approached, the wind shifted, carrying with it a foul stench—something burnt and acrid. Eirlys wrinkled her nose and exchanged a glance with Cedric.
"It smells like..." Elric trailed off, his face tightening with disgust. "Like something’s rotting. Or burning."
The remains of the village square came into view. Here, the stones were more intact, but still cracked and blackened with age. The ruins of a well stood at its center, and around it, in small clusters, were people—or at least they looked like people at first glance. Their clothes were ragged, their skin pale and stretched taut over bones, but they were there, huddled around the smoldering remnants of what appeared to be small fires.
"Who are they?" Cedric asked in a low voice, his grip tightening on his sword.
"They shouldn’t be here," Eirlys replied. "This village has been empty for years. It’s cursed land."
As if on cue, one of the figures looked up. The man’s face was gaunt, his eyes wide and unfocused, as if he were staring through them rather than at them. His mouth hung open, and for a brief moment, Eirlys could have sworn she saw something flicker behind those eyes—something dark, something wrong.
"Greetings," Elric called out, taking a step forward, his tone cautious but friendly. "We mean you no harm. Are you in need of assistance?"
There was no response, only the crackling of the dying fires and the soft whisper of wind through the ruins.
Eirlys felt the Frostblade’s chill intensify in her hand. Something was terribly wrong. She stepped closer to Eñric, her voice barely a whisper. "Stay back. Something’s not right. Elric, do you remember, Brad?"
" Yes, so this is...."
Before he could finish, the figure nearest to them suddenly lurched to its feet. The movement was jerky, unnatural, like a puppet yanked up by its strings. The others followed suit, rising in eerie unison, their eyes blank and staring, their movements stiff and erratic.
The first one to move, a woman with matted hair and hollow cheeks, lunged toward them with an animalistic snarl. Her fingers were clawed, her eyes wide with madness. Eirlys barely had time to react before she drew the Frostblade, the sword’s edge gleaming cold in the morning light.
Cedric was faster, stepping in front of her and swinging his greatsword in a wide arc. The blade met the woman’s frail body with a sickening thud, cutting her down in one blow. But there was no blood, no scream—just a lifeless collapse, like a ragdoll dropped to the ground.
"What in the hells..." Cedric muttered, his face pale with shock.
Before they could recover, the rest of the figures charged, rushing toward them with a terrifying speed. Their faces were contorted with fury, their mouths open in soundless shrieks. It was as if they had lost all sense of themselves, driven only by a dark, mindless hunger.
"They’re possessed!" Eirlys shouted, raising her sword. "Morven’s curse has taken them! A madness."
The first of the attackers, a man with a twisted expression of rage, came at Eirlys with outstretched arms. She swung the Frostblade in a swift, clean motion, severing his head from his body. His head rolled away, his body slumping to the ground in a heap. Yet, just like the woman before, there was no blood, no reaction—only an empty, lifeless fall.
Elric had already drawn his twin daggers, moving swiftly to intercept another of the attackers. His blades flashed as he ducked and weaved, slicing through limbs and torsos with precision, but for every one he felled, another seemed to rise in their place.
"They’re endless!" Elric cried.
Eirlys gritted her teeth, focusing on the battle at hand. The Frostblade seemed to hum in her grip, its magic responding to the evil that surrounded them. She moved like a storm, her strikes quick and lethal, but it wasn’t enough. The villagers—if they could even be called that—kept coming, their numbers growing with each moment. Some of the scouts had already fallen, overwhelmed by the sheer madness that swarmed them.
Cedric fought beside her, his greatsword cleaving through their attackers with brutal efficiency, but even he was beginning to tire. "There’s too many of them!" he shouted, his voice hoarse. "We need to retreat!"
Eirlys could see the truth of it. They were being overwhelmed. Whatever curse had befallen these people had twisted them beyond saving. They were little more than puppets, their strings pulled by some dark force far beyond their understanding.
"Fall back!" she commanded, her voice cutting through the chaos. "Retreat to the edge of the village!"
The scouts who were still standing obeyed, fighting their way toward the outskirts of the ruins. Eñric darted past her, his eyes wide with urgency. "We can’t stay here, Eirlys! The cursed land is feeding them!"
Eirlys nodded, parrying another lunge from one of the cursed villagers before driving the Frostblade deep into his chest. The man crumpled to the ground, his face twisted in an expression of pure agony.
As they fought their way to the edge of the village, the remaining scouts formed a defensive line, covering their retreat. Eirlys could feel the oppressive weight of the curse pressing down on her, as if the very air was thick with malice.
When they finally reached the relative safety of the forest’s edge, the attackers halted, standing just at the boundary of the village. They did not pursue, but instead stood there, swaying slightly, their eyes still vacant, their bodies frozen in place.
Eirlys stared at them, her chest heaving with exertion. "What... what was that?"
Cedric wiped the sweat from his brow, his face pale. "That wasn’t natural. That was madness."
Eñric sheathed his daggers, his expression grim. "It’s the crown’s curse. It’s spreading, twisting people’s minds, turning them into... into that."
Eirlys looked back at the village, her heart heavy with dread. The journey to Drak’lor was growing darker, and now she knew—whatever evil they had faced here was only a taste of what awaited them at the cursed fortress.