──────────────⋆˖☽ ​𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑫𝒆𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒂 𝑮𝒂𝒛𝒆 ☾˖⋆──────────────

The hard-packed dirt path bled into the jarring rattle of cobblestone as the town gates of Verdelith loomed ahead. Behind me, the clatter of a heavy cart grew louder, a frantic rhythm against the stones.

“Get clear!” a man bellowed, his voice raw with effort.

I threw myself aside, landing with a grunt in the dusty verge. A moment later, a burly merchant hauled a wagon laden with barrels past the very spot I’d been standing. He shot a venomous glare over his shoulder. “By the moons, watch yourself.”

I ducked my head, a familiar, hollow gesture of apology, and held it there until the sound of his trudging faded. The town gates stood agape—a small mercy. No guards meant no questions.

The moment I stepped inside, the air changed. It was thick with the sweet, almost cloying scent of flowers. To my left, a young woman was misting a cart that overflowed with daisies and sun-blossoms, their colors a vibrant shock. Further in, a small boy, no older than seven, laughed as he tossed breadcrumbs to a frantic flutter of Chitterwings. His joy was a bright, fragile thing. It shattered when a nearby door flew open.

“Teddy! What did I tell you about wasting good bread on vermin?”

The boy flinched as if struck. His shoulders slumped, his bright laughter snuffed out. “Sorry, Mom.”

A familiar ache settled in my chest. I turned my gaze from the small, casual cruelty of the scene to the town itself. The houses were sturdy, two-story stone affairs, huddled together as if for warmth. In the hazy distance, the rhythmic motion of farmers tilling their fields promised a bounty I knew was an illusion. Along the main thoroughfare, vendors hawked their wares from beneath colorful awnings.

My attention, however, was snagged by the town’s storehouses—impossibly large, their stone walls bulging with the promise of grain and produce. How? The question burned. How could Verdelith flourish when the rest of the land starved?

I forced my gaze away and moved toward the central market. And there it was. The reason. It clung to every stall, a greasy, black smoke. A miasma. With it came a psychic chill, a phantom taste of rot and despair that settled deep in the bones. It pulsed from the glistening apples, the plump sausages, the neatly stacked wheels of cheese. It was the taste of the curse. Or maybe I’m just mad, a small voice whispered. I crushed the thought. I knew what I saw.

Then, a flicker of light in the gloom. An older woman’s stall. She sold wheat, bundled neatly, alongside mounds of lettuce and vibrant red tomatoes. The miasma was still there, but it was faint, a translucent shimmer that wavered as if struggling to take hold. This is it. The thought was a jolt of desperate hope. This is what I’ve been looking for.

I pulled the deep hood of my cloak lower, casting my face in shadow. The woman offered a warm, crinkle-eyed smile to passersby, her voice a gentle invitation. I took a slow, steadying breath, shifted the heavy bundle of hides in my arms, and stepped forward.

“Oh, hello, dear,” she said, her kindness a thing I could only observe, not feel.

“Hello,” I managed, the word a rough murmur aimed at the ground.

“Looking for something special today?”

“The wheat,” I said, pointing with my hand. “And that lettuce. Some tomatoes.”

“Hmmm,” she hummed, a thoughtful sound that felt heavy with scrutiny. “That’s a full two baskets’ worth. A fine choice. What do you have for trade?”

I held up my bundle. “Skulking hide. Five of them.”

Her smile tightened at the edges. She clicked her tongue, a soft, dismissive sound. “Oh, I am sorry, dear. That’s hardly enough for one basket, let alone two.”

My free hand clenched into a fist, my jaw locking so tight it ached. It was always this way. The moment they sensed a desperation, the price changed. But this time was different. A younger woman, likely her daughter, who had been arranging herbs in the back, stepped forward.

“Mama, look again,” she urged in a low voice. “That’s a fine bundle. Five hides? It’s more than fair for two baskets.”

The old woman fell silent, her gaze fixed on my offering. When she looked back up, the warmth was gone from her eyes, replaced by a cool, calculating appraisal. “Well, then. I suppose you’re free to take your custom elsewhere if you think my price is unfair.”

Panic, cold and sharp, flared in my gut. I glanced at the neighboring stalls, at the oppressive, jet-black miasma that coiled around their produce like a serpent. There was no elsewhere. This was the only food that might have some taste, the only sustenance that might quell the gnawing hunger for more than an hour.

My voice was tight, strangled with a desperation I fought to conceal. “A basket and a half?”

“You seem a hesitant buyer, dear,” she said, her voice now like ice. “And you haven’t had the simple decency to look me in the eye. My offer stands. One basket for your bundle. Take it or leave it.”

This was the last resort. The one I always tried to avoid. Finally, with a sigh that felt like defeat, I lifted my head and met her gaze.

The effect was instantaneous and violent. The woman’s brown eyes blew wide with terror. She physically stumbled back, her hands flying to her mouth to stifle a scream that died in her throat.

Please, don’t scream, I begged silently, the plea a frantic drumbeat in my head. Please, not here.

“You’re… you’re…” she stammered, her voice a strangled whisper.

“Will you accept the trade?” I cut her off, my own voice flat, devoid of all emotion.

“Oh! Yes, of course, yes!” The words tumbled out of her in a rush of terror. Her hands shook so violently she could barely grip the wicker handles as she frantically filled two baskets. Her eyes darted everywhere but my face. “Please, just… just don’t bring any trouble. We don’t want any more curses here.”

I remained silent. There was nothing to say. I had tried explaining, once. The fear only ever sharpened into rage.

“Set the hides on the ground there,” she whispered, pointing with a trembling finger.

I did as she asked, pulling my hood even further down, acutely aware of the market’s potential eyes on us. She practically threw the baskets at me. I caught them, the heft of the food a small, solid comfort against the gaping emptiness inside me.

“Thank you.”

I turned and walked away, melting back into the crowd. A fair trade, in the end. As I navigated the throng, a new sound cut through the market’s din: the clear, sweet notes of a lyre. The melody wasn’t just music; it was a line cast into the air that seemed to snag on my very soul and pull.

Against my better judgment, I followed it.

The sound grew louder, drawing me toward a small wooden stage set before rows of simple benches where a crowd was gathering. A pang of memory, sharp and unwelcome, lanced through me. I hadn’t seen a troupe perform since I was six years old, curled safely in my mother’s lap. I could almost feel the warmth of her arm around my shoulders, her breath a gentle whisper in my ear. ‘Are you ready for the story, my little star?’

“Find your seats, good people of Verdelith! The tale is about to begin!” an announcer boomed.

I slipped into a spot at the far end of a back bench, making myself as small as possible. The lyre player took his seat beside the stage. On the opposite side, a woman in storyteller’s robes emerged, her face solemn. As costumed actors moved into position, her voice rose, weaving a tale that danced with the lyre’s mournful chords.

In the center of the stage sat a prop dragon, crudely fashioned but effective. Its scales were a brilliant green, and its painted eyes, a searing crimson, seemed to gleam in the afternoon light.

“Listen, and remember!” the storyteller’s voice rang out, melodic yet clear. “Long ago, our world was cursed by the Great Dragon, Enkarthos! Our ancestors fell to their knees and begged him for mercy, but his heart was stone, and their pleas were but wind against a mountain!”

On stage, the actors groveled before the prop, offering up baskets of fake fruit and bread. The storyteller’s voice dropped, becoming a deep, resonant rumble that seemed to shake the very planks of the stage. “There is nothing your wretched kind can offer that will satisfy me!”

The actors wailed, their pleading growing more desperate. The storyteller’s voice rose to a furious crescendo. “Your begging only deepens my contempt!”

The dragon’s painted red eyes seemed to burn. I dropped my gaze to the dirt between my feet, the familiar words of the legend a bitter poison in my ears.

“He judged humanity wanting!” the storyteller cried, her voice cracking with performative grief. “And so, he laid upon us his Four Great Curses! First, the Curse of Ash and Dust, poisoning the soil so that all food it yields would be forever tainted with sorrow! Second, the Curse of Biting Wind, turning the seasons against us! Third, the Curse of Waking Nightmares, so that our minds would never know true rest! And fourth…” her voice dropped to a grim, chilling whisper, “he twisted the moon into his Baleful Eye, a constant, watching reminder of our plight, its light a beacon for all creatures that hunt in the dark.”

Her voice softened, filled with a somber finality. “When his terrible work was done, Enkarthos vanished from the world of men, hiding himself away where none might find him.” She paused, letting the weight of the words settle over the silent, captivated crowd. “But his legacy of hatred remains. The lesser dragons that still roam our lands have not forgotten their master’s grudge. To this day, they hunt us still.”

The lyre’s music swelled, but for me, the storyteller’s voice became a distant drone. My eyes were fixed on the prop dragon. On its painted eyes.

Crimson. Just like mine.

A white-hot hatred, ancient and intimately my own, burned through my chest. If it were not for Enkarthos—for his arrogance, for his curse, for these eyes—my life would not be this. The world would not be this.

Every last one, I snarled in the privacy of my mind. Vile, monstrous creatures.

I had heard enough. I shoved myself to my feet, the bench scraping harshly against the ground. Turning my back on the stage, on the story that had defined my existence, I walked away. It was time to get this food back to Caelfall.

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