*Book One of The Accursed Chronicles*
August was a man from a normal world, living a mundane life until one night everything changed, and he was sent spiraling into a world stuck forever in winter, full of magic, creatures, and a curse that has grip...
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A month had passed faster than I had wanted. August hadn't made much progress with being able to focus and manipulate his powers, say for being able to move a broom across the room to sweep the floors or to levitate to avoid me. He'd become a master at antagonizing me, but also a trusted ally despite how Leuthar had thought he'd stab us in the back.
When I wasn't forcing August to sit and read or meditate to clear his mind, I would be secluded upstairs in my own room, feigning that I was doing something important when I wasn't.
The truth was that while August had gotten comfortable with Laelmos and the prospect of having demon blood in his veins, I'd gotten uncomfortable or more than.
My darkness had grown worse, crippling my mind and clarity most days. I did my best to mask it, to act as I always did—firm and immovable—yet something, something since the day I had met August had it stirred within me. It wasn't his fault because he was oblivious to his effects on me, and it wasn't his fault that my darkness encompassed every failing that I'd ever had and that it threatened me daily to consume me if I didn't seek release from it, to allow the Vale to take me.
It offered me sweet salvation from the curse it bestowed upon me, yet my failings were mine and something I would carry forever. I didn't need to escape, even if the suffocation from The Remnant's demise had me weighed down.
After a break from August, I came out of my room, being met with a briny smell and aromatics that floated through the entire headquarters. I turned my head about, glanced up and down both hallways, before I stepped up to the railing of the second floor and looked downward.
The round room below was lit under hearth light and a candelabra set neatly in the center of the table. A tablecloth, looking eaten by moths, had been lined atop it along with three plates, matching utensils, and cups. I shook my head to myself, knowing it was August's doing once again. It was his ritual to attempt to make dinner every night, and so far he had yet to master that, complaining it was due to our lack of ingredients.
I thought it more to be due to his skills.
"Wrong."
The deep baritone voice came from Leuthar when he walked into the round room with August at his back. August carried a steaming dish, with mitts covering his hands while Leuthar held a pitcher.
"Gloom is the healthiest mage I know. I'll be damned if I let you slander him," Leuthar argued, setting the pitcher down before he faced August.
August huffed as he placed the oval dish onto the table. "He's the only mage you know." August flinched back when Leuthar raised his hand, attempting to strike August. "You know what I mean. He's been isolating himself a lot more lately and it just has me worrying that he isn't feeling good."
Leuthar scoffed, disbelieving of August's words. August was only the suspicious type when it came to me. I didn't know why that was, yet it bothered me greatly. If only he were like Leuthar and could keep quiet when necessary.
