*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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Muffled screams, distant rushed footsteps, and the sound of crackling and sizzling faded in and out. I staggered through an alley, being knocked around by blurry shadows that ran past and through me. Smoke filled the air and ash rained down around me. Flames spread through the alley, climbing up the buildings and inching down the road. The flames danced around a dark figure that walked with the fire, and as they neared, my legs began to buckle.
The man among the flames resembled me. His hair was fiery like the flames and his familiar eyes pierced mine, but the color of them was ink. I dropped to my knees and shook my head, pleading for the lives of the people that fled. My pleas fell upon deaf ears. The fire rose higher, consuming everything it could, and then his lips parted and emitted a deafening roar. The ground beneath me shook and I covered my ears with my hands.
Then I gasped and sat up, placing a hand on my chest. I looked around the room and placed myself as still being in the apothecary and not in the nightmare, even though it lingered in my mind. Chills creeped through me, making me shudder. I raked my hands through my hair before I put my face in my palms.
That wasn't what I wanted. I couldn't kill thousands of innocent people when they had nothing to do with what had happened, but that part of me that flowed alongside the Vale had me pointed towards revenge. It... no, I wanted to wipe Darrose off the face of Laelmos. I wanted to see their homes go up in flames and for them to lose everything think I had. I wanted to unleash the power that surged through my veins, then they would have reason to fear me.
But that was wrong. That was against who I was. I didn't kill. What was wrong with me?
"August."
I opened my eyes faster than I could think, hoping the voice had been Ronan's, but when my gaze fell upon a soundly asleep Ronan, I knew it wasn't him. Not even after a day had passed had he awakened yet. If only Saint would finish the last two antidotes. I grew more anxious with every passing second that Ronan laid on his deathbed.
"Are you alright?"
Saint stared at me from the doorway with a tray in his hands that held a teapot and a single cup. I swallowed thickly and forced a nod, though I felt sick to my stomach, like physical knots were forming in it.
Ever since yesterday when I had panicked teleported us here, I had been having restless naps with countless nightmares. In each, I—or the other version of me—was killing people and doing it while I watched helplessly. I felt stuck in a body that wasn't mine anymore and wondered when I would snap and hurt someone I didn't want to.
Saint remained quiet as he walked around behind my chair and over to the nightstand. He set the tray onto the nightstand, then picked the teapot up and began to pour the steaming contents into the cup. I wet my parched lips before I dropped my gaze to my folded hands in my lap.
He was trying his best to save Ronan and here I was getting pissed that he was taking too long. It was wrong, to where I didn't want to accept his generosity.
