King of Despair

Epilogue

Midnight struck—the perfect time to cast the spell. Thunder clapped against the black sky; water oozed strongly from the dark clouds. The wind howled through the open windows in the hut, scattering papers all over the place and blowing off the candles that Archar Nivon had lit.

With a flick of his wrist, the windows shut close with a loud bang, stopping the air, water, and the sound of thunder from distracting him from his primary goal.

With a single command from his mind, the black candles flared back to life. The flames casted eerie shadows all over the place: shadows which might scare away any mortal that dared entering his haven. Luckily, Archar Nivon was never born a mortal; he was born a witch, thus saving him from the rampages humans fought over daily. His house was usually considered a harbor of nightmares, where one's simple fears will come to life.

Eight black candles encircled him—black to invoke the person that brought to life the witches, Saint Jude—worshiper of the god of war and destruction, Seteus. Eight candles, each one pointing to every side of the compass. The candles were to help Archar manifest more magic. Candles were said to be a perfect magic conduit.

This, his thoughts echoed, is going to be for all my brothers and sisters that had been hanged, burned at the stake, and butchered for the last century. It was time for him to do something, or so that part of him that sought justice for his brethren thought. He couldn't stand anymore in the shadows; he couldn't stand there and just watch. Not anymore. You are insane, others had told him. He knew it wasn't madness or anything alike. It was a thirst of revenge. Revenge for the death of his people. Death for death.

There was a loud bang on the door.

He knew what made it. No—not what, who.

He threw the door open, and the guards of the royal court of Holden entered. He recognized the white clothes and white pelts worn on top used as armor. He felt disgusted by the single sight of them. Archar couldn't wait to see them drown in horror. They started approaching him, but Archar didn't let them take a single movement closer to him. They kicked, and pounded their fists and weapons on the invisible force field that surrounded Archar now. Fifteen men waited outside of it. Perhaps a whole legion awaited him outside his home.

He closed the doors, and the men began clawing at it, trying to pry it open. It didn't bulge a single centimeter. But they would never be able to pry it open, while Archar held control of it. Neither could they bring it down. Once they were in, they wouldn't be able to get out. A wicked smile spread across his face. The guards recoiled at the sight of him, thrashing and kicking against the door.

"By the name of our king, Noel Ringo, we, the Guard of the Royal Court of Holden, demand you to stop, or otherwise you shall be accused for practicing witchcraft, and thereby, sentenced to death." His voice quivered every time a new word slipped from his lips. All their faces were washed in horror, like if they had never seen a witch like him before.

Archar just shrugged. Not that he intended on letting all of them out.

He turned around and faced the Book of Shadows. It was said that this book contained everything, even the gates to the Wastes—place no mortal or witch has ever dared to visit. The book flipped opened, and the pages flew, one by one, until it stopped on the page that Archar needed.

He began chanting in the most powerful language ever known, one that has slowly transformed into one less sinister. It was a language that not everyone could speak today. Every word slipped out of his mouth easily.

"Oh, Jude, mother of us, I invoke you, to supply me with power to fulfill my purpose." The flames in the candles rose higher, as if she had answered his call. "Seteus, father of all that is wrong and bad, abide my words, for they mean no good."

"I said stop," the guard commanded. Archar just ignored them and kept going with the spell.

"With the power of the four elements: water—" he poured water into a bowl he had in front of him "—earth—" he threw some mud that he had picked earlier "—air—" he blew air into the bowl "—and fire—" a small flame ignited inside the bowl "—I, Archar Nivon, cast a curse over all of you. Mortals possessing powers that no human would be able to stop will bring destruction to you." He raised his arms and started waving them in the air. He whipped his head around, and faced the guards, weapons drawn. They had stopped trying to pry the door open, or any of the windows. They all looked at him, with horror and rage and despair

That was what he had felt whenever they had killed one of his people. Those emotions had driven him into what he was doing. The curse will spread all over this land, just as they had spread all over their lands.

"For years, you will suffer under their wings. Your misery will continue for years and years." His magic was becoming tangible now: a green, shimmering aura started enveloping him. He raised his voice, "You'll suffer until the end of days, which will be brought by one who will overcome death, and thereby become death itself."

"You're crazy if you think you can do that!" One of the guards yelled. Archar could hear yells coming from outside. They were barely audible for the storm still continued thundering through the sky and over the lands. It was sad; it was sad how all of that will be brought to an end someday soon. Yet, Archar didn't felt a pang of guilt at all.

"Listen close, for these are my words. No force in this realm will be able to break it."

And now, for the grand finale, Archar needed a sacrifice. But why just use one when he had an entire legion outside of his house? Archar was sure that the blood of a thousand men would help this curse to be unstoppable and even more powerful than anticipated.

Archar rose to his feet, and dusted off his red cloak and black pants. He smiled at the guards and they brought their weapons higher. Fools, like if they could harm me. They don't know with who they are messing with. He pointed one finger to one of the guards and then he dragged it all the way to another guard. Hopelessly, the guard dragged his feet; when in front of the other guard Archer had pointed, he plunged his sword deep into his heart. The sound of skin and pelts being pierced was music to Archar's ears. A scream of pain rang across the room.

After that, Archer broke war between them until just one of them ended up alive. Archar thought he would send him to spread word of what he had done. Spread word that will make the mortals fear the witches. To not kill them anymore. To teach them what happens when they mess with them.

When the blood was spilled, the sacrifice had been offered. The curse had been sealed.