The Curse of Hamlet

Chapter 18- Scars

Hamlet, once a thriving kingdom, now lay in ruin. Its once-vibrant streets were now unnaturally quiet, save for the occasional cry of pain or the heavy tread of armed soldiers. The air hung heavy with the acrid scent of a dark world order, and the sky seemed perpetually shrouded in an ominous veil.

Seated upon his throne in the palace, Garth ruled over his people with an iron fist with Vergie acting as his right-hand man. His visage was twisted into a permanent scowl, and his eyes burned with a malevolent gleam. None dared approach him without trembling in fear, for his wrath was swift and brutal.

The denizens of Hamlet lived in constant terror, never knowing when they would be yanked away from their homes in the dead of night to face Garth's insatiable cruelty. Villages that had once known peace now cowered beneath the watchful eyes of armed guards, and the peasants were forced to pay exorbitant taxes to fund the king's lavish lifestyle.

Whispers abounded of Garth's dalliances with dark magic, rumors of pacts with demons and other malevolent entities that he consorted with to maintain his hold on power. It was said that he had bartered away his soul for the ability to control the wills and minds of his subjects, and many believed that his reign was a curse upon the land.

Those who dared to oppose Garth's rule were swiftly and mercilessly silenced, their voices quashed through public execution or incarceration in the wretched dungeons of the castle. Hope had fled from the hearts of the people, and they resigned themselves to a life of misery and subservience under their cruel and callous king.

The dawn of a new era had indeed arrived, but it was not the one that the people of Hamlet had dreamed of. A darkness had descended upon the land, and it seemed that there was no end to Garth's tyranny in sight. The fate of the kingdom hung in the balance, as the people prayed for a savior to deliver them from their oppressor's grip.

Qardesa...

Mark had veered off from Apollyon's instructions and instead headed North, leading Dante to the pool of life in Qardesa to aid his recovery. The echoes of the bubbling pool enveloped Dante as he submerged himself, lost in a trance while he revisited memories of his torturous days in Vergie's cell. His fall from grace had inflicted lasting damage on his psyche, causing him to suffer from intense anxiety and fear.

After a while, Dante roused from his trance, prying his eyes open and ascending from the pool with a deep sigh of relief. Mark observed from the pool's edge, uncertain of what to say as they exchanged a contemplative gaze in a weighty silence.

As Dante emerged from the pool, droplets of water cascaded down his sculpted form, steadily mending the scars and wounds of his troubled past.

"You brought me to this place?" he inquired in a commanding tone, the voice of a former king who had suffered a great fall from grace, as he donned his robes.

"Y-yes, my Lord," Mark stuttered, his body trembling as he cowered before the imposing figure of Dante, to whom the past few days of his life had been entirely devoted.

The awesomeness of Dante's presence was palpable, as his piercing gaze bore down upon Mark with an intensity that could not be ignored. Despite his fear, Mark could not help but feel a sense of awe and reverence for the once-mighty king, who had been so utterly transformed by his trials and tribulations.

Dante nodded in solemn agreement as Mark spoke of the fallen realm, his mind drifting back to his own past, which now seemed like a hazy memory. The weight of his past mistakes hung heavily upon him, forcing him to confront the harsh reality of his fall from grace.

"Your family is in dire need of you, my Lord," Mark urged, sensing Dante's hesitation. But Dante remained lost in thought, his gaze fixed on some distant point as he strolled aimlessly.