Sweat beaded on his brow as he continued working in his tiny, overheated house. He had never cast a spell this complex before, nor one that required quite this much heat to even begin to work.
Dirt from a holy place, the blood of a murderer, intricate lines of salt across the floor... Slowly but surely, he could feel the spell starting to take hold. He started chanting, the ancient, sharp syllables stumbling across his lips. When he finally stopped, a little purple light danced faintly in the middle of his living room.
He did it. He had awakened the ultimate source of power.
YOU ARE READING
Tiny Stories Part 2
Historia CortaMy second collection of microfiction, sometimes dealing with the mundane, but mostly dealing with the magical. Unlike the first collection, the stories in this one are based on inktober prompts.
