The fire crackled, its warmth flickering dimly against the cold, night air. Shadows danced along the edges of the camp as the immortals huddled closer, the gravity of the past stories still clinging to their thoughts. Lucius had been silent for much of the evening, his sharp features set in their usual mask of control. But now, as the others turned their attention toward him, he slowly rose to his feet, the dark leather of his long coat catching the firelight.
"It seems I've been left with the responsibility of the next tale," he said in a low voice, his tone betraying nothing of the storm that brewed behind his eyes.
Aurelia tilted her head, watching him carefully. "You don't have to, Lucius. We all know your past is… complicated."
Lucius met her gaze, his expression impassive. "We all carry scars, Aurelia. Some deeper than others." He turned his attention to the flames, the flicker of light reflecting in his cold, grey eyes. "But tonight is not about avoiding the darkness. It's about confronting it."
He drew a slow breath, his fingers resting lightly on the hilt of the blade sheathed at his side, as if grounding himself. The others remained silent, sensing that Lucius's tale, whatever it was, would be a heavy one. He was not one to speak lightly of the past, especially not of the darker corners of it.
"This story is about a man," Lucius began, his voice deep and measured. "A man who had everything—wealth, power, lands, armies sworn to his name. But none of it was enough. What he craved more than anything was immortality. He sought it with a hunger that consumed him, blinded him to everything else. He became obsessed, driven by the fear of death, by the terror of fading into oblivion."
Lucius paused, letting the words sink in. The immortals knew all too well the weight of immortality. It was not always a gift, as many believed. Often, it was a curse, one that eroded the soul over time, as the years stretched endlessly before them.
"This man—this lord—grew restless. His fortune could buy him many things, but not what he desired most. So he turned to the ancient arts. He sought out a sorcerer, a man of great power, versed in the old magic that few dared to speak of. The sorcerer offered him a deal: immortality in exchange for something of equal value—his soul."
The group sat in rapt silence, the weight of Lucius's words filling the air. It was clear that this story was not just another legend. Lucius spoke with the gravity of someone who had seen much, far more than any mortal could endure.
"The lord agreed without hesitation," Lucius continued, his voice soft but carrying an edge like the blade he carried. "The sorcerer performed a ritual, binding the lord's soul to his fortress, ensuring that as long as the fortress stood, the lord would never age, never die. But there was a cost. The sorcerer's magic twisted the bargain, as it always does. The lord became immortal, yes—but he was trapped. His body never aged, but he could not leave the fortress, could not step beyond the walls that now served as his prison."
Lucius's eyes grew distant, as if he could still see the fortress in his mind, standing tall and ominous, cloaked in the shadows of betrayal. His voice lowered, becoming a whisper. "But that was only the beginning. Over time, the lord's mind began to unravel. The centuries stretched out before him, unchanging, and with no escape. He was trapped within his own immortality. At first, the isolation drove him mad. He would wander the halls, alone, listening to the whispers that haunted the castle."
The fire crackled, and a cold wind swept through the camp, causing the immortals to pull their cloaks tighter. Eirik leaned forward, his eyes narrowed in concentration. He had a sense that Lucius was not merely telling a story—he was revealing something deeply personal, something connected to his own past.
"The whispers," Lucius said, his voice barely above a breath, "they grew louder. They weren't just echoes of his madness—they were the voices of those he had wronged, the souls of the men he betrayed, the family he abandoned. They filled the halls, whispering his name, reminding him of the price he had paid. Each night, they came to him, tormenting him, breaking his spirit piece by piece."
Lucius's hand gripped the hilt of his sword a little tighter, his jaw clenching as he spoke. "In a fit of rage, unable to bear the torment any longer, the lord slaughtered everyone within the fortress—his soldiers, his servants… even his wife and children. Their blood stained the stone floors, their cries echoed in the halls. But it did nothing to stop the voices. Their souls remained, bound to the fortress just as his was. And now, he was truly alone, surrounded only by the spirits of the dead."
The immortals exchanged uneasy glances. Even Thalos, who was usually so stoic, seemed disturbed by the tale. Nyssa sat with her arms folded, her expression guarded, while Elara looked at Lucius with a trace of sadness in her eyes.
Lucius took a deep breath, his gaze hardening. "The fortress still stands today, abandoned and forgotten, overgrown by the forest. But they say the lord's soul still wanders its halls, cursed to relive his madness for eternity. And the whispers… they continue, drawing anyone foolish enough to enter the ruins into the same fate. No one ever returns."
For a long moment, no one spoke. The weight of the story hung over them like a shroud, heavy and suffocating. The fire crackled, the only sound breaking the oppressive silence.
Finally, Eirik spoke, his voice quiet but tense. "That fortress… is it real?"
Lucius didn't answer right away. He stared into the fire for a long time before finally speaking. "It's real enough. I've seen it. I've walked its halls."
His words sent a chill through the group. There was something in Lucius's tone that suggested he wasn't just speaking of some distant legend. This was something far more personal.
Aurelia leaned forward, her golden eyes narrowing as she studied him. "You were there, weren't you? You fought in that place."
Lucius didn't deny it. His expression remained impassive, but his eyes betrayed the memory of something dark. "I've been to many places in my time," he said quietly. "Some of them better left forgotten."
Zahara, who had been listening silently, finally spoke up, her voice soft but carrying a weight of understanding. "Power always comes at a cost. And sometimes, the cost is far greater than we realize."
Lucius met her gaze, a silent agreement passing between them. "The price of immortality is often too high. You may never age, but the years take their toll in other ways. They erode your mind, your soul, until there's nothing left but a hollow shell of who you once were."
Nyssa, always pragmatic, nodded thoughtfully. "The lesson is clear. Be careful what you wish for, especially when it comes to immortality."
Lucius remained standing for a moment longer, his gaze sweeping across the group. "The past has a way of haunting us. No matter how far we run, no matter how many centuries pass, we are never truly free of it."
With that, he returned to his seat by the fire, his tale finished, but the darkness it invoked lingering over the group like a shadow. The immortals sat in silence, the weight of the stories told that night pressing down on them.
After a long pause, Isolde broke the silence with a small sigh. "I think we've had enough of these ghost stories for one night," she said with a wry smile. "Unless we all want nightmares until dawn."
The others chuckled softly, though the unease remained. Slowly, they began to settle down for the night, though their thoughts were far from peaceful. The fire burned low, and as the shadows deepened, the immortals couldn't shake the feeling that, somewhere out there, the whispers still lingered in the darkness.