The storm lingered on the horizon as Kael and Tharion trekked through the desolation of the Ashen Wastes. The landscape was barren, lifeless, with jagged rocks rising like the broken bones of a dead god. The air carried an unnatural chill, though the sun hung high in the sky.
Kael walked several paces behind Tharion, who moved with a strange grace for someone encased in jagged, heavy armor. Despite the knight's ominous presence, Kael felt oddly comforted by his company. Tharion was silent, his helm fixed forward, yet Kael could sense the weight of his gaze whenever the young mage stumbled or hesitated.
After hours of walking, Kael's curiosity finally got the better of him. "What happened to this place?" he asked, breaking the silence.
Tharion stopped and glanced back, his helm glinting in the sunlight. "This was once a land of life," he said. "Fields of golden grain, rivers that sparkled like silver. Until the gods turned their backs on it."
Kael frowned. "Why would the gods abandon it?"
Tharion chuckled, a bitter sound. "The same reason they curse mortals. Power, pride, vengeance. The gods are not as noble as your priests would have you believe, boy."
Kael bristled at the condescension but let it slide. He didn't have the energy to argue. Instead, he focused on the growing unease in his chest. The storm was no longer a distant threat—it was a living thing, creeping closer with every step they took.
---
By nightfall, the two had reached the edge of Karesh-Thal. The ruins were a jagged silhouette against the blood-red sky, its once-mighty walls now crumbling under the weight of centuries. Shadows pooled unnaturally in the crevices, and the air hummed with a faint, ominous energy.
Kael shivered. "This place feels… wrong."
Tharion nodded. "It is cursed. The gods made certain of that."
"Why would the Protector come from here?" Kael asked, more to himself than to Tharion.
"Because this is where curses are born," Tharion replied.
Kael tightened his grip on his staff and followed Tharion into the ruins. The ground beneath them was cracked and uneven, littered with bones and rusted weapons. Karesh-Thal was a battlefield frozen in time, the remnants of a war long forgotten.
As they ventured deeper, Kael's magic cast a faint glow, illuminating the ruins. The carvings on the walls depicted grotesque figures—warriors locked in eternal combat with shadowy creatures. The air grew colder, and Kael's breaths became visible puffs of mist.
"Stay close," Tharion warned, his hand resting on the hilt of his massive sword.
Kael nodded, though he couldn't help but feel like they were being watched. The shadows seemed to shift and writhe in the corners of his vision, and faint whispers danced on the edge of hearing.
They reached what must have once been the central hall of the fortress. Massive pillars rose into the darkness, and at the far end of the room stood a shattered throne. Kael's eyes were drawn to the figure sitting upon it.
It was a man—or what was left of one. His body was gaunt, his skin stretched tight over his bones, and his eyes glowed with an unnatural red light. His armor was blackened and corroded, and a massive, rusted sword lay across his lap.
"Tharion," the figure rasped, his voice like the grinding of stone.
Kael froze. "You know him?"
Tharion didn't respond immediately. He stepped forward, his movements deliberate. "I know him," he said finally, his voice heavy with something Kael couldn't place—regret, perhaps.
The figure on the throne let out a wheezing laugh. "It has been centuries since I saw another of our kind."
"Our kind?" Kael asked, glancing at Tharion.
"We were the same," Tharion said, his tone devoid of emotion. "Cursed knights, bound by oaths and chains."
The figure leaned forward, his glowing eyes fixing on Kael. "And who is this? Another fool chasing prophecies?"
Kael felt a surge of indignation but held his tongue. "I'm here to stop the Shadow. The prophecy says—"
"The prophecy," the figure interrupted, his voice mocking. "Always the prophecy. You think it will save you?"
"It's all we have," Kael shot back. "If we don't act, the world will fall."
The figure chuckled again. "The world is already falling, boy. The gods have abandoned it, just as they abandoned us."
Kael turned to Tharion. "You said you'd help me. Doesn't that mean something?"
Tharion was silent for a long moment. Then, he stepped forward and drew his sword. Its blade glinted faintly in the dim light, despite the rust that covered its surface. "Enough words. We need answers."
The figure on the throne grinned, revealing teeth as sharp as knives. "Then prove your worth, Tharion. Show me you still have the strength to bear your curse."
With a deafening roar, the figure rose from the throne, his massive sword cleaving through the air.
Tharion met the blow head-on, their blades colliding with a sound that echoed through the hall. Sparks flew as the two cursed knights clashed, their movements impossibly fast for warriors clad in heavy armor.
Kael stumbled back, his heart racing as he watched the battle unfold. The air crackled with energy, and the shadows seemed to feed on the violence, growing darker and more alive.
Tharion fought with brutal efficiency, his sword striking with the force of a hammer. But the figure on the throne was no less formidable, his strikes fueled by an unholy strength.
Kael knew he couldn't just stand there. Gathering his courage, he raised his staff and unleashed a burst of light toward the throne, hoping to disrupt the shadows.
The light struck true, illuminating the room and forcing the shadows to recoil. The figure snarled, momentarily disoriented, and Tharion seized the opportunity. With a powerful strike, he sent the figure crashing to the ground.
Panting, Tharion planted his sword in the ground and turned to Kael. "You'll learn quickly, mage. In this world, strength speaks louder than words."
Kael nodded, still trembling. "Is he… dead?"
The figure let out a low, rasping laugh. "Dead? No, boy. Not yet."
As the shadows closed in once more, Kael realized their journey was far from over.