Chapter 1-1
When Morgan arrived back at the village, he found an eerie emptiness hanging in the air, as if someone had wiped away the very essence of the village. There were a few unsettling remnants left behind, serving as a stark reminder of what once was.
As he walked through the desolate streets, Morgan couldn't help but notice the suffocating scent of abandonment that lingered. It was a mix of decay and loss, a reminder of the inevitable fate that had befallen the village. The sight of the empty houses, stripped of their belongings, only added to the sense of desolation. It was as if a cruel hand had wiped away all signs of existence, leaving behind nothing but a void.
It became clear to Morgan that the Oracle Sandra Brandywine had been nothing more than a clever diversion, a sacrifice made to ensure her people's escape. The realization filled him with a bitter disdain for love and all its foolishness. The word itself became more repulsive to him with each passing moment, igniting a deep desire to crush it and the happiness it brought to others.
No, Morgan despised love. The very concept repulsing him, and instead, he harbored a newfound fascination with power. He yearned to become the most formidable deity across all realms, commanding the dark forces of the shadow realm. The scent of ancient scrolls and musty tomes filled the air, as he envisioned a future where he would obliterate the so-called gods of light and their devoted followers. In his mind's eye, he saw himself trampling upon their very bones, seizing whatever he desired, including their precious love.
Despite the desolation that surrounded him, there was a glimmer of hope, a tiny speck of optimism, in the form of the captives his army had managed to secure. The sound of their muffled cries echoed through the dank halls, serving as a reminder of his growing power and the fate that had befallen the captured oracle. These individuals, the remnants of a once-thriving community, were now under his control. They were the only remnants left before they too would disintegrate into stardust, just like the Oracle they once believed in.
Morgan took a moment to admire the camp he had established. The tents, although worn and patched, provided some semblance of shelter for his men and the captives. Each tent had specific roles assigned by Morgan, with the command tent standing tall in the center, flanked by smaller tents for the officers. The mess tent, with its long wooden tables and chairs hastily gathered from raided homes, served as the communal gathering place for meals and strategy discussions.
Despite the makeshift nature of their accommodations, Morgan took pride in the organization and efficiency of his camp. It was a testament to his leadership and the loyalty he commanded from his men. As for the captives, their submissiveness was crucial to Morgan's plans. He had handpicked those with some semblance of skill and strength, like Jarald Whitecrest and his son Desmond. Their prowess with a sword impressed Morgan, and he saw potential in grooming them to become valuable assets in his army. Their fear and resignation were merely tools to keep them in line, ensuring their unwavering obedience. Morgan cared little for their names or identities; to him, they were nothing more than pawns in his grand scheme for power and dominance.
Morgan had a dark and sinister demeanor, earning him a reputation for being ruthless and merciless. He had absolute authority over the prisoners and took pleasure in their suffering. The captors neglected the prisoners, leaving them to rot in filth, resulting in a putrid smell of decay and disease. Some prisoners died from their illnesses, serving as a grim reminder of the harsh conditions they endured. Morgan showed no remorse for their deaths; he saw them as expendable pawns in his pursuit of power and control.
Starlight Book 1
The training pit, a macabre spectacle, was a grim reminder of the violence that permeated the camp. The fenced-off area housed a deep pit, where brutal fights would take place, drawing an audience of bloodthirsty men from the camp. They would gather around, placing bets on the outcome, finding entertainment in the suffering and desperation of others. Morgan, who had grown up in a brutal environment, had faced his fair share of pain and hardship. He had endured grueling training in combat, honing his skills and embracing the darkness that lay within him.
His master, Hess, had taught him the secrets of shadow magic, an art that delved into the depths of darkness and manipulation. Unlike his father, who preached caution and restraint, Morgan had no time for such patience. He craved power and dominance, despising those he considered weak and feeble-minded. The Council of Light, with their altruistic and benevolent ideals, were nothing but a nuisance to him. He saw them as hindrances, standing in the way of his rise to power. In his mind, the elderly and feeble were burdens that needed to be eradicated, their usefulness long gone. Only those who could contribute to his cause had any value in his eyes. As Morgan reflected on his own tenuous existence, he knew that his survival relied solely on his usefulness to Hess. He was aware that any sign of weakness or failure would lead to his demise. He lived on the edge, constantly teetering between life and death, fueled by his insatiable hunger for power and dominance.
Desmond and his father, with their exploitable abilities, would prove valuable assets. However, they relegated the rest to menial tasks - such as boot-licking and carrying firewood - until they deemed them expendable. Their fate rested on Morgan's whims, and he relished the anticipation of that day. A twisted smile hidden behind a mask of indifference. As his aging master, Hess Lotti, approached, the scent of aged oak and decay permeated the air, mingling with the heavy anticipation. Morgan's mind wandered, envisioning the perfect trap he could set with the right men. Rubbing his unkempt beard, Morgan concealed his smile, knowing that success hinged on having the right allies by his side.
Hess coughed and wheezed, struggling to fill his old lungs with air. "So, Morgan, how did it go with the Oracle Sandra Brandywine?" he asked, his voice strained. "I hope it went better than the last four oracles we had killed regarding the keys and the artifacts of the Gods of Light." He stumbled, grasping onto Morgan's arm for support. "There's one in particular - the glass, stone heart that holds the mother's tear." Cough, cough. "Otherwise, we'll have no choice but to proceed with my alternative plan. Without that artifact I can't heal myself, or become young and vibrant as I once was." Cough, cough. "Before that accursed scroll cursed me and left me looking like this pathetic old man."
Hess wheezed and cringed in pain, trying to find a better position on his stool. "And no spell, no healer can do nothing, only the very God's, like my so-called father could stop it." He stuck out his old, knurled finger and pointed it directly at Morgan nearly falling flat on his face. "But you know, and I know. That there isn't a chance in hell of that he, or my accursed mother, would help me. They would see this as a failure and abandon me to my doom."
Hess gratefully took a seat, his movements labored. He despised showing weakness as he deteriorated rapidly. Attempting to heat up a cup of soup proved futile, almost freezing it instead of warming it. Casting the spell in the first place drained his strength, but he pressed on, determined to gather information before they disposed of him or left his rotting corpse to the side. "You know this won't be a holiday in a cozy tavern with a warm fireplace and good food," he remarked, his voice tinged with resignation.
"No, it will be death, and a difficult one at that," Hess replied, his tone solemn. "We both know that the Cross Bone Gate Prison is the worst place for people like us. There is no easy escape, not without a cost. But nothing in this twisted life comes for free. I learned that, not
from your so-called dead father and his wretched wife."
Hess leaned forward and whispered. "There is one way though, and it is your job to make sure you do it. I have something hidden away: a scroll that will give access to the shadow realm and inside that realm you will find someone there that will help you free me. But the cost will not come easily, and won't be cheap." He wheezed and cough as
Starlight Book 1
his body shook from the strain of holding that position being forced to sit back down or fall down, feeling his legs tremble.
Hess coughed, his throat burning as dark blood stained his trembling hand. The metallic scent of it filled the air, a sickening reminder of the damage inside him. Morgan, standing beside him, knew the gravity of the situation.
"No, Morgan," Hess wheezed, his voice strained. "This person desires something far more precious than gold or silver. I possess it, hidden away, and I refuse to surrender it until you have paid the necessary price and learned from your past failure."
Hess struggled to laugh, a grotesque smile contorting his face. He pointed towards the graves of dirt, where Morgan's men had buried the villagers. Those unfortunate souls he had caught before they vanished into thin air, swallowed by the curse that plagued this forsaken town. The memory of their wails and screams echoed in his mind, a sick pleasure he took in their suffering.
"Now, get to work," Hess demanded, his voice raspy. "We must plan my demise, for my time is running short. I can only guess a few months, at best. You, on the other hand, must learn to endure the years that lie ahead. Learn the trick of hibernating, like bears, or hide until those boys finally emerge."
Hess chuckled, but it quickly turned into a fit of coughing, blood trickling down from his nose. The curse gnawed at his body, serving as a cruel reminder that his days were numbered.
"And you need me to guide you," Hess continued, his voice growing weaker. "To tell you how to find them, and the unique items that will unlock the secret chamber where I have hidden it. So that the accursed Gods of Light will never lay their hands on it…"
Hess paused, noticing Morgan's undivided attention. He knew he couldn't delay any longer. If he didn't lie down and sleep like the dead soon, he would become one himself sooner than he anticipated. As he collapsed onto the soft pillows in the nick of time, he couldn't help but feel a mix of relief and dread. The pain in his worn-out body was becoming unbearable, and the thought of enduring the torment his enemies had planned for him was terrifying. Yet, he knew that this was the only way to ensure the success of his grand plan.
For centuries, he had meticulously groomed his protégé, Morgan, molding him into the perfect instrument of his ambitions. Now, as the time for action drew near, he could only hope that his investment in Morgan would pay off. The fate of the worlds and realms hung in the balance, and he was determined to reshape them in his own image. Even if it meant sacrificing his own life and betraying the one he had mentored for so long. The weight of his decisions pressed heavily on him as he closed his eyes, knowing that the path ahead was treacherous and fraught with sacrifice. Then again, it always has been.