Chapter 35
The Return of the Spirits
A Shaking Earth and a Broken Seal
The ground trembled.
Deep beneath the forgotten ruins of Eldarath, an ancient force stirred. It began as a whisper—a ripple of dark energy that spread through the veins of the world, reaching places untouched by time. The Eternal Flame had unknowingly broken a seal older than human memory, and the spirits of Eldarath had awakened.
In the dead of night, across cities, forests, and villages, shadows moved where no light should exist. In mist-covered valleys, whispers carried on the wind, turning into wails of agony. People spoke of figures emerging from nowhere, hollow-eyed, shrouded in spectral energy, moving with unnatural grace.
Europe was no longer safe.
The dead had returned.
The First Signs of Chaos
Seraphine stood at the edge of a ruined chapel, her breath visible in the cold night air. The village of Montreuil lay ahead, its streets eerily silent. But she could feel it—something unnatural had taken hold.
As she moved cautiously through the abandoned market square, she saw the first sign. A spectral figure hovered above a well, its translucent form flickering as though caught between realms.
Then, it turned.
Its face was twisted in an unnatural grimace, half-decayed, half-human, its eyes empty voids of suffering.
Before Seraphine could react, it lunged.
She barely managed to roll aside as the spirit let out a piercing shriek, a sound that sent chills racing down her spine. The air around her grew dense, heavy with an ancient energy.
More were coming.
She had to find help.
The Gathering of Witches
Seraphine's journey led her deep into the heart of the Blackwood Forest, where few dared to tread. This was where she would find them—the only ones with the knowledge to fight this growing threat.
The Rogue Witches of Blackwood.
Unlike the Grand Coven, these witches answered to no council. They followed no king, no queen, and no master. They were outcasts, but their power was undeniable.
As she stepped past the towering trees, the scent of burning herbs and magic filled the air. Then, voices echoed from the clearing ahead.
They had been expecting her.
A woman draped in deep crimson robes emerged from the shadows, her silver hair falling in wild waves over her shoulders.
"Seraphine of Eldarath," she said, voice calm but sharp as a dagger. "You bring restless spirits in your wake."
Seraphine didn't flinch. "And you are Esmeria, the Witch of the Forgotten Grove."
A smirk. "So you do know me."
"I need your help."
Esmeria studied her, eyes glowing faintly in the moonlight. Then, with a nod, she gestured for Seraphine to follow.
A Ritual for the Lost
Inside the heart of the witches' sanctuary, a massive spell circle had already been drawn upon the earth. Candles flickered despite the absence of wind, and the air thrummed with latent power.
"You are not the first to seek aid," Esmeria murmured, running her fingers along the aged pages of a leather-bound tome.
"The spirits that now haunt this land are not mere ghosts. They are the forsaken souls of Eldarath, trapped between life and death for centuries. The Eternal Flame has shattered their prison, and now they roam, seeking vengeance—or worse, purpose."
Seraphine tightened her fists. "How do we send them back?"
Esmeria turned the pages carefully. "We must perform the Binding Ritual."
The words sent a chill through Seraphine.
Binding a spirit meant more than just banishing it. It meant trapping it, severing its will, and forcing it into eternal slumber.
"This is the only way?" Seraphine asked, unease curling in her gut.
Esmeria's expression darkened. "If we do not bind them, they will only grow stronger. Soon, they will be beyond even our power to control."
Seraphine exhaled slowly. There was no choice.
"Then we begin."
The Spirits Strike Back
As the witches began their preparations, the air shifted. The spirits knew.
Dark clouds churned overhead, swallowing the moon. A bitter wind swept through the clearing, carrying with it a sound like a thousand voices screaming in unison.
Then, the forest erupted into chaos.
Ghostly figures descended from the treetops, their eyes glowing with otherworldly fire.
The witches reacted instantly, chanting in unison, their voices weaving a protective barrier around the ritual space. Blue flames shot up, forming a warding circle against the incoming spirits.
But some were already inside.
One of the witches let out a choked gasp as a spirit passed through her body. Her skin turned pale as ice spread across her veins—her life force draining in mere seconds.
Seraphine drew her enchanted dagger.
"We hold them off until the ritual is complete!" she shouted.
The Battle for Souls
Flashes of magic illuminated the clearing as spells collided with the spectral invaders.
Seraphine danced between shadows, slashing at the spirits with silver-lined steel. Each strike sent a ripple of energy through the air, forcing them back—but not destroying them.
Esmeria and the remaining witches stood at the center of the circle, hands clasped, voices rising in perfect harmony.
The Binding Ritual had begun.
The earth trembled.
A great, glowing sigil appeared in the sky, pulsing with power. The spirits howled as unseen forces began pulling them toward it.
But one resisted.
A figure in tattered royal robes, its face obscured by shadows, raised a hand.
It was no ordinary spirit.
Esmeria faltered, her breath hitching. "This… this one is different."
Seraphine's eyes narrowed. "Who is it?"
Then, in a voice that had not been heard in centuries, the spirit spoke.
"I was once King Aldrian of Eldarath. And I will not be bound again."
The Wrath of a King
With a wave of his spectral hand, the sigil shattered.
A shockwave blasted through the clearing, sending the witches tumbling to the ground. The remaining spirits rallied to his side, their broken forms glowing with renewed strength.
Esmeria gasped. "This is no mere ghost. He is an Ancient."
Seraphine gritted her teeth. Aldrian. The last ruler of Eldarath.
"We must end this—now!" she shouted.
She charged forward, dagger gleaming in the dim light. Aldrian met her strike with a blast of raw energy, sending her skidding across the dirt.
The witches scrambled to reform the ritual, chanting louder, their combined power forcing Aldrian back—just slightly.
But it wasn't enough.
Seraphine knew what had to be done.
She reached for the last binding stone at her belt—the one tool powerful enough to trap even a king's soul.
"Aldrian!" she called, stepping forward. "You were a king once! A ruler! Do not let your people suffer further!"
For a moment, the ancient king hesitated.
His form flickered. His rage wavered.
But before he could respond, Esmeria completed the final chant.
A blinding light engulfed the clearing as the spirits let out a final, earsplitting wail.
Then—silence.
When the light faded, the spirits were gone.
The Binding Ritual was complete.
A Costly VictoryThe witches were exhausted, some barely standing. Esmeria wiped blood from her lip, her expression unreadable.
Seraphine, panting, turned to the spot where Aldrian had stood. Only a faint shimmer remained.
"It's over," she murmured.
Esmeria shook her head. "No. This was only the beginning."
And in the ruins of Eldarath, where the seal had first been broken, something far darker stirred.
The real battle was yet to come.