The Cursed Inheritance

The air was thick, thick with silence, between Seraphine and Alaric. Statues within the room, hooded heads bound, eyes aglow with hot blue hue that was not natural.

Carvings of runes upon the monolith reclining in the center of the room throbbed hard, reacting to their arrival. Inapparent bulk pressed near in the air, falling crushing upon them with whispers of antiquated mumurings.

"You should not have come," the statues intoned in unison, not softly or loudly, but at the same time.

Alaric's muscles flexed. His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword as his self bemoaned to strike ahead. The doors closed behind them—no turning back.

The way ahead was all there was to choose, and before them the meeting with what lay on beyond here at the mouth of the gulf.

Seraphine's fingers stroked over her daggers, her own breath trapped in the tension between them. "This is not a test," she breathed, her voice too soft to be heard.

Alaric moved forward, his eyes on the monolith. The book on the altar stretched out to him, runes curling, changing as if to mirror him.

"The bloodline must be cut," the statues spoke for a third time, and this time their bodies reshaped.

The first moved with a terrible grace, its stone form cracking as it lifted an ancient, rusted sword. The others followed, their fingers curling, their eyes glowing brighter. The chamber trembled, the monolith pulsing faster.

Seraphine cursed under her breath. "Looks like we're doing this the hard way."

The first statue lunged.

Alaric didn't have a moment to respond. Steel against steel, the shock down the length of his arm, the amateur strength of the blow against his teeth. He clenched them, stabilizing, resisting the final trace of strength as his sword clashed with the monster's sword hilts embedded. Shafts of sparks flared between them, and he realized then—the statues weren't stone.

They were worse.

The second statue approached, gliding fiendishly slowly. Its sword sliced through his exposed side. Seraphine strode faster. She spun around, the daggers glinting as she knocked the blow on the hilt and sent it reeling.

"They're faster," Seraphine gasped, dodging a blow.

Alaric breathed in deeply. "Then we do it swiftly."

He shifted his position, channeling his power into the blade of his sword. There ran gold fire down the sword hilt, twisted up like flames as he started to walk. His sword cut into the chest of the statue, cutting stone like one would a wound. The eye blinks—its first flaw ever.

Seraphine rushed past the second statue, drawing out her blade and shoving it into the vacant space behind its shoulder. The beast spasmed, its motion twitching for one beat—long enough for her to withdraw her blade and cut across the runic strand that held its shape.

It fell to dust.

The others did not linger, however.

More statues materialized, half-encircling them. Their swords hummed with the same blue energy as the monolith, their aglow eyes fastened on Alaric as if he was the only individual in the universe.

Seraphine's hold on her daggers stiffened. "I don't believe they're going to let us go."

Alaric's jaw worked. The statues' words echoed inside his mind like a deranged drumbeat. *The bloodline must be broken.*

The statues moved closer to them.

Alaric shoved them into them. His sword was a thin one, cutting into theirs with spasms of power. Cracks spread through their forms with each strike, but with each smashed statue, a new one filled the gap. The room itself appeared to be giving birth to them, a ceaseless wave of attackers.

The monolith rotated faster.

And then, unheralded, a *crack* of heat incinerated the air as a geyser of energy erupted out of the monolith. Alaric and Seraphine were thrust to the ground. The statues that had been motionless began to freeze, suspended in the air, their radiant eyes covering over as though someone had corked them up.

They toppled, separately.

Stone upon stone, reduced to dust. Light seeped out of their empty eye sockets. The runes upon the monolith were erased, their luminescence quenched by sea water from the seaside. The room dropped sharply, unnaturally still.

Alaric could not sit, his breath gasping. He glared across at Seraphine, already risen, her gaze fixed upon the altar.

The book did not move.

It lay undisturbed in among wreckage, its black leather cover throbbering softly. Auroras of leftover magic swirled around it, runes on its cover twisting like living script.

Alaric paused, then set a hand upon it. He extended his fingers, his skin trembling inches from the surface of the book. Magic groaned in the air, heavy and stifling.

The moment skin touched binding, reality *shuddered*.

Night enveloped him completely.

He was nowhere. Not with Seraphine.

A throne of darkness, the void, covered in silver fire stretched out before him. A hooded figure lay on it, its form enshrouded in blackness. There was nothing else to look at but eyes—two blaze eyes that seared him, to the very core of himself.

A ravenous, feral voice thundered in the void. "So you walk the path of vengeance."

Alaric's knuckles were white. "What are you?"

The figure did not stir, but the shadows that had clustered around them twisted and convulsed, a living entity. "That is not the question which you must ask."

The darkness enveloped him, wrapped him around.

And then—

He was made whole.

Reality slammed into hard reality. The room whirled back to geometric rigidity, the impact of the vision against his chest. His heart thudded in his ears, his body shaking with shock at what he'd just seen.

Seraphine's hand on his shoulder turned him around. "Alaric. what happened?"

He swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on the book in his hand.

"I don't know," he admitted. "But however this is. it's only the beginning."

There was the distant thunder, shaking the room, distant but unrelenting. The earth moved under their feet, walls expelling pent energy.

And at the bottom, far down, there was disturbance.

The trial commenced.