The Cursed Inheritance

Dark and foreboding, night descended. Faint sparks of fire smoldered sluggishly, powerless to fight against the chill permeating Alaric's bones.

He reclined on a recumbent log, his stubborn body rugged-tread by Seraphine's merciless training but his mind refusing slumber.

With every leaping shadow on the fire, he saw before him the face in his dreams—his mother, gone to the brutality of Magnus.

His fists were clenched involuntarily. He still heard shouting, her look of shock as she was pulled back.

The pain was a sickness, a thumping in his chest, but it was something else also—he could feel it—determination. He was not going to be weak anymore.

He had vowed to unshackle her spirit, to get revenge on her behalf. And to be able to do that, he needed to become stronger than he ever believed was possible.

Seraphine's voice cut through the silence. "You're not sleeping."

Alaric looked up to see her watching him from across the fire, sharpening her dagger with slow, deliberate strokes. He sighed. "Can't. Too much in my head."

She nodded seriously, amber eyes lighting up with something that bordered on comprehension. "Pain is a good thing if you can allow it to make you inspired. But it'll kill you if you don't know how to turn it around on you."

Alaric grinned. "And I'll bet you've got that down?"

Seraphine glanced down at the sword clutched in her hand, hesitated. "Learned, no. But learned enough to continue, yes."

He raised an eyebrow at the gravity he heard in her tone. There was something there, but she did not know of finding a thing about it presently. He would not push it. He turned away to glance and observe the fire, how the flames flickered and nipped the black like tiny devils.

"Today we start actual training," Seraphine arose from her chair. "Your instincts are good, but instincts only take you so far. You have to be in control, strategic, and one step ahead of your opponent before he ever bothers with the problem."

Alaric rose from his chair, rubbing his shoulders. "I'm ready."

She smiled weakly on her lips. "We'll see."

Morning came too early. Low on the horizon, the sun as Seraphine woke Alaric from fitful sleep and bore him into dark woods. Bristling thorns, wet air heavy with moss. Every step a fight, forcing him to walk across shattered ground, leaping over hidden rubbish and the occasional killer root that would have killed him by throwing him onto the ground.

The journey was in itself a torture, pushing Alaric to the limits of his temper. Every molecule of him screamed to be released, yet were not granted them by Seraphine. She glided through between the bush with otherworldly quietness, the form of her line as distinct as the blades that she stalked by. When he fell behind, she vanished, to reappear the very next moment with an unreadable face. It was not a matter of keeping pace—it was a matter of survival.

When they came to an open area, Seraphine didn't tarry. She hurled him a larger sword than his own—the weight clumsy, heavier. Barely had he taken it into his hand when she struck him.

The initial punch had nearly sent him tumbling to the ground.

He was not even able to lift his sword when she fell upon him again, the blistering flash of her blow scorching and instantaneous. He swept it wildly aside, the numbing strike clanging up his arms. His own breathing was in raw gulps as he struggled to match her speed, but Seraphine gave no quarter.

"Too slow," she reproved, dodging his counterattack and knocking his legs out from under him. He struck the floor hard, the shock running through his body.

Alaric ground his teeth, rolling out of the way just as her dagger tip came within an inch of taking his throat off.

"You can't simply react," Seraphine said, backing off. "You must anticipate. Read my movement."

He pushed himself up, his body aching. "I'm trying."

"Try harder."

She attacked once more, and he focused—not on what she was doing but on what came after. He caught the fleeting change in position, the vanishingly slight stiffening of her shoulders as she charged him. When she charged, he was ready.

He whirled, her sword to his, as she danced around him and answering with one of his. She parried it with ease enough, but for an instant a spark of pleasure danced in her eyes.

"Good," she said. "But not quite so, no. Do it again."

The practice went on until the sun was beating hot over them. Alaric's muscles were aching with agony, but he was covered in sweat and did not yet pause. Every defeat, every stumble, made him stronger. He would never be weak. He would never be defenseless.

Finally, Seraphine brought him to an end. "Enough for today."

Alaric collapsed on the grass, his chest hammering. He had never felt more tired. Or more alive.

Seraphine sat beside him, looking up at the clouds. "You do have potential, Alaric. But without testing yourself to your limits, potential is nothing. Magnus will not be gentle with you. Neither should you."

Alaric nodded, determination gripping him. "I won't."

She remained silent as she continued, her voice gentler than before. "Your mother… was enchanted by dark sorcery. I mean that her spirit is there, imprisoned. If we are able to find the proper channel, there exists the possibility to free her."

His heart racing. "You're telling me… she can be saved?"

Seraphine looked at him sternly. "There exists hope. But we must journey deep into hostile territory to access it."

Alaric's knuckles whitened around his sword. "Then we ride. No matter what it costs."

Seraphine smiled. "Sleep now. We ride at dawn."

As Alaric slept, weariness at last overcoming him like a plague of slow-kill disease, one slogan ran in his mind.

He did not fight for revenge.

He fought for redemption.

And he would not fail.

In the darkness beyond the clearing, unseen eyes waited.

One of the men came out of the trees and into the darkness. His news would find Magnus with the dawn.

Alaric had no idea what would happen.

Far back in the woods, far from Magnus's fortress, there was a man perched on an obsidian throne. The message came into his hands, trembling, and as Magnus read it, a wicked smile spread onto his face.

"Thus the boy thinks he can get me down."

His was an evil and kind whispered, destruction's threat.

He spoke to his monster of hunger and dark, something.

"Invite him in," Magnus gasped. "And when he is here, ready we will be."

The visitor bent his head, and torches that lit the room quivered, night's darkness as their flames perished.

The hunt was begun.