The Cursed Inheritance

The world was silent. Too silent.

Alaric gasped behind a colossal oak, his fingers clawing at the wet earth in spasms of pain. His body was twisting into wracks of agony, all his muscles crying out in agony from the insane dash through the forest. But he couldn't stop now.

The moon held sway over the sky, its malevolent and reddish light slashing its way over green thickets. Levers whirled in the air upon the gale that had blown a rough, icy laugh. He thrilled with a shiver.

He wasn't finished yet.

His mother's frantic, crying voice echoed in his mind. Run, Alaric! Run! He clenched his teeth, forcing the burning pain at the rear of his eyes aside. He could not stay where he was. He must survive.

He leapt off the ground, his naked feet scuffling against damp leaves. The chill seared into his flesh, but much less savagely than the icy fear consumed in his very being. His father—no, the beast with his father's face—still waited outside. Waiting. Stalking.

He heard a twig snap behind him.

Alaric's heart missed a beat. He whirled, his heart thundering in his head. Woods stretched out on all sides of him, an impenetrable thicket of twisted limbs and suspended darkness. And something was there. He could feel it.

There was a ripple of air at the back of his neck.

Instinct had asserted itself. Alaric dodged as the clawed hand ripped through where he had barely avoided it. He struck hard, wind knocked from his body. He retreated slowly, frozen in shock as the figure stepped out of the darkness.

It was not his father. Not anymore.

The imposter towered above him, his good face twisted by something not human. His good eyes had turned cold pits of cruelty. A sadistic grin played across his lips as he moved in.

"You can run fast for a boy who's lost everything," Magnus taunted, his voice thick with sarcasm. "But running will not rescue you. Not from me."

Alaric struck the ground with his fists. His terror clawed in his throat, but beneath it, something else roiled. A rage. A wrath. A seething, bubbling need for revenge. He couldn't have saved his mother from what had been done to her. But he was going to survive. Not here. Not now.

Summoning what was left of strength that still lingered within him, Alaric spun and fled. He fled into the slashing branches, his eyes blind to all from exhaustion and fury. He did not know where he fled—only that he needed to be somewhere. He needed to be somewhere that he could make a fight out of this.

And then the woods dropped away.

In front of him lay the remnants of an ancient temple, pillar stones broken and weathered through the centuries. Vines entwined around walls, and something old and potent seemed to vibrate on the air. Alaric's breathing slowed as he came closer, drawn to the building as if by some primeval force.

Magnus snorted behind him. "You believe a pile of rubble is going to save your life?"

Alaric closed him out. His eyes fixed on the altar in the ruin. A pedestal, and upon it—one sword. Not a sword, one with a blade humming pale supernatural energy. The jade against his chest burned him for having drawn the blade so near.

One word hung.

Take it.

He flinched with the rhythm of a measure before he fell out and grasped the hilt in his hand. Power shook him, unmeasured and savage. The sword sang into his palm, its runes carving up the blade hard.

Magnus' snarl foundered. "What…?"

Alaric balled his fist. He was no longer that same cringing boy who had fled home.

The vendetta war began.

The sword's blood coursed through Alaric, shockwaves coursing through his body. His eyes flickered out of focus for half a second before snapping into place, his senses leaping into focus in seconds. He heard the thud of boots through leaves, the soft whush of wind, the cautious, measured step of Magnus.

"Do you even know what you're holding?" Magnus taunted. "That sword is worth more than you do."

Alaric took slow, deep breaths, steadying the shaking fingers. His fear still lingered, but now it was undercut by something else—a new strength.

"I don't care," he snarled. "If it can kill you, then I want it."

Magnus laughed, the laugh slow, it sent shivers down the air. "Brash words, boy." His body began to shift, the darkness around him churning like living tissue. "Try putting them there where they belong."

Alaric was unable to react in time when Magnus attacked him. The sword in his hand went its own way, deflecting his arm from the blow. Magic steel clashed with claws and sparks flew. Alaric clamped his teeth together and pushed Magnus back desperately.

His feet scraped against broken stone. Magnus' power was immense. He was not strong enough yet. But he had something now. A hope.

Magnus circled him, a monster in his gaze as it flashed with humor. "You believe this sword will kill you? You believe you can strike at me?" His fists did not tremble, but his voice did, and it did so in laughter.

Alaric's hold tightened. His arms throbbed, but he would not have his exhaustion go on display. He would not indulge Magnus that far. "I don't think," he repeated. "I know."

The room grew chilly. Magnus' grin widened even more. "Then prove it."

He struck again, with more force. Alaric attempted to parry, his sword against Magnus' claws in a dazed shock. The blow shook his arms, but he would not give way. He would not fall. Not yet.

The ruins of the temple shook beneath their feet as they fought on, each blow quivering the ground. Alaric grunted roughly and quickly, his muscles crying out in agony. But he did not stop.

For his mother. For his father. For revenge.

He would not lose.

Alaric dodged, leaping aside from Magnus' strike, and struck back with a slash downwards. The sword bit through the air, pulsing with increased energy. Magnus avoided it by a hair's breadth, his face growing black.

"You're learning," he admitted, eyes narrowing.

Alaric did not let up. He pressed on, sword outstretched before him, his body impelled by something he could not understand but knew. With every blow of sword and claw, a shock ran up his arms, but he did not let up.

His breathing was strained, his body depleted. But deep inside him, something had begun to move. A power. A promise.

He would win. He had to.

The fight was only just starting.