1 The Final Chapter

The stench of blood filled the already rotten air, emanating from the impoverished village nestled amidst the remnants of a ruined forest. Now blackened and twisted, loomed overhead like ominous spectres.

A harsh land beneath their feet betrayed the scars of battles long past, with patches of scorched earth and tangled thorns clawing at anyone who dared to venture further.

Within this desolate landscape, a group of church knights faced off against each other, their silhouettes starkly contrasting against the eerie backdrop of the ruined forest.

The air hung heavy with an unsettling stillness, broken only by the creaking of the blackened branches overhead and the whispered rustle of dry leaves that clung desperately to the skeletal trees.

"Sigurd Arcadium, you dare to ignore the orders of our holy order?" demanded a black-haired knight at the head of the group, his hand clutching a rusted steel sword.

The blade's tip pointed accusingly at Sigurd Arcadium, a silver-haired knight who stood defiantly, his gaze unwavering.

Sigurd's eyes narrowed, a reflection of both weariness and resolve. "Orders that would see us lay waste to a broken and pitiful village? I joined the church to defend the weak, to slay the Agmar! Not to become an instrument of my people's suffering."

The black-haired knight sneered, his grip on the sword tightening. "These are witches we speak of! The cursed bitches with silver hair. It is not for us to question but to obey. You are no longer the second prince. Sigurd!"

A tension thickened as the other knights shifted uncomfortably, torn between loyalty to their orders and the unease sparked by Sigurd's words. "...Cursed bitches with silver hair. Then what am I to you? A cursed bastard?"

Sigurd raised an eyebrow, challenging. "Is blind obedience truly the path to righteousness, or have we lost sight of the principles we swore to uphold?"

"Must we truly attack them? Such a broken and pitiful village? Witch or not, they are living people!" Sigurd questioned, his voice cutting through the silence.

His sword, once gleaming, now bore the scars of battles fought in the church's name. He lowered it with arms spread, a solitary figure against the backdrop of the lonely forest, facing his former brothers in arms with a pained expression.

"Since when did those monsters count as people?" 

"Anthony!"

"Sigurd, by the church's orders, we condemn the betrayed. You shall forfeit your life unto our holy blades and seek atonement for thy sins."

All his former brothers drew their blades, a rusty yet golden shine from the setting sun covering them, as he reluctantly grasped his blade and took a stance.

"I refuse." A bitter and meaningless resistance, yet he must do this.

The stench of rot, blood and iron hung thick in the air as Sigurd faced off against the church knights, his former brothers-in-arms.

Despite his superior skill, the sheer number of opponents overwhelmed him. With each clash of swords, Sigurd's movements became more desperate, his silver hair flickering like a ghost in the moonlight.

"Sigurd, yield! The church has condemned you!" shouted the black-haired knight, his voice filled with anger and sorrow.

"My father taught me to stick with my beliefs! Anthony, Charles, Paul! I will not stop!"

Sigurd parried a blow but couldn't escape the encircling wall of knights. His reluctance to harm them hindered his every move. The swordplay, once a precise dance, now felt like a struggle against an unyielding tide.

As blades clashed and sparks flew, a sudden pain seared through Sigurd's chest. A gasp escaped his lips as he looked down to find a sword impaling him. His vision blurred, and the world spun. The black-haired knight, once a comrade, withdrew the blade with a mixture of remorse and duty.

"I'm sorry, Sigurd," he whispered, but the apology offered no solace.

Weakness overcame Sigurd as he fell to his knees, blood staining the already scarred earth. The knights watched in sombre silence, the weight of their actions settling upon them.

Sigurd's eyes dilated as he refused to release his sword, blood pouring down his church armour and tabard.

In that desperate moment, a haunting figure emerged from the shadows of the ruined forest – a witch, her eyes ablaze with curiosity. The knights turned their attention to her, momentarily forgetting Sigurd's fate.

"Why do you hesitate?" the witch questioned, her voice cutting through the heavy air. "Why do you strike down one of your own and call it righteousness?"

'She speaks to me?'

The black-haired knight, conflicted, struggled for words. Before he could respond, the witch raised her hand, and a dark energy surrounded her fingertips.

"Let me show you the true meaning of power," she murmured.

"El Cordis lacrima!" 

With a swift motion, the witch cast a spell that echoed through the silent forest. The hearts of the knights who betrayed him exploded as if a hand crushed them—then fell to the ground to be swallowed by the earth.

"You are not fated to die here, and their god can no longer judge you."

On the brink of death, Sigurd looked up at the mysterious saviour, gazing at the voice's source.

A beautiful fairy with long silver hair, some tied in braids, the rest dangling freely. Her crimson eyes flickered, the stars dancing in her iris as she fluttered her long lashes. Her palm tore open, blood pooling as she cupped it.

"We are not like them—do not mourn their loss. Fallen Prince."

The witch approached, her blood-stained palm extended toward him, oozing with beautiful red blood shimmering with golden specks of light.

"Drink," she commanded, offering her lifeblood.

'Why?'

Yet, he could not ask this question, because his weak mouth already drank the delicious ambrosia of the witch.

The elixir coursed through Sigurd's veins, an otherworldly warmth spreading from within.

As Sigurd's lips touched the last drop, a power surge jolted him, revitalising his fading senses. The world around him transformed, colours intensifying, and the ruined forest became a place of unearthly beauty.

Sigurd Arcadium, the Fallen Prince, had awakened to a new reality bound by blood and destiny—he was now a warlock, the first of his kind.

As the last echoes of the witch's spell faded and the once-scarred earth absorbed the remnants of the fallen knights, Sigurd felt a profound shift within him. Now bathed in an otherworldly glow, the forest whispered secrets only he could understand.

The witch withdrew her hand, the wound on her palm closing seamlessly. Her crimson eyes locked onto Sigurd, a mixture of curiosity and something deeper flickering within their depths.

"Welcome to your rebirth, Fallen Prince," she said, her voice carrying the weight of ancient knowledge. "The world will know of your awakening, and its response will be swift and unforgiving."

As if she felt something about him was different. The witch's gaze lingered on Sigurd for a moment longer than necessary. A subtle nod, imperceptible to all but those attuned to the arcane, passed between them.

A gust of wind swept through the transformed forest, and suddenly, the once-dead trees burst forth with vibrant foliage.

The air was filled with the delicate fragrance of blooming flowers and delicious fruits. The grace of the enchanted realm was unveiled. It was as if the very essence of the forest had responded to Sigurd's newfound power, revealing its true, hidden beauty and vibrant life.

The stars above seemed to shimmer with newfound significance.

Sigurd, fully aware of his rebirth, stood amidst the breathtaking beauty. The witch, voice laden with ancient knowledge, spoke, "Walk with me, Sigurd. You are now part of a world where untold mysteries await."

They ventured into the heart of the revitalised village, shadows dancing in harmony. The air pulsated with latent magic, and Sigurd knew that his awakening marked a personal rebirth and the beginning of an extraordinary journey.

The last chapter as a Knight had concluded, but the tale of Sigurd Arcadium, the Fallen Prince turned warlock, had only just begun.