"When the person responsible for the princess's death is identified and imprisonned."
The words glowed faintly in the torchlight
Carved into the pale skin of the princess's forehead
Their only remaining child
The kingdom's hope
Though no pulse stirred beneath her cold skin
The queen
Crumpled on the marble floor
The king stood
Motionless
Silent prayers to God
Long forgotten by them all
Save for her
She was still there
Unseen by them all
Trapped and trembling
Within her body
But then, a calm descended
This too is His will
Surrendering
She felt the profound peace
The sun hung high in the sky. Merchants shouted over one another, hawking fresh bread, bolts of cloth, and exotic spices. Beneath the shade of a gnarled oak, surrounded by a curious crowd, two figures sat at a worn wooden table.
One of them, a nobleman clad in a tunic of deep crimson trimmed with gold thread, leaned forward intently. Rings adorned nearly every finger, each bearing a gem more ostentatious than the last. A gangly boy draped in a tattered brown garment that hung loose over his wiry frame, sat across from him. The hood of the garment shadowed his face.
"You've been bested this time, boy," said the noble, Lord Alaric DeVannes, his voice rich with confidence. He placed his hand on the board, ready to make his move.
The crowd around them chuckled quietly, a mix of youths and working folk, most watching for the sport of the nobleman's pride rather than any love of chess.
Suddenly, another man stepped forward. A merchant by his attire, his linen tunic bearing the faint scent of salt and fish, he spoke with a grin. "I'll play you next, lad. Passed by here many times, never once seen you lose. But I'll be the one to take you down."
Emery, without looking up, reached into the folds of his garment and withdrew another chessboard. He placed it on the table, aligning it perfectly beside the first. "We can start now," he said in a monotone voice, his eyes fixed on the current game.
Lord Alaric's face darkened. The crowd erupted into laughter.
"You think you've bested me already? I'm nearly there. Me, Lord Alaric DeVannes, refuse to accept defeat by the hands of a pawn! "
The merchant smiled sheepishly. "I mean no discourtesy, good sir."
Emery slowly pulled back his hood, revealing his dark, disheveled hair and the hollows beneath his eyes as his gaze flicked briefly to the crowd before returning to the chessboard.
His focus shifted from one board to the other, his movements fluid. He would glance at the board on his left, make a calculated move on the right without looking, and then repeat the process in reverse. All the while, he shelled sunflower seeds, the discarded husks piling up beside him as he worked through them with mechanical efficiency.
Suddenly, the pile of husks scattered across the table as Lord Alaric slammed his fists down, jarring the chessboard. The noble's jaw was clenched, his eyes blazing with frustration, his defeat sealed.
Emery said nothing, merely leaned back slightly and placed his fingers over a pawn on the other board. Sliding it forward, he reached the back rank and calmly promoted it to a rook. "The pawn," he murmured, his tone measured and emotionless, "the lowliest and least powerful of pieces, can rise in status and gain great power. Never underestimate any pawn on the board."
Lord Alaric's expression hardened as he tossed a pouch of coins onto the table before storming off without a word.
The crowd erupted into muffled laughter and knowing smirks, a few bold whispers carrying through the square. Emery pocketed the coins, then addressed the departing figure in the same monotone, "Let's play again next week Lord!"
"Oyez! Oyez!"
A town crier stood at the center of the square, the sharp clang of his bell echoing throughout. "By royal decree, in the thirty-fifth year of the reign of King Henry, on this twenty-sixth day of August,.."
Abruptly, Emery stood, shoving the coins into the hands of his remaining opponent. "You win. I must go," he said, his tone brisk but distant.
The merchant called after him, bewildered. "But—one move and you'd have.."
The crier paused dramatically before continuing. 'The price of grain shall remain fixed through the week! Market stalls must .."
On his way out, he stopped briefly at a flower vendor, exchanging the last of his money for a modest bouquet.
Emery walked with purpose, his steps faltering only as he neared two weathered stones side by side. The graveyard was quiet, a stark contrast to the bustling square. He placed the flowers gently before them. His hood hid his face, his fists clenched.
It has been a year.. today, he thought bitterly. And I've done nothing. Changed nothing. What happened to you… could happen again today..
Worse yet, I almost.. His thoughts churned with frustration and regret. He turned to leave, when a distant voice called out ...
A stout figure in his forties or fifties, he leaned slightly to one side, clutching his lower back as though it might give way entirely. His straw hat was broad enough to cast a shadow over his bearded face.
"You'll forgive me for imposing, lad," the man began, his voice as gravelly as a cartwheel over stones. "But my back's gone stiff as a corpse in winter. I've tasks to finish before noon, and I'd make it well worth your time—coin enough to last you a day or more—for just an hour's work."
Ordinarily, he would have refused outright. After his parents' deaths, he had forsaken steady work, choosing instead the life of a wandering chess player—a solitary figure with no ties and no obligations. But as his thoughts turned to the remnants of his last earnings, now gone, Emery hesitated.
"Alright," Emery said at last. "Lead the way." The man offered a grateful nod. As they walked, Emery listened to his employer's voice ramble with the cadence of a man who'd spent too much time alone.
"The king's orders," the man explained, a hint of pride in his tone. "To rid the kingdom of superstitions. You see, these old graves—those of so-called magicians and conjurers—draw the wrong sort of folk. Pilgrims, fanatics, offerings at their gravesides… It fosters beliefs we've no use for anymore. The state aims to cremate such remains, to finish what His Majesty calls the secularization of the realm."
Emery said nothing, already regretting accepting the job. "We're digging up one of those today," the man continued. "A so-called master of magic. But don't worry—just need the body out of the ground. The rest's for the officials."
Emery gave a noncommittal grunt, more focused on the path ahead. But when they veered off the main road and exited the consecrated cemetery grounds, his steps faltered. "Quicker this way," the man said, gesturing to the outer path skirting the cemetery walls.
Emery's jaw tightened. He knew this route, knew what lay ahead. Beyond the consecrated grounds lay the graves of criminals—those denied holy burial. Among them was the man who had taken everything from him.
"I wish I could've put him there myself," Emery thought bitterly, his fists clenching at his sides. "If only he hadn't died so soon after…" The grave loomed as they passed, unassuming and weathered.
By the time they reentered the consecrated grounds through a smaller gate Emery hadn't known existed, his shoulders were taut with unease. They approached the grave in question—a grandiose monument adorned with carvings and piled high with offerings. Candles burned beside bouquets of flowers, fruits, and handwritten prayers.
"Right after you entered, they closed the cemetery for excavation," the man explained, his hand still pressed to his back. "I was about to tell you to leave, but with my back like this, I realized I could use some help instead." He gestured toward a bier nearby. "Once you've got him out, just bring him there. I'll wait."
With that, the man hobbled over to the bier, leaving Emery alone with the task. Emery began to dig. He pushed through, reminding himself of the promised payment waiting at the end.
But as Emery worked, his spade struck something solid—a smooth surface, too polished to be a coffin of wood or stone. Clearing the dirt away, he uncovered what seemed to be glass.
But as Emery brushed away more dirt and tentatively touched the surface, he realized it wasn't glass after all—at least, not any glass he had ever seen. The material was impossibly smooth, yet firm under his fingers, with a slight, unnatural give to it, like a substance neither stone nor wood, but something entirely foreign, almost like a strange, pliable crystal.
Inside lay a man, his features untouched by time. Emery froze, staring at the preserved body of someone who appeared to be in his fifties, though the gravestone dated his death to centuries ago.
"Anno Domini 490 to 547," Emery read aloud, his voice hollow with disbelief.
His eyes fell to the corpse's forehead, where a scarred inscription marred the otherwise flawless skin:
"When somebody takes the pen away from my hands."
Emery's gaze dropped to the man's hands. Sure enough, a quill pen rested within his grip. Trembling, Emery pried the glass coffin open. The smell of ancient air rushed out, stale and dry. He reached for the pen, his heart hammering in his chest.
As soon as his fingers closed around it, the corpse's eyes shot open. Emery stumbled backward, falling onto the damp earth as the man sat upright, his movements eerily smooth. The figure climbed out of the grave without a word, standing tall under the sun.
Before Emery could process what was happening, a flash of silver cut through the air.
The old man grumbled as he retrieved his weapon, wiping it clean on the grass. "Damn thing gave me a fright," he muttered.
Emery clambered out of the grave, his eyes darting between the old man and the body, his thoughts racing. He clutched the pen tightly behind his back, unsure whether to reveal it.
The old man straightened with a groan, rubbing his lower back. "Look," he began, his tone shifting. "You're not going to mention this, are you?"
Emery shook his head mutely.
"Good. If anyone finds out, I'll lose my job, my reputation, maybe even my neck. Let's both agree this never happened." His eyes narrowed. Emery nodded stiffly.
"Right." The old man stepped back toward the bier, gesturing at the body. "Help me load him up, and you'll get your pay."
Emery hesitated, glancing down at the lifeless body. The inscription on its forehead was gone. He blinked, unable to believe his own eyes.
As they laid the body onto the bier, Emery couldn't shake the feeling that this encounter was far from over.
The old man pulled out the pouch of coins and extended it toward Emery, only to pull it back at the last moment. Emery froze, wondering if the man had changed his mind entirely.
"Take it," he said.
The old man reached into another Pocket.
Emery took the two pouches.
"Double the pay. I know your face. Don't make me regret it."
Without a word, he turned and walked away, the strange pen concealed within his garment…
The throne room was bathed in a dim, flickering light cast by a scattering of candles. Shadows stretched long and ominous across the high-vaulted walls, mingling with the heavy silence that hung in the air. King Henry sat on his throne, his massive frame draped in a crimson robe edged with golden embroidery.
His thick beard framed a face that seemed carved from stone, his sharp eyes set deep beneath a furrowed brow. The crown atop his head gleamed faintly, a symbol of authority as immutable as the man who wore it.
The sound of measured footsteps broke the silence. Chancellor Gerold entered, his broad shoulders swaying slightly as he moved. His corpulent figure strained against the rich, dark tunic he wore, which was adorned with intricate embroidery befitting his station. Despite his size, he carried himself with a deliberate dignity, though his expression betrayed unease. He stopped a few paces before the throne, bowing low.
"Your Majesty," Gerold began, his voice steady but hushed. "I bring troubling news."
"Speak"
"We have discovered several cases… cases bearing an unsettling similarity to the late princess's tragedy." He hesitated before continuing. "Prisoners recently released have been found dead. Each with the same cryptic inscription carved into their foreheads."
The King's gaze sharpened.
"'When i attain within myself a state of irreversible change, ensuring i never return to a life of crime.'"
The words hung in the air like a curse..
"And?" King Henry prompted.
"Some of the deceased… they came back."
"What do you mean… " The King leaned forward slightly, his brows knitting.
"They returned to life, Your Majesty."
"TO LIFE?!" The King's roar echoed off the stone walls, his voice a thunderclap of disbelief.
"I couldn't believe it myself," the Chancellor said, his face creased with frustration and fear. "Until I saw it with my own eyes. One of the prisoners… rose again before me."
The King stared at his Chancellor.. "Bring the corpses here to the castle. Every one of them. And anyone who witnessed what you describe—or even heard of it—along with their families… have them executed."
"Your Majesty…" Moments passed in tense silence before the Chancellor ventured, "There is… more, Your Majesty."
"..."
"The princess.. The inscriptions, Your Majesty, might be… a condition. In those who awakened, the inscriptions vanished once they returned to life."
Henry's gaze turned inward, his features hardening. After a long silence, King Henry finally spoke, his voice low and deliberate. "Unearth her coffin from the consecrated grounds."
"Your Grace, you gave explicit orders after her death… no announcements, no ceremonies. We buried her in secret to protect the throne's stability. If anyone were to discover—"
"Do it now swiftly, under cover of darkness."
"As you command, Your Grace."
When the coffin was brought into the court hours later, the air was thick with tension. Gerald himself oversaw its delivery, ensuring no eyes but those of the king would witness the unveiling.
"Open it," he commanded.
The princess lay as if merely asleep, untouched by decay. Her hands, still clasped together, rested over her chest. The faint inscription on her forehead glowed faintly under the flickering torchlight.
"Fourteen months, Your Grace. And the inscription remains."
"When the person responsible for the princess's death is identified and imprisonned." Henry muttered, his voice bitter.
He sat back, the firelight dancing across his face, a mix of rage and determination. After a long pause, he said, "Summon the witch hunter immediately."
The Chancellor's eyes widened slightly.
"Yes," the King replied grimly. "Send for Fasid. At once."
It wasn't about belief or disbelief. He wasn't fond of entering places like these. He had neither fervor nor denial, simply a hollow uncertainty. But since his parents' deaths, stepping into such a place brought a sharp, unwanted pain. Memories of their insistence on faith lingered like a ghost he couldn't quite exorcise.
Rain pounded against the windows of the house of God, a rhythmic drumming that filled the otherwise silent space. Emery huddled in a shadowed corner, his cloak damp and clinging to him.
"Magic…" he muttered under his breath, the word foreign and strange in his mouth. His brow furrowed, his mind tangling itself into knots of disbelief and curiosity.
He reached into his garment and withdrew the pen. His fingers lingered over the quill-like object, its strange beauty holding him captive. The feather's barbs were smooth, black as midnight, interwoven with delicate streaks of gold and white.
It was elegant, almost otherworldly, slightly longer than his hand. He turned it over in his fingers, marveling at how its tip remained wet with ink.
The house was quiet, the others seeking refuge from the storm fast asleep on pews and floors. Emery turned his arm toward the flickering candlelight and brought the quill to his skin.
But as the tip touched his arm, the pen jerked violently in his grip. Emery gasped, nearly dropping it as it began to move on its own.
The pen pressed against his arm, writing furiously, its strokes fast and precise. Words appeared in bold black ink:
" The Sleeping Death Pen.
The man whose name is writ by this pen shall die.
But if the condition provided beside the name cometh to pass, the man shall rise again and come back to life."
Emery's breath caught in his throat. The pen continued to write, moving faster than Emery could think to stop it:
"
…And this condition must be written within the next 45 seconds after the name hath been written.
If no condition is written, the man shall not die.
For after 45 seconds, once a name and condition are written, the man shall die, and fifteen seconds after, the condition shall appear scarred upon the man's forehead.
The condition may never be of something past; it must be of something that may come to pass in the future.
The pen cannot be destroyed nor damaged.
The ink shall never run out.
The pen may be used upon the man who owns it.
If the owner of the Sleeping Death Pen relinquish his ownership, he shall lose all memory of the pen and all things related thereto.
The pen may not be used upon a man who hath a condition or injury that immediately threateneth his life. "
The pen dropped from his hand, clattering softly to the floor. He stared at it, wide-eyed, for what felt like an eternity. Slowly, he reached down, his hand trembling, and picked it up.
"..."
"I need to test it."
After moments of hesitation, he swallowed hard and pressed the pen to his hand..
"Alaric DeVannes," he wrote.