Cursed Murk
The room was large, though the stone walls and narrow windows made it feel close all the same.
Three wooden tables stood across the chamber. Each held rows of potted plants, all different in their own careful ways. The air smelled of damp soil and crushed leaves.
Lady Tanesha moved from one table to the next in a plain blue gown, her diary tucked beneath one arm.
She took her time.
Her eyes passed slowly over each plant. Watching. Comparing. Recording.
One had palm-sized leaves shaped like clovers, their edges touched with a soft blue glow that seemed almost fluorescent in the dim room. Another bore the same broad leaves, though its tints had gone yellow instead, like old candlelight caught beneath the skin of the plant. A third stood stiffer than the rest, with purplish bulbous swellings pushing out along its stems and branches like knots of diseased flesh.
Tanesha leaned closer.
Her fingers did not touch.
Instead, she let her spirituality extend outward, slow and fine, brushing lightly against the plants before permeating them. The feedback came back to her in familiar, strange impressions. Thickened magic here. Its flow. Pathways. A sluggish knot there. Something unstable near the roots of another.
She opened the diary and made notes in a neat hand.
Color shift more pronounced along outer leaf veins.
Bulb growth increased on upper stem.
Magical mutation stable, but only barely.
….
Afterward she moved on.
At the second table, she lingered longer over a bent-stemmed plant whose leaves trembled even though no wind touched them. At the third, she studied the flowers that had begun to grow in an unnatural spiral pattern.
Every change mattered. The Lord had taught them that much. Small changes became large ones. Large ones became breakthroughs.
Or disasters.
Tanesha wrote everything down.
When at last she had finished with the plants on the tables, she closed the diary softly and made for the far corner of the room.
Before reaching it, she paused beside a small table near the window.
A red vial stood there beside a small bowl.
The liquid inside the vial caught the thin daylight in a dark, thick gleam. Tanesha pulled the cork free and lifted it to her nose. The smell came instantly.
Blood.
Fresh enough.
She breathed it in once, lowered the vial, and set the cork aside. Taking both the vial and the bowl, she crossed the rest of the room and crouched near the corner.
A wooden platform had been built into the floor there, boxed in on the sides by rough wooden sheets that held the soil in place. From the middle rose a single upright stick. Twined around it was a small dark red vine.
The corner never caught the sun.
It stayed dim even at midday.
Tanesha's mouth softened at the sight of it.
Slowly, carefully, she poured the blood from the vial into the bowl. The red liquid pooled darkly within it. She held the bowl out toward the vine.
"Your meal, little one," she said softly.
At once, the vine stirred.
Not much.
A twitch at first. After that came a slow twisting motion as it tightened around the upright stick. One slender tendril began to uncoil. It moved with terrible patience, extending outward little by little toward the bowl in her hands.
Her expression warmed.
"Fresh blood from the morning kill," she murmured, her voice low and oddly doting. "Eat up, little one. I'll ask Belgor to bring more live animals for you soon."
The vine gave no sign it had heard her. It kept reaching.
The tendril touched the rim of the bowl, then slid over it. The blood began to vanish slowly, steadily, as though the thing were drinking through the smallest hidden mouth.
Tanesha watched in silence.
There was something soothing in it. In the slow feeding. In the simple certainty of hunger answered and the quiet returned.
When the bowl was empty, she drew it back.
The tendril stretched after it for the briefest moment, curled in on itself again, and recoiled around the upright stick. The vine shifted once, twice, before going still.
Tanesha remained crouched there another moment, smiling faintly.
At last she rose, took up her diary, and left the room.
The training ground lay beneath the shadow of the four-storied stone tower. Grey fog drifted endlessly around the island, thick enough to swallow the sea itself.
A line of straw dummies stood across the packed earth. Their burlap skins were blackened with burn marks and torn open by old knife cuts.
Maruth stood before the nearest one.
Tall. Broad through the shoulders. His short curly black hair clung damply to his forehead. Sweat darkened the collar of his rough tunic.
He extended his right hand toward the dummy.
His jaw tightened. A flicker of orange light appeared in his palm.
Then grew.
A small fireball formed there, unstable and trembling around the edges. Maruth narrowed his eyes, forcing more magic power into the spell model.
The fireball shot forward with a hiss.
Halfway to the target, it sputtered.
The flames collapsed inward and scattered into smoke and dying embers before they ever reached the dummy.
Maruth exhaled sharply through his nose.
His arm dropped.
His knuckles had gone white.
Beside him, Raema waited a few paces back.
Bright olive skin. Freckles scattered lightly across her cheeks. Her curly black hair had been tied tightly into a bun, though loose strands clung around her face from the damp air.
"You almost had it," she said softly.
Maruth grunted.
Raema gave a nervous little smile. "Just a little more focus…"
"Almost."
The voice came from behind them.
Drawling. Mocking. Each word stretched thin.
"That's what they carve on your headstone, isn't it?" the voice continued. "'Almost became useful.'"
Rip stepped into view beside them.
The sea breeze stirred his short brown hair. His fair face looked harmless at first glance. Boyish.
Until he smiled.
Maruth spun toward him.
His chest rose and fell harder now. A flush crept up the thick column of his neck. His hands curled slowly into fists.
Then his eyes flicked downward.
Toward the collar around his throat.
The anger on his face twisted. Not gone.
Poisoned by fear.
He stayed where he was.
Rip noticed. Of course he noticed.
The smirk on his face deepened slowly, savoring it.
Without looking away from Maruth, Rip raised one hand.
Magic spread outward sharply.
The fireball that formed in his palm was nothing like Maruth's.
It roared into existence.
Orange and red twisted together violently, the flames compressing into a dense sphere nearly the size of a man's skull. Heat rolled off it hard enough for Raema to step back by instinct.
Rip flicked his wrist.
The fireball tore across the training ground.
It slammed into the dummy Maruth had failed to hit.
The impact burst apart with a violent crack.
Burning straw exploded outward. Splinters of wood spun through the air. The dummy folded inward around a smoking cavity before collapsing into the dirt.
Silence followed.
Only the faint hiss of burning straw remained.
Rip faced Maruth again and tilted his head slightly.
"That," he said calmly, "is what 'almost' gets you."
His smile widened.
"A lesson in humility."
Maruth's whole body trembled now. Rage. Humiliation. The brutal effort of forcing both down.
Raema stepped closer and touched his elbow.
"Maruth," she whispered. "Don't. Please."
His breathing slowed a little.
His jaw remained locked so tightly it looked painful.
Rip's eyes shifted toward Raema. The amusement faded from them.
"Maybe," he said sharply, "you should fucking focus on your own training."
Raema flinched at once.
Rip took a slow step toward her.
"You. Who couldn't even form the spell model properly."
Raema's gaze dropped. Her shoulders curled inward.
"I—I did form it," she said quietly. "It collapsed when I tried to stabilize the spirituality flow…"
Rip laughed once through his nose.
"Excuses."
Maruth stepped sideways in front of her. His broad frame blocked Rip from view.
"Leave her alone," he said. The words came out rough. Forced through clenched teeth.
Rip's smile returned instantly.
"Oh?" he said mockingly. "Here comes the knight in shining armor."
He walked forward without hesitation despite the difference in size between them.
Rip had to tilt his head slightly upward to meet Maruth's eyes.
There was no fear in him.
Only venom.
"You're free to take action anytime you want," Rip said softly.
The training ground went quiet.
Rip let the silence stretch.
His eyes dipped toward Maruth's collar.
A fresh burn mark stained the skin above it.
Rip smiled wider.
"I would be very happy," he said, "to show the consequences… again."
Maruth did not move.
His fists stayed clenched.
His arms rigid.
But he held himself back.
Behind him, Raema stared anxiously over his shoulder, worry plain in her wide eyes.
The distant lap of grey water against the island rocks and the endless whisper of fog through stone were the only sounds.
Rip finally stepped back and folded his arms loosely.
"Of course," he said lightly, "you're free to complain."
His gaze drifted between them.
"To Lady Tanesha."
A pause.
"Or even to the Lord himself."
Another pause.
"But in this place…" His smile thinned again. "Who do you think is valued more?"
Neither answered.
Maruth's fists slowly loosened.
Raema kept her head lowered.
Their silence said enough.
Rip watched them for another moment.
Satisfied.
Then the expression left his face completely.
His voice turned cold.
"Continue your practice."
Maruth faced the dummies again.
Slowly.
Raema followed beside him.
Behind them, Rip stood. Watching in silence.
Driftmark — Night
Aegon entered his chamber long after the castle had quieted.
The servants inside were still preparing the room. One adjusted the bedding. Another set fresh water near the washstand. A maid near the hearth straightened as he came in, her eyes lowering at once.
"My prince," she said softly.
Aegon glanced around the room, then gave a small wave of his hand.
"That is enough. Leave me."
The servants bowed and began to file out.
One maid lingered.
She was young, pretty, and careful with her eyes. Her hands folded neatly before her as she stepped half a pace closer.
"If my prince wishes company tonight…"
Aegon looked at her.
The offer was plain enough.
He sighed through his nose, more amused than annoyed, and waved her away.
"No."
Her face flushed at once.
"As you wish, my prince."
She curtsied quickly and followed the others out. The door closed behind them with a quiet sound.
At last, the room was his.
A fire burned low in the hearth, painting the stone walls in warm orange light. Beyond the windows, the sea could be heard in the distance, faint and steady against the cliffs of Driftmark.
Aegon crossed the room and sat near the hearth.
The chair accepted his weight with a soft creak. He leaned back, letting his head rest for a moment, and allowed himself a small smile.
The Sea Snake had tried to remain composed when the Valyrian falchion was presented to him. Tried and failed. The man's eyes had shone like a boy's before his first voyage. His fingers had moved over the blade with a reverence he had not even tried to hide.
Aegon's smile widened a little.
Then came the rest of the day.
Gael beside him, happy and listening as Rhaenys spoke with that sharp warmth of hers. Laenor running in and out. Laena asking questions too quickly for anyone to answer all of them.
It had been a good day.
He let the memory linger a moment longer.
Then he exhaled and opened his eyes.
Warmth from the hearth touched one side of his face. The other remained cool in the night air. Aegon shifted in the chair and turned his attention inward.
[Class: Botanist (Tier 2)]
[ Prerequisites:
- INT ≥ 12.0 (satisfied)
- Has studied or catalogued at least 30 different plants, herbs, fungi, or trees (satisfied)
- Has successfully cultivated, preserved, or processed living plant matter (satisfied)]
[ Level 9 (0 / 9500) ]
[ Trait : Botanical Study
(+50% efficiency when researching plant life, growth patterns, medicinal properties, or environmental adaptation)
(+40% effectiveness when predicting how plants respond to soil, climate, water, or external interference) ]
[ Trait : Careful Handling
(+50% precision and control when cutting, grafting, harvesting, drying, or preserving plant matter)
(+40% improvement in maintaining freshness, potency, or viability of harvested botanical materials) ]
Aegon studied the class display in silence.
Level 9.
Close.
One more level to go.
He tilted his head forward slightly.
"Time to upgrade."
***
📜 Milestones:
150 Power Stones → +1 Chapter
***
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