I Was Sent To Kill The Cursed King

Chapter 4: The Weeping Gorge

The biting wind of the Northern reaches carried the sound of a thousand weeping spirits. They stood at the edge of the Weeping Gorge, a gargantuan chasm that split the earth like a jagged wound. Below, the mist swirled in a violent, icy churn, hiding the bottomless depths where the temperature was said to reach absolute zero.

Malphas walked with a heavy, unsteady gait. The transformation from the previous night had left his muscles knotted and his skin bruised with deep, purple contusions. He leaned against a frost-bitten pine, his breath hitching as he tried to stabilize his racing heart. The hunger was a persistent, clawing sensation in his stomach, a reminder that the beast was only suppressed, not defeated.

Lyra stood beside him, her hand wrapped in a makeshift bandage fashioned from a piece of her cloak. The wound from the silver candlestick had stopped bleeding, but the skin around it remained pale and sickly. She looked across the gorge, where the only path forward was a narrow, crumbling stone bridge that looked as fragile as glass.

The bridge groaned under the weight of the gale. Beyond it lay the path to the True Silence, a place spoken of in the forbidden archives only in hushed, terrified tones.

Malphas looked at the bridge, then at Lyra. His eyes, though human, held a flicker of deep, primal caution. If they crossed, there was no turning back. The path ahead was treacherous, and he knew that every mile they walked brought them closer to the source of his corruption.

We have to move, Lyra, he said, his voice raspy from exhaustion. The storm is catching up. I can hear the cadence of the Hollow-Born on the wind. They are faster than us, and they are relentless.

Lyra nodded, her gaze fixed on the abyss below. She felt the weight of the silver dagger at her side. It was not just a weapon; it was a promise. She was the one who had forced this journey upon him, and she would not falter now.

If we fall, we fall together, Lyra replied, stepping onto the first stone of the bridge.

The bridge swayed violently as she moved, the sound of the stone grating against stone echoing like a scream through the gorge. Malphas followed, his massive frame putting a strain on the ancient structure. Halfway across, the mist below began to rise, glowing with an unnatural, sickly green luminescence.

Shadows began to coalesce within the fog, forming figures that mirrored the Hollow-Born they had fought earlier. But these were different. They were larger, more defined, and they wore the remnants of the royal guards that had served Malphas’s father.

They are waiting for us, Malphas whispered, pulling his broadsword from his back. His knuckles were raw, his skin pale, but he stood tall, reclaiming the posture of a king.

The figures stepped onto the bridge, their movements fluid and lethal. They were the ghosts of the past, the soldiers who had been sacrificed to keep the bloodline of the throne from going extinct. They held spears of solidified ice, their eyes burning with the same malevolent intelligence that Silas possessed.

Lyra felt a surge of cold wash over her. She knew these men. She had seen their portraits in the grand hall of the Obsidian Spire. They were not just enemies; they were the legacy that Malphas had been trying to outrun his entire life.

They do not want to kill us, Lyra realized, her heart pounding against her ribs. They want to test us.

Malphas didn't hesitate. He swung his sword in a wide arc, the steel singing as it cleaved through the air. The impact against the ice-spears sent shockwaves through the bridge. He fought with a desperate, frantic precision, his eyes darting between the enemies and the precarious edge of the chasm.

One of the soldiers lunged at Lyra. She parried with her dagger, the clash of silver against ice creating a bright, blinding flash of light. She was thrown off balance, her foot slipping over the edge of the stone bridge. She gasped, her fingers clawing at the frozen surface of the rock as she hung over the abyss.

Malphas roared, a sound of pure, unadulterated terror. He abandoned his defense, spinning around and slamming his shoulder into the soldier that had struck Lyra. He grabbed her hand, his grip crushing and firm, and hauled her back onto the bridge.

The effort left him gasping. He was bleeding from a dozen shallow cuts, his energy rapidly fading. He looked at the legion of ghosts surrounding them, their faces blank and terrifying.

We cannot win this way, Malphas said, his voice dropping to a low, intense whisper. I have to let it out. I have to let the beast fight for me.

No, Lyra commanded, grabbing his face with both hands. Look at me. If you let the beast take control here, you will kill us both. You will lose yourself to this gorge. We have to use the truth.

She stood up, holding the silver dagger toward the ghosts. She remembered the journals she had read, the words of the ancient kings. The curse was not a weapon; it was a cage. The guards were not guarding the bridge; they were guarding the secret that could destroy the throne.

You are not loyal to a king who is already dead! Lyra shouted, her voice ringing out above the wind. The king you serve has been gone for a thousand years!

The ghosts paused. The green mist flickered, the shapes of the soldiers wavering like smoke in a drafty room.

The bloodline is not a burden to be fed, she continued, stepping forward, her eyes locked on the leader of the ghosts. It is a debt to be paid! We are not here to continue the cycle. We are here to end it!

The leader of the ghosts, a man whose face was frozen in a mask of eternal duty, lowered his spear. The luminescence in the gorge shifted from green to a soft, pale blue. The silence that followed was heavy, a profound stillness that made the hair on Lyra’s arms stand up.

The leader stepped back, bowing his head. The other soldiers followed suit, their forms dissolving into shimmering particles of frost that drifted down into the gorge. The bridge beneath them seemed to solidify, the cracks sealing themselves with a strange, magical heat.

Malphas sank to his knees, his eyes wide. He looked at Lyra with a mixture of awe and fear. You convinced them, he whispered. How did you do that?

I didn't convince them, Lyra said, leaning against the cold stone railing. I just reminded them of what they died for.

They reached the other side of the gorge as the first light of the dawn began to touch the tips of the mountains. The landscape changed, the snow giving way to a strange, grey moss that seemed to absorb all sound.

They had reached the edge of the forbidden territory. Ahead of them lay a valley hidden by a permanent, swirling veil of fog. It was quiet here. A silence so deep it felt like it could swallow the world whole.

Malphas stood up, his gaze fixed on the center of the valley. A massive, ancient stone archway stood alone in the clearing, carved with symbols that seemed to shift and change whenever he blinked.

The True Silence, he said, his voice filled with a sudden, overwhelming hope.

As they walked toward the archway, the ground beneath them began to rumble. The valley was not as empty as it seemed. From the earth itself, chains of iron and silver began to rise, locking into place around the archway, pulsing with a rhythm that matched Malphas’s own heartbeat.

Something is waiting for us, Lyra said, her hand reaching for her belt.

From behind the archway, a figure emerged. It wasn't Silas, but someone far more familiar. It was a woman, dressed in the formal regalia of the court, her hair tied back in a sharp, elegant knot. She held a scroll in her hand, her expression one of cold, clinical disappointment.

Malphas, the woman said, her voice like ice water. You have been gone for far too long. Your father is waiting, and he is very, very hungry.

Malphas froze, his face turning ashen. The woman was his mother, a queen who had died years ago, or so the history books claimed.

You should be dead, Malphas choked out, his hand trembling as he reached for his sword.

Death is merely a matter of perspective in this kingdom, she replied, stepping closer. And you, my son, have a great deal of debt to pay to the throne.

The archway behind her began to glow with a dark, suffocating energy. The True Silence was not a place of peace; it was a prison, and they had just walked right into the middle of a trap set by the very history they were trying to escape.

Lyra felt the air turn toxic, the smell of rot and old blood filling her lungs. She looked at Malphas, who was staring at his mother with a look of pure, agonizing recognition. The journey had not brought them to safety; it had brought them to the very heart of the lie that had built their world.

The chains pulsed, and the ground began to c***k beneath their feet. The battle for the future had only just begun, and the enemies were no longer just shadows in the forest; they were the ghosts of their own blood.

Malphas looked at Lyra, his eyes reflecting the dark, swirling energy of the archway. If we do not make it out of this, he said, his voice soft and final, know that you were the only thing that ever made the hunger worth fighting.

Lyra grabbed his hand, her grip as firm as stone. We aren't going to die here, she said, her voice cutting through the suffocating atmosphere. We are going to break everything that has ever dared to own us.

As the queen raised her hand, the chains lashed out, winding around Malphas’s arms and legs, pulling him toward the archway. The monster inside him surged, but this time, it wasn't fear that powered it. It was rage.

The transformation began, but it was different. Instead of dark fur, shimmering silver scales began to appear along his skin. The beast was evolving, and Lyra realized, with a shock that stole her breath, that the curse was not just a trap; it was a dormant power that had been waiting for the right moment to awaken.

The archway opened, and the void beyond it screamed, a sound of a thousand years of trapped souls crying out for an end. They were no longer running; they were being pulled into the history they had spent their lives trying to rewrite.