19: Power, part 3

Henry took a step forward, his chest heaving with each breath, the echo of that final, dying scream lingering in his ears. His body was spent, his mind frayed, yet an undeniable pull drew him toward the artifact. It shimmered in the silence, promising power, though something darker lurked beneath its surface—an unmistakable weight of suffering.

He hesitated, his hand hovering over the relic. What price had this power demanded of others? Was he willing to pay it himself?

Words came unbidden from the wand.

[Rarity Level Up: Wood ➔ Iron]

[The Wand of Arraiza: Consume more mists to unlock level up path.]

The wand pulsed in his grip, filling his veins with raw, electric power that tingled like fire, intensifying until it bordered on pain. His hand tingled, numb from the surge, and he tightened his grip, grounding himself against the newfound weight.

The delicate wood grain darkened, twisting and hardening into iron. Intricate symbols etched themselves along its length, glowing faintly, sharper and more ominous than before. Shadows from the crystalline gem at its tip flared with a sinister light, flickering in the corners of his vision, whispering of unknown depths.

More words came from the wand:

[Power Increase: +10 vitality, +5 Mist Resistance]

[Ability Unlocked: Fusion — Combine captured mist monsters into new, hybrid forms

Henry stared at the transformed wand, his grip tight as he felt its new power—both thrilling and terrible. The artifact’s dark sheen still beckoned to him, and he couldn’t shake the image of those who had suffered for its strength. Is this what I need to survive? Or is it what will destroy me?

The rush was intoxicating, every cell in Henry’s body pulsing with renewed strength. It was more than holding a weapon; it felt as though he had absorbed a piece of the wand’s soul—or maybe it had absorbed a piece of his. Fierce energy flooded his veins, only to fade, leaving an emptiness like a hollow ache, as if something essential had been drained.

Before he could fully process it, a massive pulse radiated from the wand, crackling with blue electricity. The mist rippled in waves, briefly turning vivid blue before fading back to its haunting red.

A sinking feeling churned in his gut. Whatever that had been, it couldn’t be good.

He looked around, relieved to find the mist cleared from the immediate area, at least for now. But as silence fell, the unspoken tension between him and Elara grew thick. He had avoided pressing her for answers before, but after feeling the power in the wand, he couldn’t shake the feeling she was hiding something.

He turned to her, jaw set. “You’re holding back on me,” he said, voice edged with accusation.

Elara tilted her head, an innocent smile tugging at her lips. “Whatever do you mean, dearest Heinrich von Lichtenstein?”

“Exactly that. Lichtenstein’s from Earth. And you knew what a washing machine was.” He stepped closer, frustration flaring. “You’re not just some whimsical fairy, are you?”

Elara’s laugh broke the silence, high-pitched and wild, echoing across the mist-cleared space like a cracked bell. She floated toward Henry, her wings twitching with a feverish energy as if they could barely keep up with her spiraling thoughts.

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“Oh, Heinrich von Lichtenstein, you silly, silly flesh puppet! You think this world is a place of secrets and answers, and maybe you’re right. But not for you!” Her eyes gleamed, wide and gleeful, like she’d just been told the funniest joke. She tapped the side of her head with a finger, tilting it back and forth. “You want the truth? You want the truth to behave for you?”

“Elara, please,” he urged, struggling to keep his voice steady. “Just…tell me what you’re hiding.”

She zipped forward, hovering mere inches from his face, her eyes filled with a gleeful madness. “The truth? Fine! But beware—truth is a hungry, slithering thing, and once it has your heart in its maw, it won’t let go! Just like the knights with their shiny armor and their precious alchemical reagents. Oh, they cut us open like sweet little pastries, they did!”

“Elara,” Henry warned, but she wasn’t done. She clapped her hands, eyes practically popping with the excitement of a storyteller spinning a dark tale.

“They wanted fairy marrow, did you know that?” she whispered, her voice like shattered glass. “Our marrow, Heinrich, for its ‘healing properties,’ they said. Slice and dice, carve and cauterize!” She laughed again, a shrill, strangled sound. “And when we tried to fight back, oh, the mists—they grew sick with our dying breath! Cursed and twisted, they fed on our rage and despair. This—” she gestured wildly at the red mist lingering in the distance— “is what remains of our dying gasp, Henry!”

He took a step back, heart pounding, watching her unravel, her gleeful mask slipping. She didn’t bother to stop him, just tilted her head and whispered with wide, gleaming eyes, “Now, my dear sweet boy, do you really want to wield a wand that’s tasted the soul of a thousand dead fairies?”

Henry could only stare, feeling her words settle heavily around them like a shroud. “So… what happened to make the mists like this?”

Elara’s eyes sharpened, her grin flickering between amusement and something darker. “What happened? Oh, my little Heinrich von Lichtenstein, it wasn’t just what happened—it was who happened.” She floated backward, twisting in the air with a laugh that was sharp and jagged. “Our queen, dear, once-so-kind Arraiza… she snapped. Broke. Like this—” She mimed snapping a twig with her fingers, twisting them in a slow, deliberate motion.

“When there were only a handful of us left—oh, yes! Less than five hundred, can you imagine?” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, eyes widening with delighted madness. “She cursed the mists, twisted them like wringing out a wet towel. Every fairy’s last breath, every single drop of rage and grief and bitter, screaming agony—all funneled right into the mist. And then—” she laughed, a strangled, manic sound, “—she left herself behind in this little plaything!” She pointed a shaky finger at the wand, her eyes glinting with glee. “The Wand of Arraiza.”

Henry recoiled, feeling the wand grow cold in his hand, every nerve on edge. “So… this wand is a weapon? A weapon of vengeance?”

“Vengeance!” Elara sang, doing a pirouette in mid-air before swooping dangerously close to his face. “No, no, no! Not just vengeance! Retribution! A bite of a thousand curses!” She twirled her fingers, leaning so close her breath was hot on his cheek, her smile stretching into something almost inhuman. “None of us could touch it after the curse—not a single one! We could only stare, haunted by the lovely, delicious pain it held. And then—oh, then, dear Heinrich, then I burned out every last drop of my magic, dragged it from the marrow of my bones to summon you, a ‘Hero,’ a fleshling who could wield this wretched twig of vengeance.”

Her gaze was maniacal, flaring with uncontained glee. "So, little hero… here’s your scepter of sorrow! Carry it, wave it around, stab it at the mist, see what bleeds from its core. That’s all that’s left of us, Henry. All that’s left!”

Her words filled the air with their twisted, mocking cadence, and Henry felt his mind buckle under the weight of it all. He’d assumed the wand was a tool, but it pulsed in his hand like something vile and resentful, each beat a reminder of the fury locked within. He stared at Elara, almost hoping she’d crack into laughter again, say it was all a joke—but her gaze was fixed and empty, as though the memory had swallowed her whole.

She suddenly broke into a grin, her voice a sing-song whisper. "Does it hurt, little hero? Does it burn in your hands? Good! That’s all it’s meant for now. Pain and rage and loathing!" She laughed, high and deranged, her voice ringing out into the misty silence, leaving him frozen, his heart pounding with a dread he couldn’t shake.