The Square of Sorrow

The heart of Eryndor pulsed with Vyrnathra's chant, a venomous hymn that slithered through the cobblestone streets, wrapping Magnus Varik's soul in its coils. He led his ragged band toward the city's central square, his boots slick with blood and frost, the beast within him clawing for release. The curse burned in his veins, weaker since the Hollow but alive, feeding on the city's despair. Lirien moved beside him, her stolen silver spear stained with the blood of marked cultists, her storm-gray eyes sharp despite her limp. Jakob followed, his sword heavy in his grip, his face etched with the weight of a city turned traitor. The Brotherhood of Flame—four weary souls—trailed, their silver weapons glinting faintly, their breaths shallow in the suffocating air. Isabella, bound and battered, was dragged by Jakob, her silence louder than her earlier taunts, her green eyes flickering with secrets.The streets narrowed, their walls scarred with claw-shaped runes that pulsed like heartbeats, leaking a faint red glow. Bodies lay scattered—not torn, but posed, their faces frozen in ecstasy, as if death were a gift. The chant grew deafening, no longer just voices but a force, pressing against Magnus's chest, urging the beast to sing along. He saw flashes—his claws rending Eryndor's towers, his throne built on skulls, the blood moon crowning him king of ruin. He growled, human will a fraying thread, and pressed on, the square's torchlight flickering ahead like a lure."Trap," Lirien whispered, her spear lowered, scanning the rooftops where shadows shifted—human, but wrong, their movements too fluid, their eyes too bright. "They want us there.""Then we spring it," Magnus growled, his voice thick with the beast, claws twitching unbidden. He felt the curse's pull, stronger here, as if the square were Vyrnathra's altar. "No running. Not in my city."Jakob's jaw tightened, but he nodded, loyalty outweighing fear. The Brotherhood gripped their weapons, their faces grim, knowing the odds. Isabella's lips curled, a ghost of a smirk, but she said nothing, her gaze fixed on the square like a pilgrim nearing salvation.They emerged into the Square of Sorrow, Eryndor's heart, once alive with markets and laughter, now a cathedral of horror. Torches burned with black flame, casting writhing shadows over a sea of kneeling figures—hundreds, their faces branded with Vyrnathra's claw, their eyes glowing red, their mouths open in chant. At the center stood a crude altar of bone and iron, slick with blood, a figure atop it—not human, not beast, but a priestess, her robes tattered, her arms raised, claws gleaming. Bodies hung from stakes around her, their blood feeding the runes carved into the stone, pulsing in time with the chant.The priestess's eyes locked onto Magnus, and the chant faltered, a ripple of silence spreading. "The heir comes," she hissed, her voice a blade, cutting through the air. "Vyrnathra's son, marked by her fire."Magnus's snarl shook the square, the beast surging, his vision tinting red. "I'm no one's son," he growled, stepping forward, claws lengthening, the curse roaring in his blood. The kneeling cultists rose, not attacking but watching, their branded faces empty of fear, filled with reverence. The beast wanted them—blood, flesh, submission—but Magnus held it, his human heart pounding with rage and dread.Lirien raised her spear, her voice low. "She's a conduit, like the pool. Kill her, and this breaks."Jakob glanced at the cultists, his sword steady but his eyes haunted. "There's too many, my lord. We can't fight them all.""We won't," Magnus said, his gaze fixed on the priestess, her claws dripping with fresh blood, her smile a mirror of Isabella's. He turned to Jakob, voice cold. "Guard Isabella. If she moves, kill her."Isabella laughed, a hollow sound, as Jakob tightened her ropes. "You'll see, Magnus," she whispered. "You can't cut her out."The priestess spread her arms, and the runes flared, the black flames surging. The cultists moved, not as a mob but as one, their knives and claws gleaming, their chant resuming—Vyrnathra, claim, devour. Magnus roared, the beast breaking free, his body shifting, fur sprouting, claws raking the air. He tore into the first wave, blood spraying, their bodies crumpling, but they didn't scream—they smiled, as if dying for her was bliss.Lirien fought beside him, her spear a blur, piercing branded flesh, her wounds slowing her but not her will. The Brotherhood held the flank, silver flashing, but the cultists were relentless, their numbers swelling from the streets. A blade grazed Magnus's side, pain fueling the beast, and he lashed out, tearing through three at once, their blood burning his fur, the curse drinking it in.The priestess laughed, her voice rising over the chaos. "You feed her, heir! Every drop strengthens her!"Magnus staggered, the curse pulsing, showing him Vyrnathra's eyes—endless, hungry, his own. He roared, charging the altar, claws aimed for the priestess's heart. She moved, faster than thought, her claws meeting his, sparks flying, the impact shaking the stone. Her strength was unnatural, her blood black, her smile a promise of eternity.Lirien shouted, pinned by two cultists, her spear knocked away. Jakob fought to reach her, Isabella forgotten, her ropes loose. Magnus saw it—her smirk, her step toward the altar—but the priestess struck, her claws raking his chest, pain blinding. The curse screamed, urging him to give in, to become her son.He refused.With a roar that shattered the altar's runes, Magnus drove his claws into the priestess's throat, tearing through bone and ichor. She screamed, a sound that shook the square, and fell, her body dissolving into ash, the black flames dying. The cultists froze, their chant breaking, their eyes dimming, some collapsing, others fleeing into the dark.Magnus panted, human again, blood dripping, the curse quiet but watching. Lirien freed herself, gasping, Jakob at her side. The Brotherhood stood, battered, one less—his name lost in the haze. Isabella was gone, her ropes empty, her scent fading into the city.The square was silent, the altar cracked, but Magnus felt no victory. The curse lived, Vyrnathra's shadow deeper in Eryndor's heart. He looked to the horizon, dawn breaking, cold and gray, and knew—this was only the beginning.