If you like my art, sketches, stories, transformations you can find more like this on my Patreon page or in DeviatArt Premium Early Access folder for subscribers here. Every bit of support is truly appreciated, but just having you here means the most to me - without you, none of this would have been possible. Thank you very much!
Check also my shop at DeviantArt for other works
1
— Your Highness, I... — the captain of the guard’s voice trembled as he caught the prince’s side glance. Kalendor was already pulling up his hood, but that didn’t stop the man. — Allow at least two of us to follow you at a distance. After all, this is a border town, and it’s not as safe as the capital. It’s full of mercenaries, spies, and...
Kalendor, having thrown on his hood, suddenly turned around and took a few steps toward the captain — so sharply that even the wooden floorboards seemed to suppress their natural urge to creak, as if realizing that doing so now would cost them their lives.
— One more word, Loran, — he said in an icy tone, — and you’ll be standing in the square of Fleurmar, locked in an iron cage, covered in honey, until the flies turn you into a bedtime legend for children.
The captain turned pale.
— But, Your Highness...
— I said — no one. If I see even a single look from under a helmet, even a shadow of your shadow — you and your men will march barefoot over the castle coals.
He stepped closer, grabbed Loran by the collar, and, leaning in even nearer, added in almost a whisper:
— Am I making myself clear?
The captain, though a full two heads taller than the prince, recoiled like a boy caught stealing. His large hands trembled involuntarily, and his eyes darted aside, avoiding the prince’s gaze.
— Y-yes... Your Highness, — he rasped out hoarsely, feeling his throat go dry.
He knew — he knew damn well — that it was better not to argue with the crown prince, even if it meant disobeying a direct order from the king. Between two evils, it was wiser to choose the less painful one. Prison or... Kalendor’s wrath? For any courtier, the choice was obvious.
Prison, at least, left a chance to live. The prince’s wrath was a special kind of hellish torment that any self-respecting lord of the underworld would gladly adopt as his own.
Loran lowered his head even further, trying not to breathe too loudly while Kalendor released his grip on the armor’s collar and, without another word, stepped back. For several seconds, silence hung in the room — so deep that even the torch on the wall seemed afraid to crackle.
— This conversation never happened, — the prince finally said, straightening his cloak and stepping toward the door. — But I can remember it, if you prove slow to understand.
— Yes, Your Highness, — Loran exhaled almost soundlessly, keeping his eyes down, hearing the door creak — then slam shut. And with that slam, the room seemed to come back to life: the torch flame dared to flicker again, a faint draft slipped along the beams, returning life to that part of the room which had just frozen in fear.
Loran slowly raised his head and exhaled heavily — hoarsely — like a man who had just been allowed to live.
He stood still, listening to the fading footsteps, then whispered to himself:
— Madman... I hope his father rules for a long time yet. I’m afraid to imagine what’ll happen if he ever takes power.
He realized his hands were still shaking and awkwardly clasped them behind his back, trying to calm the nervous tremor and not think about how, at that very moment, he wished with all his heart that the prince would never return — even if that wish could cost him his head.
2
Meanwhile, outside, it was a bright sunny day — one of those days people say: "as if God Himself is washing in gold." The air was clean and clear, and the sky was so deep you wanted to drown in it. Fleurmar was alive with its noisy, careless rhythm: the creak of wagon wheels, traders shouting, children laughing, and the smell of fresh bread mixing with the scent of tar and horse sweat.
— Hey! Stop! Stop, I said! — someone’s voice yelled, breaking through the buzz of the busy street.
From an alley burst a fat peasant with a twisted face, waving his arms as he tried to catch up with a cart loaded high with sacks of grain. The horse had already broken into a run, the wheels clattering loudly over the cobblestones, and the man, breathing heavily, was trying in vain to chase it down.
— Dirty thief, may you sink in a swamp! — he bellowed, but the cart was already disappearing around the corner. — Stole my flour, that bastard!
The crowd in the market roared with laughter. A few boys, tossing apple cores, shouted after him:
— Run, old man, maybe you’ll catch it! — yelled a kid with a dirty carrot in his hand, and the crowd burst out laughing again.
But the laughter was cut short when the same “old man” was hit with a dull thud by a man in a hood. The peasant’s body spun like a sack of flour and crashed to the cobblestones, raising a cloud of dust.
— Watch where the hell you’re going, you blind fool! — he roared, spitting and pushing himself up on his elbows. — You city brat, I’ll rip your guts out and wrap them around a wagon axle, you hear me?!
— Look at this! Elmar Kvoss, the lousy miller, putting on a show! — shouted one of the boys, which only made the old man angrier. He was about to unleash all his fury — for the stolen flour, for being called a “lousy miller,” and for this whole damn life — on the hooded stranger. It seemed a fight was inevitable.
The hooded man had clearly heard it and had already stopped. He slowly turned his head toward Elmar, who was just about to open his mouth for another outburst — but never managed to.
The man’s gaze under the hood merely slid across him. But even that was enough. Elmar froze as if an icy blade had been thrust down his throat.
He didn’t know who this man was, but those eyes… those eyes didn’t belong to any mortal. There was no mercy in them, no anger, no life — only the cold, bottomless awareness of something far greater. Elmar felt sweat bead on his skin, and his legs began to back away on their own.
— U-uh… forgive me, sir, — he muttered, swallowing hard. — I didn’t recognize… you must be of noble blood…
But the man had already turned away, as if Elmar didn’t exist at all. The crowd, it seemed, hadn’t even noticed what happened, still laughing at the “old man” while the figure in the dark cloak confidently made its way toward the edge of town.
Prince Kalendor Verden walked without slowing his pace. A hum of tension throbbed in his chest — anticipation that the incident had only fueled even more. He could feel the pendant hidden beneath his clothes vibrating faintly, like a living thing, impatient, ready to awaken.
3
The old barn at the edge of town didn’t look like anything special. The red paint on its boards had long since peeled off, exposing gray wood underneath, and the doors hung on a single hinge. Wind slipped through the cracks, and on especially stormy days it would fill the place with a haunting whistle — just like now, only this time, the sound breaking through from inside was not the wind, but loud, nasal, and all the more insane laughter.
He stood in the middle of the old barn, arm outstretched, and the pendant in his fingers shone so brightly that for a moment the wooden walls seemed to come alive — silver reflections ran across them, and shadows began to dance.
Kalendor smiled.
— Well then, — he said quietly, with that particular triumph with which mages pronounce a demon’s name, — let’s see what your life was worth, old Archmage Kaleus.
"If this thing really works, I’ll hand Father the wine cup myself and finally get what’s rightfully mine..." Kalendor thought, grinning. "Ah, what a pity, Father... what a pity that you’ll be killed by your best friend... or maybe by that bitch who whispers into your ear a little too often."
He pulled the stone closer to his face, almost touching it, and the blue light pulsing inside reflected in his pupils — calm as still water before a storm.
— Hm... — a smirk touched Kalendor’s lips. — But before I try you on someone worthy... I should make sure you actually work. Let’s start, so to speak, with the filth. With those stupid peasants.
He put the pendant around his neck — the motion sharp and impatient. The stone pressed coldly against his skin, as if some invisible creature beneath it had just drawn a breath.
Kalendor straightened, feeling the air around him grow heavier. A short, confident chuckle escaped his lips. He ran his finger along the glowing edge of the artifact and spoke the words he’d read in Archmage Kaleus’s journal:
— Rivath mor’elan, sanguis et forma…
At first, nothing happened. Then the light from the pendant poured outward — thick and mist-like, spreading around him. It wrapped around the prince, slid over his shoulders, his breasts, his arms… and suddenly a sharp pop hit his ears, like a lightning strike.
— What the... — he didn’t finish, because suddenly his chest tightened painfully.
The barn trembled. Dust rose from the ceiling, swirling in a spiral, and the walls creaked as if the old wood suddenly remembered it had once been alive. Kalendor tried to take a step, but his legs felt trapped in thick, viscous mud, impossible to move even an inch.
The light from the stone spread — then surged upward, into him. His whole body felt as though thousands of thin threads had seized it, stretching, twisting. He cried out in shock, but couldn’t hear it — only the roaring in his ears, growing louder and louder...Full story (32 000 characters - 11 parts) is open to paid subscribers here or on Patreon