Silent Curses

[Zeik]

A silence like the breath of time itself clings to the halls of the Lunjuer Wing, the oldest and most untouched library of Muu. It was his Haven. Here, ancient tomes whisper across the shelves in languages only memory remembers. From floor to vaulted ceiling, books line every wall, their spines etched with gold leaf and celestial ink.

Above, the ceiling curves like the inside of a great dome, painted with luminous astrological mappings—planets carved in light, star-routes that glimmer with shifting constellations, and rings of astral glyphs that pulse faintly when no one's looking.

The smell of ancient parchment, pressed flowers, and distant ozone lingers in the air.

In this place, Zeik finds refuge. He wanders the aisles not in search of knowledge, but silence.

He finds a desk tucked beneath the mural of a burning comet—his usual spot—and settles in with a heavy tome, its language older than even his years. He reads. Or tries to.

But his mind is somewhere else.

A flicker. A pull. The memory returns.

**FLASHBACK – 6,500 YEARS AGO**
Zeik walks alone. Younger. Unscarred. Clad in simple robes, dust-covered boots. The village is barely marked on any map—Eldhollow, a forgotten speck choking beneath the rule of a local warlord named Dranok

At first, Zeik intended only to pass through.
Another tired hamlet begging for salvation. Another plea.
He’d heard them all. But Eldhollow was...different.

They didn’t beg.
They believed they could fight.
And they just needed a chance.

"You could help," the townspeople said.
"Dranok’s men don’t believe in magic. They think they’re invincible."

Zeik gave them a smile. One of those rare, real ones.

“I can handle him,” he said.

And he couldn't


The battle came quickly. Dranok wasn’t just a thug—he was tactical. Brutal. Merciless. He had studied Zeik’s kind. He prepared. Traps, tricks, bait-and-break formations.

Zeik, despite all his confidence, began to falter.
His breathing shortened.
His strikes became sloppier.
His patience cracked.

Then came the moment—a villager, impaled while trying to protect Zeik’s blindside. A child trampled in the chaos. The screams. The panic.


And there it was.

The Entity.

It didn’t speak in words—it pressed against his skin, a pressure behind his ribs, eager. Hungry.

Zeik remembered the first time they met.

As a child—stolen. Kidnapped. Gone for weeks.
Returned covered in ash.
Unharmed.
He’d said nothing serious happened.

That was a lie.
He just knew no one else could carry the burden.
So he did.

He let it live in him.

He made himself the cage.



Zeik’s eyes glowed a sickly red. His voice changed—warped. Not demonic, but wrong.

And from him, the flame erupted.

Not like a weapon—like a breath.
Like a god inhaling, and the world exhaling ash.

The cursed flame surged out in waves.

Dranok screamed, armor melting from his bones.
His soldiers scattered, burned from within before they could even reach for their blades.
But the smoke… the smoke kept spreading.

It smelled sweet. Like honeywine, lilac, roasted chestnuts.

People inhaled it.
Collapsed.
Some wept.
Some screamed.

Their Naten vanished. Their bodies blistered from the inside out.
The warriors who had fought beside Zeik—his allies—fell in agony, one by one.


"Enough."
He begged himself.

"ENOUGH."

The flame didn’t want to stop.
It had tasted again.
It had spread.

But he forced it back.
Bit by bit.
By remembering their faces.

Their hope.


The village still stood.
Dranok was dead.
His army? Scattered to ash.

Zeik stood in the ruin.
His hands shaking.
His robes scorched.

And around him, bodies.

Not all enemies.
Some were friends.

The survivors did not curse him.
They thanked him.
With trembling hands and eyes that wouldn’t meet his.

They called him hero.
Protector.
Light-walker.

But they never stepped too close.
And they never breathed too deep.


The candle burns low.

Zeik breathes out, slow and measured.
The memory passes like smoke in a closed room.

His fingers still rest on the page of the book, but he hasn’t turned it in hours.

A single tear falls. Then another.

His breath hitches—quiet, fragile.
He gently sobs, chest barely moving, as if afraid the sound might awaken something.
Tears run down the hollows of his face, carving paths through centuries of stillness.

And then—
a tremble in his hands.

The candlelight flares—
not with wind, but something more feral.
The flame writhes for a moment, dancing unnaturally, licking upward toward the ceiling.
Not smoke—scent. Sweet. Heavy.

Zeik clamps his jaw shut.
Hands clench into fists.
The light dims.

He forces the breath back in.
He swallows the grief.

And the flame returns to a steady flicker.

He wipes his face.
Turns the page of the book.


Not because he found peace—
But because he must keep himself full of other things.

Because when he’s empty...

The flame hungers.