I Awakened A Divine Curse

Auren's grin stretched wider, his teeth glinting in the dim light like a predator's. Crimson mist coiled tighter around his feet, pulsing with each beat of the heavy silence.

The King didn't flinch. He merely shifted his bulk in the throne, fingers drumming lazily against the armrest.

"Brazen?"

He chuckled—a dry, rasping sound.

"No, boy. Practical. Gods don't feed the starving. They don't halt blades mid-swing. If your Dark God seeks reverence, perhaps he should've shown his face before my people began dying."

Auren's grin didn't falter, but something in his eyes grew colder. Sharper.

Oh, this is fun.

He took a single step forward—just one—and the nobles nearest him recoiled as if scorched. The mist surged, tendrils licking at their boots.

"You mistake silence for absence,"

he said, voice singsong, almost playful.

"The Dark God has been watching. He's always watching."

He tilted his head, the smile never reaching his eyes.

"And right now, he's very disappointed."

The King's gaze flicked to the Knight standing stiffly beside Auren.

"Armsteir. You brought this… child into my hall?"

The Knight's jaw tightened, but before he could speak, Auren laughed—bright and sudden, like glass shattering.

He spread his arms wide, the armor's jagged spikes catching the light.

"Child? Oh, you'd love that, wouldn't you? A little boy to dismiss. A harmless puppet."

His voice dropped, cold and venomous.

"But I've seen things that would unravel your mind like frayed yarn. I've walked paths where even your forefathers feared to tread."

He stepped forward again. The mist followed, creeping up the dais now, threading through cracks in the stone.

The King finally stirred, fingers stilling.

"Enough theatrics. State your business, Divine Cadre."

Auren's smile vanished.

"End this war."

The words dropped like an iron weight—blunt, heavy, unrelenting.

The King stared. Then he laughed—a deep, booming laugh that shook the fat in his belly.

"You stride in here, draped in shadows, and think one command from a god's errand boy will undo centuries of tradition?"

Auren didn't blink.

"Yes."

The King's laughter died. His eyes, small and sharp, locked onto Auren's with renewed scrutiny.

"Why?"

Auren's fingers twitched.

'Because it's foolish. Because people are dying. Because I said so.'

But what left his lips was colder. Measured.

"Because your god commands it."

The King leaned forward, the throne groaning under his weight.

"Prove it."

Auren was silent for a moment. Then, without a word, he slowly stepped back and turned to Asenya. He bowed his head.

Asenya, arms folded, raised a brow in suspicion.

'This bastard... don't tell me—'

Before she could finish the thought, Auren's voice cut through the air:

"Please summon the pet of the Dark God."

He stared at her intently—begging, pleading, commanding—all without a word. His look was silent, indifferent on the surface, yet it pulsed with unspoken urgency.

'Please. Just agree.'

After what felt like only a heartbeat, Asenya frowned and exhaled. Then, without a word, she reached over her shoulder and seemed to peel something off—something unseen until now.

The shift was immediate.

The darkness in the hall thickened, pressing in like a second skin. The torches along the far walls sputtered, dimming as though strangled by the air itself. From the growing pool of black, a form began to stir—swirling, stretching, reshaping itself in the center of the chamber.

A long, serpentine creature rose from the ink, wings unfolding with slow, terrible grace. Its presence pulled at the seams of reality, draping the hall in an unnatural hush.

The nobles recoiled, whispers breaking out in a chorus of awe, fear, and reverence. Some fell to their knees. Others merely stared, eyes wide, hands trembling.

The King's face drained of color. For the first time, his grip tightened around the arms of his throne—knuckles whitening as the creature's shadow spilled over the dais.

Then—

A door slammed open at the far end of the hall.

A priest entered—older than the others, his robes heavy with silver-threaded sigils that shimmered like moonlight on ice. He strode forward with measured fury, his voice cracking through the silence like a whip.

"Enough! This blasphemy ends now!"

Auren didn't even turn.

But the King did.

And the look exchanged between ruler and priest—sharp, knowing, defensive—said more than words ever could.

Auren thought, the grin curling back onto his lips.

'Aha. Now we're getting somewhere.'

The Archpriest's voice sliced through the hall like a blade through silk—precise, final. His robes, heavy with silver embroidery, shimmered as he strode forward, his mere presence demanding immediate deference. The nobles parted before him like wheat before a scythe.

Auren lowered his hand slowly. The shadowy mass above his palm unraveled into wisps of smoke, fading into the thick air. But his grin lingered—wide, sharp, knowing.

Here comes the puppet master.

The Archpriest halted just short of the dais. His aged face bore the deep etchings of command, a mask of sanctity carved by years of unchallenged authority. Yet it was his eyes that revealed the truth—there was nothing holy in them, only control. Cold. Calculated. Dangerous.

"Divine Cadre," he said, his voice smooth—almost gentle—but edged with iron. "You overstep."

Auren tilted his head slightly, as if puzzled.

"Do I?"

The Archpriest didn't blink.

"The Temple of the Dark God governs all matters of faith. If the gods have decreed an end to this war, it is through us that their command shall be made known."

Auren's grin thinned to a blade.

"Funny. The Dark God didn't mention that when he sent me."

A ripple of unease passed through the nobles. Some exchanged nervous glances. The King remained seated, but his narrowed eyes flicked between them, fingers tapping the armrest again—slower now, contemplative.

The Archpriest's lips drew into a hard line.

"You are young. Unblooded in the ways of divine politics. The gods speak in whispers, boy. It is the duty of the Temple to interpret their will."

Auren laughed—short, sharp, derisive.

"Ah, I see. When the gods are silent, you speak for them. And when they finally send a messenger, you still speak for them."

He leaned forward slightly, eyes gleaming.

"How convenient."

The Archpriest's nostrils flared.

"You dare—"

"I dare," Auren cut in, voice low and laced with shadow. "Because I am the Dark God's will. Not you. Not your Temple. Me."

The air shifted.

The crimson mist at Auren's feet began to stir more violently, coiling tighter. Tendrils slid across the floor, slow and deliberate, creeping toward the Archpriest like serpents drawn to warmth.

The Archpriest trembled slightly, eyes locked on the young Divine Cadre. He stared for a long, quiet moment—long enough to let the fear sink in—then exhaled, composing himself before turning toward the throne.

When he spoke, his voice was calm, as if nothing had just happened.

"The Dark God has passed his decree. You are to end this senseless war—immediately."

The King shifted slightly in his throne. Silence hung for a few seconds. Then he grinned.

"I presume the Light God—our opposition's beloved deity—has also sent them a Divine Cadre, asking them to cease hostilities?"

He leaned back, spreading his arms with mockery in his tone.

"Has their king obeyed yet? No? Then why, pray tell, should we not be preparing to ambush their camp before they make the first move?"

His eyes flicked past the Archpriest and settled on Knight Armsteir.

The Knight dropped to one knee without hesitation. So did the golden man beside him.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

The Archpriest whipped around, his face twisted in disbelief.

"Dansleif! You dare ignore my words?!"

The air shifted.

The King chuckled, a deep, weighty sound that filled the hall.

"Oho… Calling a king by name in his own court—that's an offense worthy of death, you know."

He rested his cheek against his fist, gaze cold.

"Forget that we were once friends. I could order your beheading this instant."

Auren's gaze darkened, sharp as a blade unsheathed.

"You asked for proof, and I gave it. The Dark God has been merciful enough to send you aid—tools to prevent more needless death. The least you could do is end a madness that never had justification to begin with."

The King tilted his head, a flicker of disdain glinting in his eyes.

"No justification? Is that what they told you?"

His voice grew louder, fingers clenching the throne's arm.

"We are fighting for the gods! For our people. For our culture and tradition!"

The Archpriest stepped forward, face darkening with fury.

"Such lies. You scarecrow on a throne."

His voice cracked like thunder.

"You're not fighting for gods, or people, or tradition. You're fighting for yourself. For pride. For greed. And I know—this has everything to do with the Truthsayer's disappearance."

The King twitched.

Only for a breath. Just a second.

But it was enough for Auren to notice. And he smiled—slow, silent, dangerous.

"Be careful with the next few words that leave your mouth, Evan," the King said, voice cold and unblinking. "They may decide whether you leave this hall with your head still on your shoulders."

The Archpriest's fury simmered—his jaw clenched, breath heavy.

"You dare—"

"Yes, I dare," the King cut in, tone flat, indifferent. "Now get out. This instant."

The Archpriest paused, his robes shifting as he turned slightly toward the Divine Cadre.

"It is best you come with me," he said, his voice lower now, heavy with resignation. "There's no saving this man. Let us find a way forward together. We will host you. Shelter you. Please."

Auren exhaled slowly.

It didn't seem like he had many options at the moment. The King had defied the divine will—openly, proudly. And that… was unexpected.

But not entirely unwelcome.

If anything, it just moved the game forward faster.

His solution was simple.

'I will… have to kill the King.'