I Awakened A Divine Curse

Auren slowly rose to his feet, his balance wavering as he cast a subtle glance toward the rigid glass beneath him—the dark surface of the night sky that somehow passed for ground.

He recoiled with a jolt, trembling as a crimson, hollow glow shimmered from deep within the glassy floor. It streaked upward, like a memory unraveling from beneath the scattered starlight trapped far below.

His breath trembled.

The light didn't feel real—yet it wasn't a dream either. It felt… ancient. Like echoes of something once lived. Like something trying to be remembered.

Auren's face paled. He couldn't tell if the lights were imprisoned memories, or if they were reaching up—trying to escape, or pull him down.

He didn't wait to find out.

His grip tightened around the sword in his hand as he turned his eyes forward and forced himself to breathe.

'Don't look down. Don't look down.'

The voice of his mind was a whisper in the silence, more command than plea.

Without glancing back at the ground again, Auren stepped forward. One foot, then another—steady, slow, deliberate. The world didn't feel like it was made for walking. But he walked anyway.

***

For a few minutes, the only thing Auren did was walk.

And each second of those few minutes had been the most dreadful silence he had ever endured.

Granted, he hadn't lived that long—or so he believed.

There was no wind. But there was air.

And the air moved.

It brushed against his clothes, swayed his hair, and made it dance gently with each step he took.

But it wasn't wind. That was the dreadful part.

They were echoes.

Echoes of silent, unspoken thoughts.

Eerie whispers that stirred along the surface of his skin, pulling cold goosebumps up his spine like fingers tracing fear.

His face had drained of color. His eyes darted back—then sideways—constantly scanning for something.

Something he felt.

Something that seemed to be sneaking up behind him.

But every time he turned, there was nothing.

That was the cruel truth—nothing.

Yet somehow, that truth made the next few seconds harder to survive.

If anything, the emptiness felt like shackles—binding his mind in invisible weight.

The more he tried to walk, the heavier he became.

Not in body, but in thought.

The fear didn't scream. It whispered. And in those whispers, it buried him.

His steps began to drag, each one slower than the last.

What had once taken a second now stole entire minutes.

He had never seen himself move this slowly.

He was sweating, his body trembling as he forced motion into his legs. But each shift forward felt like a struggle against an invisible current—

Like something behind him was pulling.

Dragging him back.

It felt like the realm itself was sitting inside his mind, the darkness rooting into his soul like a weight—an anchor that wanted him still.

Time passed.

The realm's atmosphere didn't change. It remained stagnant.

No sun. No moon. Just that endless dark glass and the whispers that moved through it.

And yet, Auren knew time was passing.

He was breathing.

He was moving.

He wasn't watching the illusion of movement—he was living it.

This wasn't a loop.

It wasn't a trap.

He was certain of that much.

But a single step now took longer than a thought could measure.

Eventually, he stopped. After what felt like a lifetime compressed into one more footfall, he finally stood straight and closed his eyes.

And breathed.

The whispers returned.

Of course they did.

They came in waves—soft and haunting. They brushed the edge of his ears and carried with them a quiet desperation.

They wanted to be heard.

Not just heard—unraveled.

But Auren didn't listen.

He focused on the feeling instead. On what they did to him.

The whispers were easy to ignore.

The fear they triggered—less so.

He felt the shiver crawl through him. But he stood his ground.

The first thing Auren knew to battle—was the fear.

'Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear.'

It repeated like a chant in his mind, as if the realm itself whispered it into his bones.

This place—this realm—was a haunting design in and of itself, the home of true horror.

So there was nothing he could do to the silent thoughts that stalked his senses, nothing to mute the echoes of despair that drifted around him like ghosts.

But there was something he could do about what they made him feel.

About how he responded.

He was the only variable he could control.

So, he controlled it.

What did Auren do?

He formed an image. And placed it before his eyes.

Hope.

The Archon of Light.

There was no vivid humanoid figure for Hope. No glowing figure clad in gold, no divine face carved into memory.

But he didn't need one.

The radiant tree was enough.

The great tree of light—that cruel symbol of salvation.

The one thing he wanted to destroy.

The source of everything that had gone wrong.

His blood began to boil.

And with that heat, the air around him thickened, warped—simmered.

The cold dread that had once blanketed his steps now gave way to warmth.

A furious warmth.

The whispers grew distant.

The weight on his chest eased.

And then came the grimace.

A dark, unflinching twist of his lips as memories flashed like blades behind his eyes.

His execution.

His condemnation.

The scornful glare of the people. The judgment. His death.

All justified in the name of light.

The judgment passed without mercy, without hesitation.

All because of that damned Archon of Light.

Auren's jaw clenched as another face surfaced in his mind—

His father.

His own father.

The man who chose faith over blood.

The man who blinked not once as his son was condemned.

The man who looked away from him.

Auren's body trembled.

His soul ached.

The images tore through him like jagged shards of glass.

Invisible knives plunged into his chest, twisting deeper with each breath.

But he didn't collapse.

He bit down on his lower lip until it almost bled.

His eyes reddened, the whites turning a wet, crimson hue. But no tear fell.

He clenched the sword tighter, hand trembling. His knuckles turned pale, veins bulging, shoulders stiffening.

And then—he buried the sorrow.

He crushed it beneath rage.

Buried it under resolve.

His frown deepened into a mask of grim defiance.

Not sorrow.

Not grief.

Not anymore.

And with the image still burning in his mind—

The Archon.

His father.

And the people of Hope Province.

He moved.

And this time, his steps were lighter.

Not because the burden was gone.

But because he chose to carry it.

He carried it not as a weight—but as a weapon.