Whispers of the forgotten

Chapter 17 – The Mad King's Whisper

The battlefield lay in ruins, shrouded in an eerie silence broken only by the occasional whistle of the wind over the crimson-stained snow. The werewolf lay crumpled in the center of the smoldering crater, its grotesque form reverting slowly back to its human state. As Morpheus and Lunara approached cautiously, the criminal's once-feral eyes now shimmered with fading life.

Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth as he muttered in a weak, rasping voice:

"The Mad King… will save us… He will not forget…"

Morpheus froze, his expression darkening. "The Mad King?" he murmured to himself. The name sent chills down his spine, though it was one he had only heard whispered in ancient, forbidden tales.

Lunara crouched beside the dying man, her eyes narrowing. "What does that mean? Who is the Mad King?" she demanded.

The criminal's lips twitched in a faint, almost fanatical smile. "The Forgotten… are not alone… He sees… everything…"

With a final shuddering breath, his body went still, his face frozen in an eerie blend of pain and twisted devotion.

Morpheus stood silently, his thoughts racing. The Mad King—a figure of legend, said to have been banished eons ago for delving too deeply into the forbidden arts of ether. If these were more than just rumors, then the stakes of their mission had just risen exponentially.

"We need answers," Morpheus finally said, his voice cold and determined. "And we need that artifact."

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The Search for the Relic

The castle ruins where the battle had unfolded were foreboding, their walls adorned with jagged, faded symbols that seemed to hum faintly with etheric energy. Morpheus and Lunara moved cautiously through the halls, their weapons drawn and their senses heightened.

"These markings…" Lunara said, running her fingers over a faded sigil etched into the stone. "They're older than anything I've seen before. This place wasn't just a hideout. It was a sanctuary for something… darker."

Morpheus nodded, his eyes scanning the room. "The Forgotten don't choose their locations randomly. There's always a reason, and that relic is the key."

After combing through the debris of the battle, they came across a hidden chamber, its entrance concealed behind a decayed tapestry. Pushing through, they found themselves in a small room illuminated by the faint glow of etheric energy emanating from a locked chest. The air was thick with tension, and both could feel the gravity of whatever lay inside.

"This must be it," Morpheus said as he knelt before the chest. Using his abilities, he manipulated the shadows around the lock, bypassing its intricate mechanisms. With a faint click, the chest creaked open.

Inside lay the artifact they had been sent to recover: a golden chalice unlike anything they had ever seen. Its craftsmanship was exquisite, its surface etched with detailed wings that wrapped around its base. But it was the figure of the angel that caught their breath—a celestial being, crucified on a jagged stake, its head bowed in eternal agony.

Embedded in the angel's forehead was a deep crimson crystal that pulsed faintly with an unnatural glow, as though it contained a fragment of living energy.

"This…" Lunara whispered, her voice barely audible. "This is no ordinary artifact. This thing radiates darkness."

Morpheus lifted the chalice carefully, his gaze fixated on the glowing crystal. The moment his fingers touched its surface, he felt a jolt—a wave of raw etheric energy surged through him, forcing him to steady himself against the chest.

"What is it?" Lunara asked, alarmed.

"It's powerful," Morpheus replied, his voice strained. "Too powerful for a relic associated with the Church. This… this doesn't belong in their history. This is something far older."

As he examined the chalice, his mind raced with questions. Why would the Church want this artifact? And what connection did it have to the Forgotten—and the Mad King?

Lunara stepped closer, her eyes narrowing at the crimson crystal. "That crystal… it looks like ether, but it's… wrong. Twisted. Whatever this is, it's not something the Church should have."

Morpheus nodded. "We need to get this back to the elders. They might know more about its origins."

But as he held the chalice, he couldn't shake the feeling that the artifact was more than just a relic. It was a key—perhaps to understanding the Forgotten, or even to uncovering the truth behind the whispers of the Mad King.

As they prepared to leave the ruins, Morpheus glanced back at the dead werewolf, the criminal's final words echoing in his mind.

"The Mad King will save us," he murmured to himself. "Just what have we stumbled into?"

With the chalice secured, the two ventured out of the castle, unaware that their every move was being watched by unseen eyes. Far away, in the depths of an ancient stronghold, a dark figure sat on a throne of shadows, its lips curling into a sinister smile.

The Mad King was watching. And he was waiting.