Chaosbound: Elarith Chronicles

A Shadow Among Shadows

Deep in the blackened woods bordering Lord Aric's domain, something unnatural stirred.

A figure emerged from the gloom, his features eerily pristine, as if carved from polished marble. Golden hair framed a face too symmetrical to be human, his lips curled in a beatific smile that didn't reach his hollow eyes. His name was Malrik Veylshade, a name lost to the songs of bards and the scrolls of scholars, yet it slithered through the dark like a curse, older than the woods themselves.

He extended a hand, fingers gloved in shadows, and pressed his palm against the bark of an ancient oak. The tree shuddered, its gnarled trunk groaning in protest. Black veins spiderwebbed through its bark, and in a heartbeat, its leaves shriveled and fell, turning to ash before they hit the ground.

"Rise, my children," he murmured, his voice honey-sweet and poison-laced.

Around him, figures twitched and convulsed—farmers, merchants, even a stray knight who had wandered too far from the keep. Their eyes rolled back, jaws unhinging as something poured into them. Skin split. Bones cracked. What emerged were no longer men, but hollow things, twisted mockeries of life, driven by a hunger that was not their own and a sweet promise of slaughter.

Malrik watched, a delighted look on his face, as his creations lurched toward the nearest village.

This was no accident. No random plague of madness.

Lord Aric's lands were being hunted.

And the corruption was just beginning.

The Vanishing

The village of Blackbriar slept under a moonless sky. A single raven perched on a gnarled fence post, its beady eyes reflecting the last embers of twilight. Then, without warning, it took flight, wings beating frantically against the thick night air. Others followed, a dark cloud of feathers and panicked caws erupting from the treeline as if the very woods had exhaled them.

Old Thom didn't notice the fleeing birds. He trudged down the dirt path, his plow resting against aching shoulders, whistling a tune his grandfather had taught him. The harvest had been long, his bones heavier than the tools he carried.

Swish.

Movement in the barley stalks to his left.

Thom paused, squinting at the rustling shadows. "Rabbits again," he muttered, shaking his head. "Gonna eat the whole damn crop..."

He adjusted his grip on the plow and took another step—when the world yanked backward.

A hand the size of a wagon wheel erupted from the darkness. Fingers like blackened scythe-blades closed around his torso with a wet crunch. There was no time to scream. No time to even breathe. One moment he stood on the path; the next, the night swallowed him whole.

His plow clattered to the ground, still warm from his grip.

The barley stalks trembled, then stilled.

As if nothing had ever been there at all.

Dawn's Grim Discovery

The morning sun had barely risen when Hilda, a stout woman with hands calloused from decades of farm work, woke to an empty bed. The space beside her was cold, untouched.

"That drunken old fool," she muttered, rolling her stiff shoulders as she lumbered to the hearth. "Did he spend the night at Piotr's again?" She clanged the kettle onto the fire louder than necessary, her irritation simmering along with the water. "I'll drag him home by his ears this time."

After a hurried breakfast of black bread and goat's cheese, she marched out into the mist-laden village, her boots kicking up dew from the grass. The path to Piotr's hut took her past the communal well, where two women huddled in hushed conversation.

"—completely torn apart," one whispered, her voice trembling. "Like a beast got him, but... the wounds weren't right. And there was so much blood—"

Hilda scoffed, barely slowing her stride. Gossiping crows, she thought. Always inventing horrors to spice up their dull lives. She adjusted her shawl and kept walking.

Then—

"Hilda! HILDA!"

A voice shrill with panic cut through the morning air. It was one of the women from the well, running toward her, face ashen. "Hilda, it's Thom—"

"What about him?" Hilda snapped, her irritation flaring. "Did that old goat fall in a ditch?"

The woman shook her head, gasping for breath. "They—they found him... by the old mill... but Hilda, his body—it's not right. It doesn't look like him anymore..."

The world tilted. The morning mist suddenly felt like a shroud. The woman's words echoed in the silence, her face a mask of terror that slowly mirrored Hilda's own dawning horror.

The Investigators Arrive

A carriage rolled to a stop in the village square, its wheels kicking up dust. The door swung open before Markus—dressed in reinforced leathers, twin swords strapped to his back—could even reach for the handle.

"Ah, fresh air!" Ron declared as he stepped out, stretching his arms wide. His sleeves were rolled up haphazardly, his tunic slightly wrinkled, and his boots scuffed. A satchel stuffed with notebooks, vials, and odd trinkets hung at his side, clinking as he moved. His sharp eyes darted around, already cataloging every detail of the scene.

"Guardian," Markus interrupted flatly, stepping down behind him. "Not sidekick."

Ron spun around, grinning. "Right, right. My trusty sidekick-guardian. Same difference." He gestured grandly at their surroundings, his loose sleeves flapping.

Markus shot him a deadpan look. "Wipe that smirk off your face. You're scaring the locals."

"Pfft. I don't do intimidation. That's your job." He tossed Markus a heavy bag of equipment. "Find us a room, stash this stuff, and meet me in an hour in front of that house." He pointed toward a weathered cottage at the edge of the square—the place where the body had been found. "No buts."

Markus caught the bag effortlessly, used to Ron's antics. He didn't argue. Ron's excitement was infectious, even if his theatrics were... a lot.

"One hour," Markus confirmed, already turning toward the inn.

Ron, meanwhile, was already halfway across the square, muttering to himself as he scribbled notes, oblivious to the wary stares of the villagers.

An Unsettling Hunt

An hour later, Ron stood at the entrance of the cottage, his notebook in hand and a determined glint in his eye. He waved to Markus, who was approaching with an amused expression. "Alright, buddy! I've already spoken to some locals about the crime scene, and let me tell you, I've got plenty of intel."

He began flipping through his notes, muttering to himself. "Mrs. Alvina swears she heard footsteps outside her window just after sundown... Mr. Terrance claims the victim bought a loaf of bread from him yesterday—but he insists it was rye, which makes no sense because the bakery only sells sourdough. Hmm, and let's not forget young Jake's theory about a cursed scarecrow coming to life—intriguing, but hardly relevant..."

Markus finally interrupted, raising a hand. "Ron, are you seriously throwing scarecrows and rye bread into this case?"

Ron snapped his notebook shut and grinned. "Of course not! But no detail is too small. This is my first official assignment, and I'm not leaving any stone unturned. I want everything to be perfect."

Markus sighed and gestured for them to get moving. "Alright, perfectionist. Let's head to the scene."

The duo made their way to the crime scene, where the atmosphere felt heavy, the air stagnant. A soldier stood guard, ensuring the locals kept their distance from the gruesome sight. As they approached, Ron wasted no time, snapping open his case of tools and getting to work like he'd done this countless times before.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

He began muttering again, crouching low to examine the disturbed weeds and smeared blood. "Dragged from behind, I'd say. This poor soul was whistling right before it happened—wasn't expecting a thing. The grass bend indicates a struggle here. The footsteps veer off sharply, so the victim must have been overpowered quickly."

He murmured further, gesturing vaguely as if replaying the entire scenario in his head. "Smells of copper—yeah, that's the blood. The insects are feasting, which confirms it's been almost twelve hours. And based on this pattern..." He trailed off before suddenly glancing at the nearby soldier and wrinkling his nose.

"Speaking of smells," Ron said, smirking, "someone here's been enjoying the finer establishments in town. No judgment, but let's just say the perfume isn't doing much to cover the distinctive fragrance of a night at the red-light district."

Markus groaned audibly, shaking his head. "Ron, focus on the crime scene—not your stand-up routine."

"I am focused, Markus. Just multitasking! Now, as I was saying..." He launched back into his deductions, piecing together the scene with an uncanny precision that left Markus both impressed and exasperated.

Ron straightened up, brushing dust from his coat with a theatrical flourish. "Alas!" he announced, his voice rising with conviction, "I have deciphered the truth. The attacker is not a beast that feeds. No entrails disturbed, no blood consumed, no signs of predatory carnage. It is not some unfortunate carriage accident, nor is it human—at least, not by any stretch of ordinary imagination."

Markus raised an eyebrow but said nothing, his arms crossed as he watched Ron launch into his deduction with characteristic zeal.

"Why, you ask?" Ron continued, despite the fact that no one had asked. "Allow me to elaborate." He gestured dramatically to the evidence. "Firstly, these markings are neither claw nor hoof—they do not match the gait of any local predator. Secondly, the absence of flesh wounds confirms it wasn't some mundane creature seeking sustenance. And thirdly," he paused for effect, "the energy surrounding this scene reeks of something... unnatural. The blood splatter trajectory, the eerily uniform pattern of broken weeds, and even the swarm of insects—these are marks of malevolent intent, not accident or coincidence."

Ron then crouched by the corpse, examining the faint traces of energy still lingering in the air. He muttered briefly to himself before looking up with grim determination. "Something dark was here—something that came not to kill for necessity but to spread chaos. This attacker is no mere mortal. It is a shadow that has slipped through the cracks of our reality."

Markus cleared his throat, cutting through Ron's dramatics. "Are you saying we're up against some supernatural force?"

Ron nodded sharply, his eyes flashing with resolve. "Exactly. And we must be ready for battle."

Without hesitation, Ron scribbled a series of instructions onto a scrap of paper, his handwriting jagged but purposeful. He folded the note and handed it to the soldier standing nearby. "Give this to your chief," he said firmly. "Alert the troops, gather reinforcements, and prepare for the worst. The fight isn't over—it's just beginning."

Markus shifted his stance, glancing at Ron with a mix of skepticism and admiration. "Well," he said dryly, "you certainly know how to set the stage."

Ron grinned, his confidence unwavering. "That's because I know exactly what we're dealing with. Now, ready yourself, Markus—we're going to unravel this darkness."

The Malice Bloom

Markus adjusted his stance, his expression shifting between curiosity and concern as he fixed his gaze on Ron. "What is it, Ron? Tell me—what did this?"

Ron hesitated for only a moment before replying, his tone laced with certainty. "Remember Kane? I believe it's the same kind of thing—but this time, it's not alone."

Markus frowned, waiting for further clarification. Ron pressed on, his words tumbling out in a rush. "Remember the questionings I did with the locals while you were busy? Their stories were all over the place—different accounts, different details. But when you piece them together, they all lead to one conclusion: a malignant spirit."

Markus leaned back slightly, skepticism flickering in his eyes. He knew Ron's fascination with spirits bordered on obsession at times, a fixation that could cloud his judgment. "Ron, how are you so sure about this? Why does everything you come across link back to spirits?" Markus's tone was measured, but there was an edge of caution.

Ron sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair. "Oh, buddy, you think I'm fixated on spirits? Trust me, I'd rather it wasn't." His voice faltered briefly, his thoughts momentarily drifting to the Book of Chaos, a grim reminder of truths he wasn't ready to share. "Never mind," Ron muttered, shaking off the thought. "Let's just prepare for a hunt."

Meanwhile, the soldier who had received Ron's instructions wasted no time in delivering them to the chief. The chief unfolded the paper and scanned its contents, his brow furrowing as he read. The directives seemed unusual, even absurd—but they bore the unmistakable approval of higher authority and the flame emissary. And, more importantly, they carried the weight of an order from Lord Aric's son.

The chief inhaled sharply and barked out commands to his men, his voice ringing with urgency. "Lock down the entire area! Request immediate backup! Get everyone inside their homes—including anyone who's wandered out of the village—bring them back, no excuses. Hurry! We don't have time to waste!"

The soldiers sprang into action, their movements swift and purposeful. Though they might have silently questioned the odd instructions, none dared to challenge orders tied to such high authority. Especially not those coming from Lord Aric's bloodline.

Ron watched the flurry of activity with a determined expression, his mind racing as he steeled himself for what lay ahead. "This isn't just a hunt," he said softly, almost to himself. "It's a reckoning."

The Hunt Begins

Ron's mind raced as fragments of knowledge pieced themselves together—the Malice Bloom Cycle. If the ancient text was correct, the cycle itself was delicate, a natural phenomenon that shouldn't deviate from its hidden rhythm. Malice spirits, by nature, were invisible to the human eye—shadows lurking beyond mortal perception. But what if this was different? What if something had disrupted its process, altering its course entirely? His father's cryptic words echoed in his mind: "Something has changed."

Ron clenched his fists, his resolve solidifying. Even if the connection wasn't clear, his instincts screamed familiarity. It felt disturbingly like the time Kane fell victim to possession.

He turned sharply to Markus, his voice steady and commanding. "Markus, we hunt!"

Markus paused, observing the sudden transformation in his companion. Ron's usual fervor had shifted into something far more focused, a seriousness that Markus had learned not to challenge. It was during these moments that Ron became razor-sharp—a hunter of truths, solving puzzles and producing results that bordered on miraculous.

Without hesitation, Markus nodded and readied himself. He wouldn't question Ron now. That much was certain.

Ron brought along the local soldiers, not just as a sign of respect but as a calculated decision. Their presence ensured transparency—any secrets or withheld truths could rouse suspicion among the townsfolk. Having the soldiers as witnesses meant that when this ordeal was over, the villagers could hear the truth from their own trusted people. It was a delicate balancing act, one Ron navigated with precision. To him, it wasn't just about solving the case; it was about maintaining trust and stability in the fragile community.

The group moved swiftly, led by Ron, who followed the trail with an air of unwavering confidence. Every step he took, every rustle in the grass, every faint trace on the dirt seemed to guide him. Markus couldn't help but observe the transformation in Ron. It's still noon, Markus thought to himself, glancing at the sky. Everything's happening so fast. I can't believe we've already reached this stage—not even a full day has passed.

The trail eventually led them to a clearing, the quiet tension in the air almost suffocating. And then they saw it. The culprit stood before them, monstrous and wrong. It had the shape of a man, but an aura of darkness swirled around it, twisting into demonic features that loomed larger than the host body it possessed. Shadows writhed and pulsed, almost alive, as though the spirit was trying to tear its way free.

Ron's voice cut through the tense silence, his tone firm yet eerily calm, "Possessed."

He stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he analyzed the being before him. "In this world, a malice spirit can only be purged by divine holy light," he began, glancing at Markus. "But we don't have divine tools. What we have is science. You remember what I taught you, Markus—the method is to sever the connection between the spirit and the host. Not to kill the body, but to render it unconscious."

Markus nodded, his expression serious. He knew Ron's approach, but he also knew the risks. Only those blessed by divinity could truly purge such spirits, though Ron remained unaware of that limitation. What they were about to attempt was uncharted territory—dangerous, and perhaps even foolish—but Markus trusted Ron's instincts.

Ron turned to the two local soldiers, his voice sharp and authoritative. "You two, stand back and be on guard. Only Markus and I will engage. This is not a battle you're equipped for."

The soldiers hesitated, glancing at each other nervously before stepping back as instructed. As the entity's shadowy aura flared and twisted like a living nightmare, one of the soldiers whispered to the other, "Is this how advanced warriors fight?" The other could only nod, awestruck.

Ron shifted his attention back to Markus. "Be careful," he said firmly. "Don't kill the host—no matter what. Wear it out. Avoid its attacks. This thing is dangerous, and if it's anything like Kane's possession, we'll only have one chance to do this right."

Markus adjusted his stance, gripping his weapon tightly. "Got it. What's the plan?"

Ron's eyes briefly flicked toward the sky, as if searching for answers. "The plan is to learn. Last time, with Kane, we got lucky. We knocked him out with brute force, but this time, we need precision. There's something elusive about this. Something missing."

He paused, his thoughts lingering on the Malice Bloom Cycle, its mysteries gnawing at the back of his mind. The warriors of the old war had fought monsters in their original, physical forms, slaying them with steel and fire. But these spirits—they were different. Possessions, not tangible beasts. He couldn't shake the nagging thought that this spirit's existence, its behavior, might be tied to the Bloom. Had the cycle been disrupted? Was this a symptom of some larger imbalance?

Ron shook his head, clearing his thoughts. There wasn't time to dwell on theories. "Markus," he said, his voice cutting through the haze, "let's end this."

The battle began in earnest. Ron and Markus moved with precision, their attacks measured and purposeful. The spirit-possessed host lunged with inhuman strength, its movements erratic and unpredictable, but Ron's analytical mind kept pace. He shouted commands to Markus, adapting their strategy on the fly.

"Watch its left! It's trying to feint!" Ron barked, dodging a vicious swipe. "Don't overcommit—wear it down!"

The host roared, its voice a chilling blend of human agony and otherworldly malice. Its shadowy aura flared, lashing out like living tendrils. Markus dodged nimbly, his movements as fluid as water. Ron, meanwhile, studied the creature's reactions, searching for patterns, weaknesses—anything that could give them an edge.

As the fight dragged on, the soldiers watching from a distance could scarcely believe their eyes. The coordination, the precision, the sheer resilience of the two warriors—it was unlike anything they had ever seen. "This is... unreal," one of them whispered. "How are they doing this?"

The other soldier shook his head, too stunned to reply.

Ron's mind was a whirlwind of calculations, his focus sharper than ever. He wasn't just fighting—he was learning. Every move, every reaction from the spirit was a piece of a larger puzzle he was determined to solve. This wasn't just a battle—it was a chance to uncover the truth behind these possessions and, perhaps, the Bloom itself.

"Markus!" Ron shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Keep it distracted! I'm going to try something!"

Markus nodded, trusting Ron's instincts. He had seen Ron in this mode before—completely locked in, his usual quirks and rambling replaced by an unrelenting determination. It was in these moments that Ron's brilliance shone brightest, and Markus wasn't about to get in his way.

The battle pressed on, and while the outcome remained uncertain, one thing was clear: Ron and Markus were not just fighting a spirit—they were defying the very darkness that sought to consume them.