Today’s Muse piece is a short snippet of fantasy fiction involving a magic-wielding character known as a Darkwielder. Not sure which of my fictional universes (if any) this comes from, but the piece definitely opens the door for a possible short story or novel.
Beatrice stood before the two story house on Hawk Street and looked up at the charred remains of what once used to be her home. The houses to the right and left were untouched by the blaze, shielding the rest of the block from potential harm. But Beatrice knew it wasn’t luck that prevented the fire from the spreading. The fire had been supernatural in nature, a violet-colored blaze specifically set to destroy only her home. A blaze that only could have been cast from a Darkwielder.
Beatrice approached the small set of stairs that led to what was once a beautiful porch area. Now it contained nothing more than skeletal remains of ash and sorrow. Her sneakers pressed against the sick wood with creaking and groaning, as if she were taking the last bit of life from the structure.
She walked through the empty doorframe into a room full of ash. Most of the walls had been burned out, leaving behind charred studs that revealed the true structure of the home before its unfortunate demise. She scanned the room and spotted a small purple shine glittering from under a mound of gray ash. She hurried to it, pushing the ash away, revealing a small cluster of crystals.
“You’ll do nicely,” she whispered. The collection of purple crystals – gleanathyst – could fetch her a high price on the magic market. But she had no intentions of selling it. More than anything, she wanted to use the remnants of the Darkwielder’s magic staff to create her own staff. She was long overdue for it, especially since the completion of her elemental training months earlier.
She tucked the gleanathyst into the inside pocket of her long gray sweater and stood to her feet. The house felt so empty, so cold. She heard the sound of neighborhood children playing nearby, and she remembered when the house was abuzz with life within its walls. Now it lay dead, like a Gurgant beast that had been slain by a dark magician.
“You came back for it,” a voice spoke out behind her. “I didn’t think you would push aside your fear to return to this place.”
Beatrice turned around, unsurprised to have a visitor in what was left of her home. The woman who spoke was none other than the Darkwielder herself. A tall and slender woman, the Darkwielder wore the gray silk cloak and tall black boots that most every other Darkwielder wore once they graduated from their training in magic. This particular Darkwielder had brilliant green hair that snuck out of the sides of her hood, surrounding her flawless pale face with green bushels.
“You took my home from me.”
The Darkwielder nodded. “I did.”
“Give me that cluster of gleanathyst.”
Beatrice clutched her sweater shut over her chest. “No. You burned my home down with your dark magic. In return, I am going to keep this for myself.”
The Darkwielder held her pale hand out. “I said give it to me.”
“No. You no longer have a staff, so you cannot use your fiery magic on me.”
“I still have other magics,” she said.
“But you’re not allowed to use them here,” Beatrice replied. She approached the woman, a wide grin on her face. “I don’t know why you burned my home down, but you’ll regret doing so.”
“I will –“
Beatrice put her hand up to stop the woman. “You will do nothing. A Darkwielder has to follow certain rules.”
“Members of the clan do.”
Beatrice stared into the woman’s green eyes. “You cannot fool me. You’re still in the clan. It was your clan who set you up to burn down my home. Were you trying to kill me?”
“We do not kill. We simply steal.”
“Yes, that is your philosophy. But to kill is to steal life, is it not?”
The Darkwielder’s thin lips curved into a grin. “You know nothing of our philosophies.”
“I do know about your rules though.”
The Darkwielder moved to the side, allowing Beatrice a clear path through the empty doorframe. “Be on your way, hunter.”
Beatrice smiled, patting the inside pocket her of her sweater. “Your rules were meant to give you freedoms in this world, but they have only chained you to your broken ideals.”