'Blood Curse' (600 words, Flash Fiction)
By G.Osborne © 2025 G. Osborne. First draft.
The King of Eluvaar is old and dying. Advanced of age, he sits on his Throne propped up by his emerald studded breastplate, wearing the crown of Eluvaar and Inthoric, so heavy that his neck is cricked from the strain. About him are his family and his closest ministers of state, quiet and respectful in the ancient kings final hours. Slowly the kings eyes shut and his breath depletes, within moments, all about him know he has finally passed.
The priest steps closer to the throne to discern if the regent has indeed expired and notices something isn’t right about him. All who knew the King lamented his rise to power, not for his politics or beneficent deeds, but for the inheritance of the curse of Inthoric, which has lain low all kings since the time of their amalgamation into the lands of Eluvaar. The priest placed his finger onto the neck of his liege. He solemnly turned to the assembled and shook his head.
“He is no more.”
There was silence. All knew what would happen when he took the throne. At age twenty, just four years before, he was strong and handsome – now he was wretched and ancient, the curse had accelerated his passage at ten times the rate. And what victim next would ascend to the same doom? Eluvaar must have a king. It was a seat that nobody desired, despite the power and the glory. The courtiers, wet with tears and terrified they might be nominated, stayed cowed and away from the throne.
“The throne is cursed!” shouted a voice from the shadows. “Aye!” agreed others. Mutters stirred amongst the assembly, and many began to leave lest they should somehow become entangled in the darkness that afflicted the lineage. A merchant baron edged forth to the throne, as if unfazed by the superstitions drenching the court, stronger than ever this day.
The priest casts his eyes over the dead king. “Something isn’t right.”
“Isn’t that truly obvious, priest!” poked the merchant baron, waiting for the priests attention. The priest threw an indignant glare at the baron, rolling his eyes. “Something else. We all know of the curse and that isn’t what I’m sensing here. It’s something else. But what would a Inthkin know about high magic.”
“I’m here to collect a debt from the king. Seems I’m a little too late.”
The priest nodded. “You need to file the demand from the treasury. Good luck. He wasn’t as rich as everyone thought.”
The merchant baron craned closer to the ancient kings body, his eyes sharpening and a look of distaste settling upon it.
The priest squinted at the Inthkin, “Something wrong, shopkeep?”
The merchant baron nodded. “I know my gems and precious metals, your holiness. These
emeralds which adorn the kings breastplate and crown are the darkest I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen a lot of them.”
“These are the rarest of all,” proclaimed the priest. “Enchanted with fey power, just as they were when they were wrenched from the breastplate of N’carian.”
“Might I come closer, to get a better look at these fine gems and take a last look at the beloved master?”
“I don’t think he cares anymore. Come forth a few strides, Inthkin. No touching him though.”
The merchant baron took a few careful steps closer and peered deeply at the grand armour and crown, both heavy with the deep glorious gems, each glittering with a tiny inner light.
“Your holiness. These are...not...”
“Not what?” peered the priest, wondering what the Inthkin was glaring at.
“Not emeralds. These are torbenite gems.”
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