The prince and the witch

Despite being able to create a basic weapon enchantment spell. Although it impressed the elders, they didn't accept him and wanted to test him further. 

Sigurd felt the world become a blur. The strange energy caused him to feel nauseous and lightheaded and a strange burning in his abdomen. He felt something similar to heartburn in his pelvis as he walked along the vibrant path of flora.

'It feels like if I was to try again. The spell wouldn't be as difficult.' 

They decided the witch named Medea would be his guide. Sigurd couldn't help but watch her small yet voluptuous figure swaying in the fantastical night scenery. Her lips formed a strange smile that revealed her sharp teeth. This woman saved his life, but he felt she was a complete mystery.

'Well, she's extremely beautiful, even her eerie smile...'

"Newborn, do you desire my body? Such an amusing little boy." Her voice always felt a little playful, but there was also a feeling of crisis deep inside his core, causing him to feel danger.

"I'm not little..." Sigurd couldn't help but spit out.

With that, the witch spun around, the black cat inside her massive witch hat swirling around the hood with a lovely mew. "Hmmm, well, I wasn't speaking about such irrelevant things. Maybe when you can cast an offensive spell, I'll tell you what I meant."

'So, I shouldn't get big-headed, is what you're subtly telling me.'

They walked for a few minutes until a small black house appeared; before he became a warlock, this building seemed to be a decaying mansion. Yet now, it was a beautiful, small mansion with a lovely atmosphere and a small furnace in the yard.

"This will be your home for now—do not enter the second floor."

"Why not?"

"Because I will castrate you."

"Oh... it's your room. Are you living with me?"

The small black house welcomed Sigurd with a peculiar warmth. Medea gestured toward the entrance, her crimson eyes glinting mysteriously.

"This will be your sanctuary from now on, prince. Make yourself comfortable."

As Sigurd stepped inside, he felt thrust into an enchanting and alien world.

The air hummed with mysterious magic, and the furnishings seemed to whisper secret tales. Medea, the witch who had rescued him, stood by the doorway, her gaze lingering on Sigurd.

"Your journey has just started; do not feel anxious. Embrace the strange things that unfold within and around you," Medea spoke, her voice carrying the curiosity of one who delights in unravelling secrets.

He watched as she traced her finger along the door frame before a flicker of blue appeared. Then, like magic, the room rearranged, the dusty tomes and cobwebs all cleaned like a dream.

His guide's glowing face entranced Sigurd. Caught between gratitude and attraction, he found his voice. "Wait, Lady Medea. Before you go, can you... help me understand more about this power inside me?"

The witch faced him, striding forward, each step like a fairy skipping with an enchanted creak. Her silver hair cascading like a waterfall, she smiled mischievously as her sharp red nail slid across his cheek, a seductive yet mysterious gesture.

"Ah, the curiosity of a newborn. Very well. Let me leave you with a piece of advice."

She breathed deeply, gently placing a hand on Sigurd's chest. Sigurd felt a surge of foreign energy emanating from Medea. It was soft, lively, and amazing when it passed through his body and touched his energy.

While he felt an almost forbidden feeling of pleasure and secret desire, her words then echoed in his mind.

"Listen to the whispers of your heart, Sigurd. Your power is as much a part of you as your beating heart. Learn to dance with its rhythm, and you shall master a wonderful dance."

She watched him with a smile, touching her thick, red lips and whispered, "If you can create an offensive spell within two days, I will reward you."

With those cryptic words, Medea withdrew, leaving Sigurd to grapple with the enigma of his newfound abilities.

"..." 

Sigurd remained silent as she slowly walked upstairs, feeling that all his unspoken feelings and dark desires became visible to this woman with a glance.

"Goodnight, Medea—thank you for saving my life." He whispered before entering the back room, which she offered to him.

Despite his rebirth and becoming a warlock. Sigurd decided he would not lose who he was before, even if he became something different.

"Well, let's just try to control the power... With swordsmanship, I was at the top of our class because of my constant practice, not just talent."

Seated on a worn-out chair, Sigurd closed his eyes, reflecting on Medea. Whether her strange allure, her guidance or his desires that were supposed to have vanished with the church's magic.

"Ha... Ha... This chair is so comfortable." He felt a sense of calm when taking deep breaths.

The dark green essence within responded to his reflection. He envisioned the river of energy, but unlike before, he remembered how Medea's energy traced through his body like a deadly snake, sneaking through the small creaks in his veins and tiny capillaries and, with newfound understanding.

He directed his energy to follow her path, feeling the small pathways expand slightly with his power's movement.

'If I were to name this strange black flame... Maybe the Emerald Blaze? The flickers of emerald flames are beautiful and remind me of my mother's eyes.'

Sigurd extended his hands, experimenting with shaping the energy.

It resisted less than before but only yielded to his mental commands. When he tried to form it into something different, a substantial amount vanished, and he endured an intense pain in his chest.

"Ugh...!"

'Although it recovers slowly with the beating of my heart, this energy feels like blood. Should I think of it as the blood of magic?'

It was a simple thought, but his handling and management became more precise and skilful when he saw the energy as vital as blood.

A small, controlled manifestation of his power materialised—a sign of his progress in understanding this unknown force.

No matter how talented he was, he was still a human a short time ago and couldn't rush.

Sigurd's thoughts returned to the village in the quiet moments between each attempt, where scepticism and wary gazes awaited.

The silver hair that once symbolised cursed beings, the enemy, now seemed to exude nobility and bore the weight of doubt. Medea's words echoed in his mind, a reminder that mastering his powers also meant embracing the identity forged into his heart and mind as the enemy.

"Is this who I am now?" Sigurd pondered, seeking solace in the dim light of the magical abode.

'Will my past as the fallen prince vanish, or should I forget? There is no guide or help in understanding my path.'

"Father, if only I could seek your guidance once more."

He finished his break, no longer feeling the tightness of his chess ease. Sigurd stopped dwelling on things he couldn't change or fix right now and focused on his desires.

Medea's reward.

Determination surged within Sigurd as he focused on shaping the dark currents into a flickering ball of shadow with an ethereal emerald light. He lost sense of all time and reality, now focused on the small ball no larger than his fist.

'I can feel your power—you are the spell I desire to create.'

He remembered fighting witches in the past, but seeing Medea, he realised those must have been newborns like he was now. They would use deadly balls of fire, ice, wind or earth to crush the limbs of knights before slitting their throats.

'Mine needs to penetrate... to kill with one shot.'

Triumph was short-lived as the exertion drained him, blood oozing from his nose; he could taste the bitter iron and copper; swallowing and leaning back, Sigurd felt so close he ignored the state of his body, feeling his heart racing faster than a steed into battle. 

"I cannot stop!"

Once...

Twice...

By the tenth attempt, he collapsed from the chair, and the bitter scent of blood, a sharp scent of coppery iron, filled the room.

Sigurd lay weakened, unable to taste, smell or feel, but his eyes were open, his mind focused on the ball of emerald flames that hovered above him, a manifestation of his sacrifice and magic.

The room pulsed with an evil energy, a feeling of the warmth being devoured by the dark ball smothered in emerald flames. 

If a normal flame burned the body, this flame surely burned the soul while the darkness within devoured the vessel.

This magic existed once before.

However, the seven devils, known to bring calamity, were the only ones to create such evil and devastating magic.

"Haa....Haa... I cannot feel my body. The price to pay for my ignorance may one day take my life."

Sigurd closed his eyes, only able to listen to the sounds of the night.

The shadows whispered with the crackle of magic, the beat of his heart, faint steps filled with magic, mystery, and the relentless pursuit of self-discovery.

"Newborn, you are too anxious for power... Will you burn away your life like the wick of a candle this way?" A murmur from the distance, a fleeting smile on her face.

The door creaking signalled Medea's departure, leaving Sigurd with the echoes of her praise and criticisms that floated like magic.