Chapter 2 Purple Lips

Caspian leaned against the rough wooden wall of his cramped apartment, the faint glow of a gaslight flickering in the corner. He held the tarnished ring in his hand, its opal crescent glinting in the dim light. Memories of the fight pit echoed in his mind—his head throbbed from the thrashing he had received. Blood clung to the back of his throat, a metallic reminder of his desperation as he clenched his teeth. Every bone ached, but he was alive. And he had obtained a relic—a powerful one. Why else would the old man have been knocked off?

"Old John," he muttered under his breath, recalling the man's angry demeanor as he handed over the ring. What had Caspian unwittingly stepped into?

His thoughts drifted back to the officer's visit and the chilling news of the old man's death. Old John had been connected to unsavory dealings, and Caspian now felt the weight of danger settling around him.

What have I gotten myself into? The cold metal band in his pocket twisted his stomach like a lead weight. He had fought hard to survive in this city, to carve out a life amid the chaos, and now it seemed fate had a twisted sense of humor.

As he stared at the ring, doubt crept in. Was it cursed? The idea seemed ridiculous yet palpable, as if the ring itself were alive and aware of his unease.

Turning the ring over, he read the inscription: "usque in aeternum tuum." He admired how it looked on his left finger, how its tarnished black surface contrasted with his pale skin.

Then the chill came; the ring froze his skin, colder than iron in the snow. It sank into his flesh, sharp and biting. Blood flowed from his finger yet did not fall, pooling into the ring's inlay as if attracted by some twisted magnet. A small red vein split the beautiful crescent opal at its center before it grew and grew until the moon was all but a deep crimson.

He could feel it now—it was a part of him. Like a sixth sense he never knew he had, like a limb that had fallen asleep finally waking up. He aimed his hand at the wall, his heart clenching as an unfamiliar power surged through him.

Suddenly, the room felt different. The air thickened, a tension crackling like static before a storm. The temperature plummeted, and the ring began to glow. A thin ice javelin shot from his hand like a railgun, tearing straight through the flimsy walls into the night sky.

"Bloody hell!" he exclaimed, stumbling back as shards of wood rained around him. I can't show this to anyone; it's too powerful.

As Caspian held the ring, he remembered the hushed whispers of Menthil City—regalia, the rarest and most powerful relics in the world. Only ten were rumored to exist, each possessing immeasurable value. Their magical properties could bend fate, but at what cost?

The current royal family possessed one such relic, the legendary Ruler's Crown. It was said that the former king had wielded it to reclaim the city from the clutches of the Stellarian Empire in 1710, turning the tide of history. The crown had become a symbol of hope, a beacon of unity that restored order in tumultuous times.

Caspian's heart raced as he pondered the significance of the ring. It was not merely a piece of jewelry; it was a potential regalia, an artifact that could alter his destiny. The power it held was intoxicating, yet fraught with peril.

"Am I prepared to bear this burden?" he wondered, feeling the cold metal bite into his skin. The legends of the regalia weighed heavily on his mind; those who sought their power often paid a terrible price. Would he too become ensnared by their allure?

With a deep breath, he tried to shake off the feeling of foreboding. He needed to focus on what lay ahead.

Why are my eyes so heavy?

Leaning back against the wall, the weight of the day pressed down on him. The flickering gaslight cast dancing shadows across the room, lulling him into a daze. He closed his eyes for just a moment, feeling exhaustion seep into his bones.

---

Caspian found himself atop a mound of frost-strewn corpses, their lifeless forms sprawled in grotesque angles beneath the relentless grip of winter. The biting air stole breath from his lungs, each inhalation laced with the coppery tang of blood and the cold scent of decay. Around him, the fractured remains of a frozen lake groaned under the weight of the dead, its cracked surface reflecting a pale, unforgiving sky that offered no solace.

Snowflakes drifted lazily down, settling on the bodies like a shroud, obscuring their features but not their sorrow. Each frozen visage stared blankly into the void, hollow eyes seeming to plead for warmth, for life. The landscape was silent, a heavy blanket of stillness enveloping the scene, broken only by the occasional creak of ice giving way beneath the cold.

Caspian felt the ring pulse at his side, a malevolent warmth amidst the chill, its opal crescent glowing ominously red against the stark white of the snow. It throbbed as if feeding on the despair surrounding him, a reminder of the power it held—the very power that had brought him to this nightmarish tableau. The shadows of the corpses stretched toward him, as if reaching for the ring, their whispers curling around him like fog.

Panic clawed at him, his heart racing as he scanned the horrific scene. Did I do this? The thought struck him like ice, cold and sharp. Was he responsible for their deaths? The isolation wrapped around him like a noose, squeezing tighter with every heartbeat. The familiar ache of loneliness rose to the surface, but this was different—this was a terror he had never known, a fear that curled its fingers around his throat.

As he surveyed the haunting landscape, a figure emerged from the shadows, drawing his gaze like a moth to a flame. Kneeling by the corpses was a sinister dark knight, her armor glistening with the sheen of frozen blood. The visor of her helmet glowed with an eerie purple light, illuminating the darkness surrounding her. In her hands, she held a longsword, black as night, the blade seemingly absorbing the light around it.

Caspian's breath caught in his throat, a chill running down his spine that had nothing to do with the frigid air. Fear surged through him, mingling with awe as he took in the sight of her. Who is she? What does she want? The questions twisted in his mind like a tempest, drowning out everything else.

His pulse quickened, dread settling heavily in the pit of his stomach. Could she be a harbinger of what awaited him? The ring's glow pulsed more fiercely, as if in response to his rising terror. He stumbled back, eyes wide, grappling with the possibility that he had unleashed this horror upon the world.

"Is this what I am?" he whispered, his voice barely breaking the heavy silence. The knight lifted her head, her glowing eyes locking onto his, and for a moment, he felt a deep connection, a reflection of the darkness within himself. But the fear remained, paralyzing him.

In that moment, as the frost tightened its grip, he felt an overwhelming urge to scream, to break the silence that suffocated him. But all he could do was stand amidst the dead, the ring's glow piercing the darkness, a beacon of power with a price he was only beginning to comprehend.

---

Caspian stared into the knight's otherworldly eyes, mesmerized by the inhuman spark caged within their depths. It was both captivating and terrifying, an echo of something he couldn't quite grasp.

Suddenly, the frozen lake finally gave way to its burden. With a deafening crack, it shattered beneath him. Saltwater surged up, filling Caspian's mouth with a frigid rush, like liquid ice invading his lungs. Panic clawed at his throat as he drew his last breath, feeling the light slipping away from his eyes.

Then, with a jolt, he awoke. The sound of urgent knocking shattered the silence, followed by a resounding slam as his door burst open. Gasping for breath, still reeling from the remnants of the nightmare, Caspian had no time to collect his thoughts.

A fireball whizzed past his head, exploding his headboard into smithereens.