Cursed Murk
The sun had risen somewhere beyond the wall of grey fog, but the light that reached the island was pale and muted. The air carried its usual damp chill from the sea.
Tanesha stood at the edge of a cleared patch of ground near the tower. The earth here had been leveled and packed hard. Before her stood a straw dummy, roughly human-sized, mounted on a thick wooden post. The straw was old and tightly bound, the kind used for practice.
She wore a tight-fitting shirt, brown trousers, and sturdy boots. Her dark brown hair was tied back, away from her face. The outfit was practical, meant for movement, and it showed the lean curves of her body more clearly than the gowns.
At her hip hung a whip.
It was not the long, braided rope whip that drivers used on oxen. This was a flat belt of thick leather, twice as long as her arm, wide as two fingers, tapering to a point. Olyvar had brought it from Pentos on the Lord's orders, and she had spent hours simply learning to flick it, to control its weight and reach.
It was a good tool. Suited her perfectly. The Lord clearly understood that a woman her size would never match a man in strength with a sword.
Focusing, Tanesha took a deep breath and closed her eyes.
Deep in her mind, the [Spirit Spiral Rune] pulsed steadily. Beside it, floating in the expanded mental space, was something new.
A structure.
The spell model for [Wind Blade].
It was not a rune, but a lattice. A three-dimensional arrangement. It had taken her weeks to construct it, thread by thread, after her mental space had grown large enough to hold it. Every line had to be perfect. Every junction had to align. One mistake and the whole thing would collapse, and she would have to start again.
After many failed attempts, she finally completed the fourth step: expanding her mental space enough and constructing her first spell model. Then she had moved to the fifth step, guiding magic through her body until it learned to hold the power naturally.
That had again taken time, patience, and more than a few headaches.
But she had done it.
She was now, officially, a Wizard Apprentice.
The thought still brought a small smile to her lips. The daughter of a dead glassworker, sold as cargo, now learning magic on a hidden island.
Removing the distracting thoughts, Tanesha focused back on the model. She fed a thin stream of spirituality into it, just as the Lord had instructed. The model accepted the energy and began to hum, a vibration felt only in her mind.
Then she opened herself to the magic that suffused her body.
It was there now, a constant presence. The [Spirit Spiral Rune] attracted it from the Magic Sea, and after weeks of patient work her body had learned to hold it. Not much… a small reservoir, quickly spent… but enough.
The magic went into the activated model.
The model drank it. Transformed it. And then released it.
An invisible force flowed from her mind, down her arm, into her hand. It wrapped itself around the belt whip at her hip, coating the leather along its edges with something that was not quite wind and not quite blade, but both at once.
Tanesha opened her eyes.
She drew the whip in one smooth motion, the leather hissing as it left her belt. She flicked her wrist.
The whip shot forward, its tip a blur. It struck the straw dummy at chest height and sliced through it with a sound like tearing cloth. The cut was deep, a gash that went halfway through the straw and bit into the wooden post beneath.
Tanesha stared at the damage. Then a smile broke across her face, bright and unrestrained.
"Finally," she breathed.
After a week of trying, failing, adjusting, and trying again, she had done it. The spell had attached cleanly, held through the strike, and delivered its full force. It worked.
Still elated, she reset her stance and tried again.
This time, the whip struck the dummy with a flat thud, leaving only a shallow welt in the straw. No cut. No magic.
Tanesha gritted her teeth. She had lost focus, let the model slip. She drew a breath, recentered, and reached inward again.
Spirituality into the model. Magic into the model. Release.
The invisible blade wrapped the leather once more.
She struck.
Another deep gash appeared, this one lower, near the dummy's midsection. The straw bulged, nearly spilling from the wound.
She tried again. And again. Each time, the process became a fraction smoother. The attachment held a heartbeat longer. The strikes landed with more precision.
After her sixth successful cut, her magic reservoir was empty. The spell model still hummed, ready to accept power, but there was none left to give.
She stopped, breathing hard, and let her arms fall to her sides.
It would take time for the magic to regenerate. The [Spirit Spiral Rune] and the spell model would continue to draw magic from the Magic Sea, slowly refilling what she had spent. An hour, perhaps two. Then she could train again.
She rolled the belt whip carefully and tucked it back into her waist. The leather was already warm from her grip.
The walk back to the tower was quiet. Her boots crunched on the rocky path.
She was halfway to the tower when she noticed him.
A boy stood ahead, just off the path, his head bowed as soon as their eyes met. He had short brown hair and fair skin, still pale from the weeks spent indoors. His clothes were the plain, clean shirt and trousers issued to all the new boys.
Tanesha stopped. Her hand rested on the whip at her waist.
"What are you doing here, Rip?" she asked, her voice flat.
The boy, Rip, kept his head lowered, but his voice was steady. "Nothing, Lady Tanesha. I just came out for some air and happened to notice your training. I was wondering…"
She knew him. He was the only one among the five new boys who had completed the first step of the Meditation Method. The [Spirit Spiral Diagram] had yielded to him fast. A few days faster than she had been. Faster than any of the other girls who had died trying.
And she saw it in him, even with his head bowed. The ambition. He tried to hide it behind respect, but it leaked through, the quick, assessing flick of his eyes before he lowered them.
She could not treat him like the others. Not yet. If he succeeded, he would soon hold the same status as her. A fellow apprentice. Perhaps a rival.
"Get back to your work," she said, cutting him off. "There will be consequences if you disappoint the Lord."
Rip's head snapped lower. "Y-yes, Lady. Of course."
He raised his head a fraction after a moment, but she had already turned and walked past him. She did not look back.
Rip watched her go. The panic melted from his face, replaced by something else. Thoughtful. Calculating. He stood there a moment longer, then turned and walked toward the thatched house, his pace unhurried.
Old Town — High Tower
In the chamber lit by candles, Aegon sat beside the bed, his hands covered in thin leather gloves. He reached out and gently touched Maegelle's left arm, his fingers tracing the edge of the greyscale.
The skin there was hard, cracked and flaking, mottled in patches of black and dull grey. Where the upper layer had split, he could see the soft pink of raw flesh beneath.
He tugged carefully at one of the loose scales, testing it.
"Mmm…" A small groan escaped Maegelle's lips. Her eyes remained closed, her face slack with unconsciousness.
Aegon glanced at her. Her hood had been removed, and her silver-gold hair lay spread across the pillow, all tangled and damp. Beads of sweat stood on her forehead and neck.
She was just in her mid-thirties, a beautiful woman at the height of her years. Even wrapped in the grey robes of a septa, the Targaryen features were unmistakable. Her calm, priestly demeanor had always drawn people to her, made them trust her.
But now she lay still. Marked by sickness and resignation.
Just a short while ago, Septa Fryda had helped clean her and rouse her enough to eat. The fever had spiked overnight, leaving her weak and drifting. Her eyes barely opened. Her mind was clouded, her gaze unfocused. Yet she recognized Fryda and her mother well enough to accept the bowl of thick soup they fed her.
The warmth of it seemed to steady her. Color returned faintly to her face. As she swallowed, her breathing evened. By the time the bowl was half empty, her eyes were clearer, if only a little.
While she ate, Alysanne and Fryda had told her that Aegon wanted to try something.
A chance. A possibility.
Maegelle had only smiled, faint and tired. "I am aware of my condition, mother. Sister Fryda. I do not think we need to bother Aegon with this."
Alysanne's voice had cut through, sharper than intended. "No, my dear. There is still a chance. L-let him try. Please. Listen to your mother."
Maegelle had looked confused, her brow furrowing weakly. "How? Greyscale has never had a cure."
"He can do things others cannot," Alysanne had said, her voice cracking. "If there is even the smallest chance… we must take it."
Maegelle had gone quiet at that. Her fingers had shifted weakly against the coverlet.
After a moment, she murmured, uncertain, "He does not mean to… burn it out, does he?"
The memory lingered in her eyes even through the fever. Fireballs bursting against training dummies in the yard. Heat rolling across stone.
Alysanne had understood at once. She had been there that day.
"No. Of course not," she had said quickly, leaning closer. "There will be no burning. Nothing like that."
Maegelle had studied her mother's face, searching for certainty. Then she had given a faint, embarrassed smile, as if scolding herself for the thought.
She had turned to Fryda then, looking for help, for someone to gently refuse on her behalf. But Fryda had surprised her.
"Maybe it is better to listen to the Queen," Fryda had said softly. "Prince Aegon represents powers that are not ordinary. There might be a solution."
Maegelle had still hesitated.
Fryda had leaned closer, her voice dropping to something more intimate, more urgent.
"If Prince Aegon succeeds… you do understand what that means, Maegelle? For the children?"
That had landed.
At last.
Inside, Maegelle knew Fryda was trying to convince her. But the weight of every child she had ever tended, every small body marked by the same stone curse… did press down on her like a mountain.
Their faces. Their fear. Their mothers' tears.
She had looked at her own mother's desperate expression, then at Fryda.
"Let Prince Aegon try, sister," Fryda had said quietly. "Princess. Maybe this is God's will."
Alysanne had seized the opening. "Yes. Yes. Septa Fryda will be here to oversee everything. You do not have to worry. Just let him try."
Maegelle had gazed at them both. Her mother's miserable, pleading look stung her heart more than any pain from the greyscale. She had sighed, a long, shallow exhale, and offered a small resigned smile.
"All right."
Maegelle had fallen asleep soon after, the soup and exhaustion pulling her under.
Alysanne and Fryda had exchanged a long look across the bed. Relief flickered in both their eyes. Guilt too. They had agreed, without words, to keep the full truth from her for now. The word Blood magic would only trigger more refusal, argument and resistance. She was in no condition for that.
Better to begin and explain later. In the middle of it, if necessary. After, if possible.
Aegon pulled his attention back to the arm before him. He and Maegelle were alone in the room now. Queen Alysanne had finally agreed to rest. The past two days had drained her badly. Fryda waited outside, ready to be called if needed.
He looked again at the place where he had tugged the scale. A thin trickle of yellow-white pus seeped from the exposed raw flesh. They had added a generous amount of poppy to Maegelle's soup, enough to dull the worst of the pain. Yet even with that, a simple tug had drawn a groan from her lips. That small sound spoke volumes. The upper layer of greyscale was hard, dead, numb as stone. But beneath it, the flesh was raw, infected, alive and sensitive.
He let his gaze travel across her left side. The arm. The ribs. The chest. All marked, all claimed by the creeping stone.
Aegon exhaled a long, slow breath.
For a fleeting moment, the old nightmare stirred at the back of his mind.
The screams in the dark. Voices he knew. Family calling his name. Faces blurred, deaths unseen. Only terror. Only the sense that he had been too late.
Was this the end chosen for Maegelle? Was this how fate meant to claim her? He did not know. It did not matter.
He was not going to let her die.
Then he rolled up his own sleeve, reached into his mind and released his spirituality.
It flowed out, wrapping around Maegelle, focusing on the infected areas. He would need to understand the full extent before he could act. A diagnosis first.
For the task ahead, the class [Physician] would be vital. And if further needed, there was always the more advanced Tier 3 class [Flesh Shaper], its details quietly unfolding in his mind…
[Class: Flesh shaper (Tier 3)]
[ Prerequisites:
- Spirituality ≥ 13.0 (satisfied)
- Magic ≥ 13.0 (satisfied)
- Max level Class: Physician (satisfied)
- Max Level Class: Wizard Apprentice (satisfied)
- Max Level Class: Rune Initiate (satisfied)
- Research of magic related to flesh and blood (satisfied)]
[ Level 6 (000 / 60,000) ]
…
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📜 Milestones:
150 Power Stones → +1 Chapter ✅
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Thanks for reading!