Royal Commander David Zechariah and his warriors pursued the monstrous figure as it bolted through the darkened streets. It moved unnaturally fast, its massive form slipping through the shadows with an agility that defied its size.
"Cut it off!" Zechariah ordered, signaling a group of soldiers to flank its path. He and a handful of warriors chased after it, their armor clanking with each powerful stride.
The hunt was relentless. The beast weaved through narrow alleys, its movements eerily precise. Then, something caught Zechariah's eye—a motionless body sprawled in the dirt.
"Stop!" he commanded, halting his remaining warriors. Kneeling beside the fallen soldier, he grimaced. Another casualty. The blood was fresh.
Determined, he took off alone, his instincts overriding caution. The monster's shadow loomed ahead, just within reach. Then, without warning, it sprang—leaping effortlessly onto the rooftop of a nearby building.
Zechariah skidded to a stop, cursing under his breath. It was impossible to follow now.
Frustrated but undeterred, he prowled the area, scanning for any trace of the beast. The ground bore deep claw marks, but something felt… off. After some time, he stumbled upon a group of injured men—some civilians, some soldiers—scattered across the path.
He crouched beside one, studying his wounds. "Tell me what happened," he demanded.
"The monster," one of them gasped. "It… it had a hand like a scorpion's stinger. It struck us down as if we were nothing."
Zechariah examined the injuries carefully—deep, clean cuts, but no signs of venom. When he consulted the medics, they confirmed his suspicion.
"These wounds aren't from a poisonous creature," the doctor stated. "They look like sword slashes."
A chill settled over Zechariah.
Something was wrong.
He turned back to the wounded. "Did anyone see its face?"
They hesitated. Finally, one spoke. "No… it was covered—wrapped in a dark cloak. But it was massive, like a giant. And its hands… those scorpion-like claws were the only thing we could see."
Zechariah's mind raced. The pieces didn't fit.
Before arriving, he had received a message from one of his most trusted soldiers—the same soldier who was now dead. The message had been clear: The so-called monster and the magical creatures are not a true threat.
Yet here, bodies lay in its wake. Wounded men spoke of an unseen face, a cloaked figure, a stinger that felt more like a blade.
Deception ran deep in this place.
Determined to unravel the mystery, Zechariah composed a detailed report and dispatched it to the king.
Whatever this was, it was no ordinary hunt.
It was a game of shadows and lies.
And he would find the truth—no matter what it took.
Meanwhile in Luminarin, Starlet made her way through the winding streets of Star City, a place known for its quiet charm and timeless elegance. Cobblestone paths gleamed under the soft light of glowing lanterns, and quaint, ivy-covered buildings whispered tales of ancient times. Birds chirped melodiously as if unaware of the peril that had befallen the princesses.
At the heart of the city stood a peculiar house shaped like a giant mushroom. Thick ivy wrapped around its curved walls, and lanterns hung from its eaves, casting warm, golden light. The air smelled faintly of herbs and magic.
This was the home of Elder Donald, a wise man known across the land for his unparalleled knowledge and healing skills.
Starlet, clutching her wounded sister in her arms, hurried up the steps and knocked firmly on the wooden door. The sound echoed through the stillness.
After a tense moment, the door creaked open. An elderly man with kind, wise eyes and a long white beard appeared. His robe shimmered faintly in the lantern light, embroidered with ancient symbols of healing and protection.
"Ah… welcome, Your Majesty," he said warmly, his voice deep and soothing. "Please, come in and take a seat."
Starlet nodded gratefully and stepped inside. The interior of the house was cozy and filled with the scent of burning sage. Shelves lined the walls, brimming with ancient tomes, jars of mysterious powders, and shimmering vials of elixirs.
McDonald gestured toward a cushioned couch near the crackling fireplace. Starlet carefully laid Alexandra down, her heart aching at the sight of her sister's pale, motionless form.
The healer's eyes darkened with concern as he examined Alexandra. "What happened to her?" he asked, his voice heavy with worry.
With a trembling voice, Starlet recounted everything—the enchanted book, the witch's sudden attack, Alexandra's injury, and their desperate escape. Her voice cracked with desperation. "Please, help her," she pleaded. "Is there a healer who can cure this?"
McDonald sighed deeply, his expression sorrowful. "I am a healer myself, Princess, but… I cannot heal this wound."
Starlet's heart sank, a wave of despair washing over her. "Why not?" she whispered, her voice breaking.
McDonald's gaze was steady, yet filled with gravity. "Because this is no ordinary wound," he explained solemnly. "The attack was cast by dark magic—the Cursed spell. No medicine can cure her. There is only one way to save her."
A flicker of hope ignited in Starlet's chest. "Tell me! What is the solution?"
McDonald folded his hands, his expression grave. "We must take the witch's power and seal it back inside the Magic Box."
Starlet's brows furrowed in confusion. "The Magic Box?"