Page 63 of Cursed By Gold

But the true heart of the deception is that twisted old crone, her crooked staff conducting the entire phantasmagoria like a malefic orchestra. If we don't disrupt her conjuring, this maelstrom will only escalate further. Gripping my staff tightly, I draw upon every ounce of arcane craft and mental focus Fairy Godmother's teachings have imbued in me. To be fair, it’s not much and frankly, I’ve never shown an ounce of actual magicalability before but if the gods gave me a magical staff they sure as hell have better given me the ability to use it. God of thieves, you had better not let me down.

Emerald beams of magic shoot from the staff, piercing and dispelling the crone's summoned spirits one by one. Her hollow shrieks rise in impotent fury as more and more of her illusory veil frays apart under our concerted assault. But even as her constructs begin unraveling, her own power swells in desperation.

With a thunderous roar, she raises her gnarled staff towards the heavens. The ground underfoot bucks violently as a shockwave of eldritch force radiates outwards. The torchlight dims as if the very air were turning to poisonous smog. Marek and Olena cry out in shock, reeling and staggering from the debilitating onslaught.

Gritting my teeth, I reach for the deepest wellsprings of my own mysterious magic, the runes along the trickster's staff flaring with crackling power. But even as I do, a presence unlike anything I've encountered stirs within that ancient wood - a sentient, willful force of cunning and beguiling guile.

As the crone's noxious miasma swirls menacingly around us, I feel a strange, intangible force stir within Halisar's staff clutched in my hands. It's as if the relic itself carries a sentient essence, a primal spirit of cunning guile given form. Without conscious thought, I open myself fully to that inscrutable presence, allowing its unfurling power to intermingle with my own.

The effect is instantaneous and profound. What was once a choking, poisonous haze twists and distorts into a shimmering vortex of incandescent motes. The vapors transform into a kaleidoscope of sparkling dust that swirls and dances around us in dazzling, diaphanous patterns. I can sense the intoxicating thrill of pure deception coursing through my veins, theintangible essence of the God of Thieves himself lending me his mystic gifts.

Olena's eyes widen in breathless awe at this wondrous metamorphosis, the crone's jaw hanging agape in stunned denial as her vile summoning is usurped and subverted by a far more ancient power. I feel her focus waver under the onslaught of this divine trickery, her control slipping like grains of sand through cupped palms.

Seizing the opportunity, I move with a serpentine grace utterly disconnected from my own mortal form. Halisar's divine essence guides my actions now as I whirl the twisted staff in an impossibly fast overhand spiral. The runes blaze forth with scintillating emerald light, bending and focusing my will into a searing torrent of pure arcane force.

The blazing beam lances across the arena to slam into the wizened crone with the fury of an avalanche, her fragile form hurled backwards into the shadowed pit like a broken marionette severed from its strings. As she disappears into the darkness with a despairing wail, the last vestiges of her summoned phantasms dissipate into wisps of glimmering ether.

Silence hangs heavy in the arena as the dust settles. Tarin gapes in slack-jawed awe, while even the grizzled Marek and cynical Olena regard me with bemused respect bordering on trepidation. For my part, I simply stand motionless, reveling in the lingering tingle of that alien power before allowing Halisar's divine presence to recede fully back into the trickster staff's carved recesses.

My heart pounds with the intoxicating aftershocks of having channeled such a primal, mystic force. Yet even as exhilaration courses through me, a small kernel of unease takes root. If the God of Thieves himself has marked me as his champion, aided me so overtly in this trial...then how can I hope to keep that truth concealed from King Remme's gaze?

The triumphant cheers morph into screams of shock and horror as the arena floor itself violently shifts. A deafening rumble like the earth wrenching itself apart reverberates through the stones underfoot. My stomach drops as fissures split open, jagged obsidian shards erupting in a crystalline maelstrom.

I barely have time to register the threat before searing agony lances through my body. Razor-edged shards shred flesh and muscle alike as they burst forth in an unstoppable onslaught, punching through my torso and limbs. White-hot fire seems to consume my very nerves as the jagged obsidian violates and eviscerates without mercy.

A scream tears from my throat, hoarse and primal, barely recognizable as my own voice. Warm wetness blooms across my shredded tunic, the coppery tang of blood thick in the air. Distantly, I am aware of Olena shrieking in horror while Marek bellows helpless fury, but their voices seem to echo from a vast chasm.

With a final explosive burst, the crystal storm subsides as abruptly as it had begun. I crumple to the arena floor in a broken, bleeding heap, agony lancing through me with every feeble movement. The last thing I glimpse before oblivion claims me is the king's stunned face, mouth agape in his private viewing box, our eyes finally locking across that impassable divide.

Then darkness rises to enfold me in its cold embrace. My final thoughts scatter like ashes on the wind as unconsciousness drags me down into its bottomless depths...

Questions that Can’t Be Left Unanswered

Remme

The world seems to blur around me as Scarlet's form crumples to the arena floor in a broken, bleeding heap. My heart clenches almost painfully in my chest at the sight, an icy fist of dread gripping my insides. Through the ringing in my ears, I'm dimly aware of the crowd's shrill cries of shock and horror, but my gaze remains transfixed, utterly unable to tear itself away.

Scarlet’s teammates reactions surprise me at how extreme they are considering I hadn’t seen them interact with her before this trial. To be honest, my own reaction also surprises me a bit. Olena shrieks wordlessly, hands clawing at her face in a paroxysm of dismay. Even the grizzled Marek appears shaken, bellowing furious oaths that are swallowed up by the swelling pandemonium. But their responses are mere background noise,meaningless din drowned out by the roar of my own pulse thundering through my skull.

All I can see is Scarlet's battered, motionless form amid that crystalline hellscape, rent flesh and torn garments painting a gruesome tapestry in shades of crimson. My gloved fists clench with such force that the metal bites into my palms, dread threatening to hollow me out from the inside.

Some rational corner of my mind knows this is likely just another deception, an elaborate illusion crafted for my benefit. I'd instructed the arena masters to test the competitors' skills to the utter limits - to separate the authentically gifted from the pretenders through any means necessary, no matter how traumatic. But another part of me cannot shake seeing Scarlet so horrifically broken before my eyes.

My jaw clenches hard enough to creak as I force my expression into stony impassivity once more. I cannot afford to let the court or citizens see even a flicker of the roiling tempest burning within me. One misplaced tell, one crack in the facade, and it could undo everything, leaving my obsessive yearnings laid bare for all to mock and condemn as weakness.

As the medical acolytes hurry to cart Scarlet's limp form off the field on a stretcher, I finally tear my stare away to sweep across the assembled viewing boxes. Predictably, it doesn't take long to pinpoint the source of the blusterous outrage echoing above the din.

Lord Greystone has surged out of his plush seat, flushed face contorted in a mask of rage as he pounds his meaty fists on the ornately carved balcony railing. A thin sheen of spittle froths at the corners of his mouth, strings of acidic vitriol no doubt pouring from his lips though the exact words are lost amid the general tumult. The blustering oaf seems damn near apoplectic at the sight of his prospective bride-to-be left in such a gruesomestate, never mind that the entire debacle was almost certainly theatrical in nature.

I curl my lip in a sneer of disgust, unable to fully mask the contempt I feel for the man's greed and entitlement. As if he has any true claim or right to Scarlet, to dictate her heart or determine her worth based on his pitiful, lust-addled ambitions. The mere notion makes my stomach churn in revulsion.

My eyes drift inevitably back to the spot where Scarlet fell, now only marred by spatters of crimson amid the cracked stonework. Something in me clenches tighter at the sight, the urge to rush down and see for myself her state almost overwhelming my restraint. But no...I cannot compromise my position or give the game away to those circling vultures just waiting to seize any perceived weakness. I am the king, impartial and untouchable as the laws of nature themselves.

At least, that is the role I must play, otherwise all will be lost and I will not only put myself, but also Scarlet into danger.

Gritting my teeth, I force my attention back to the arena floor as the next team, including Rose, takes their position for the trial. My stomach clenches as I watch the old crone materialize in the center, the same haunting figure that tormented Scarlet's team with illusions and deceptions.

As the trial begins and the crone weaves her dark sorcery, Rose suddenly breaks formation. Taking one long last look around, she darts forward, mirroring the desperate move of the thief who infiltrated my castle. In a blur, she grabs the crone's foot and pulls as hard as she can, knocking the large woman to the ground in an eerily familiar takedown.

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