The Sorcerer’s Revenge

In the shadowed corners of a ruined tower, where whispers of the past lingered like cobwebs, Malakar, the fallen sorcerer’s apprentice, hunched over ancient scrolls illuminated by the flickering light of a single candle. His master’s defeat at the hands of the adventurers, armed with Gendry’s enchanted weapon, had not quelled the fire of vengeance in his heart; it had kindled it into an inferno. The once loyal apprentice now sought to claim the secrets of Gendry’s forge for himself, to wield a power so devastating that the realms would tremble before him.

The village of Frosthaven, nestled in the mountains’ embrace, remained unaware of the gathering storm. Gendry, now a hero among his people, continued his work, the clang of hammer on anvil a familiar melody within the village. His fame had spread far and wide, drawing seekers of magic-infused weapons to his doorstep. Yet, the blacksmith worked with a wary eye, knowing the allure of his craft could attract unwanted shadows.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the craggy peaks, a figure cloaked in darkness approached Gendry’s forge. Malakar had arrived in Frosthaven, disguised and unrecognizable, driven by a hunger for retribution and power. He watched from afar, studying Gendry’s movements, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

Days passed, and Malakar, under the guise of a wandering merchant, ingratiated himself with the villagers, gleaning bits of information about Gendry and his magical craft. He learned of the blacksmith’s routines, the security of his forge, and the legacy of the weapon that had laid his master low. With each passing day, his plan took shape, a sinister plot to seize the essence of Gendry’s magic.

One night, under a moonless sky, Malakar made his move. He slipped into the forge, silent as a shadow, his eyes gleaming with the promise of vengeance. But Gendry, ever vigilant, had anticipated such a threat. The moment Malakar crossed the threshold, runes etched into the floor glowed to life, ensnaring him in a cage of magical energy. Gendry emerged from the shadows, the glow of the forge casting dancing lights upon his stern features.

“Who are you to skulk in my forge like a thief in the night?” Gendry demanded, his voice echoing in the stillness.

Malakar, trapped, realized the depth of his folly. Yet, the fire of vengeance burned too brightly for him to yield. “I am Malakar, apprentice to the sorcerer you defeated. Your creation led to his downfall, and for that, you will pay. I came to claim your secrets, to avenge my master and to rise above him.”

Gendry regarded the young sorcerer with a mix of pity and resolve. “Your path is one of destruction. My work is meant to protect, to give strength to those who fight for good. Yet, here you are, willing to drown the world in darkness for your revenge.”

A tense silence fell between them, broken only by the crackling of the forge’s fire. Gendry continued, “I will not let your desire for vengeance harm those I care about. But nor will I end your journey here. You must choose: continue down this path of darkness, or learn from your mistakes and seek redemption.”

Malakar, caught in the grip of Gendry’s words, felt the weight of his actions. In his heart, a battle raged between the dark desires seeded by his master and the flickering light of a path he had never considered—one of redemption.

Gendry released Malakar from the magical cage, offering him a choice. “Leave now, and let go of your quest for vengeance. Seek out a new purpose, or continue down this dark path and face the consequences.”

Malakar, his resolve shaken, fled into the night, leaving behind his quest for revenge and the secrets of Gendry’s forge. The encounter left Gendry weary but resolute in his belief that the power of his craft must be wielded wisely and justly.

Days turned into weeks, and life in Frosthaven returned to its peaceful rhythm. Gendry’s encounter with Malakar became a whispered tale among the villagers, a reminder of the shadows that hungered for the power of magic.

Meanwhile, Malakar wandered the lands, grappling with the turmoil within. Gendry’s words echoed in his mind, a constant reminder of the crossroads at which he stood. In his solitude, he encountered those oppressed by the very darkness he had sought to wield, and in their plight, he saw the reflection of his own lost soul.

It was in a small, beleaguered village, besieged by marauders, that Malakar found his redemption. Using his knowledge of sorcery for protection rather than vengeance, he aided the villagers, driving back the shadows with light. In their gratitude, he found a new purpose, a path that led away from the darkness of his past.

Back in Frosthaven, news of Malakar’s deeds reached Gendry, carried by travelers and traders. The blacksmith listened, a quiet smile upon his lips, knowing that even those who walk in darkness can find their way back to the light.

And so, the tale of The Blacksmith’s Magic and The Sorcerer’s Revenge wove into the tapestry of legend, a story of conflict and choice, darkness and redemption. Gendry’s legacy endured, not only as a master of magical craft but as a beacon of wisdom and strength in a world brimming with both light and shadow.

Don’t Forget the Eggs

This is a fictional story that I wrote based on a writing prompt that suggested you write a short story based on the last text message you received. This is the last message I received but the story is completely fictional. I hope you like it and if you don’t…well, go suck an egg.

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“Don’t forget the eggs.”

That was the last text I got from her. It was a gentle reminder, so common that it was almost cliché. I was wrapping up a weekend trip to the grocery store and I had promised to cook her breakfast on Sunday morning. This didn’t happen that often, and she really wanted to be sure I didn’t try to back out of that promise.

If I had known what was about to happen 20 minutes after that text, I would have left the shopping cart where it was and raced out the door, jumped into the car, and driven home as fast as I could.

But oblivious to the horror that was about to unfold, I concentrated instead on the eggs.

When I arrived home a little under an hour later, I didn’t immediately see or sense anything wrong. I grabbed the groceries out of the car, walked through the front door, and headed straight for the kitchen. That’s where I first saw her body. She was in the corner of the kitchen, lying on the floor. For a moment, I was confused. I thought she was asleep, or perhaps just pretending to be — a silly prank or joke. She liked to joke around.

“Karen?” I said. “What’s going on?”

But there was no response from her lifeless body. In just a few seconds, I realized that something was horribly wrong. My beloved Karen was dead on the kitchen floor.

I ran over to her side and knelt down to check her pulse. She wasn’t breathing. Her heart had stopped beating, and she was cold and still. She had been dead for at least a half hour.

“Oh, God!” I screamed. “What happened to you? How did this happen? What happened?”

I cried out for my wife as if I had been the one that had suffered a violent and tragic death. But that wasn’t true. I was just as devastated as she was, and I had no idea why she had been killed.

The police and investigators didn’t have any answers for me either. There wasn’t too much bleeding, although there were signs of a struggle. She had defensive wounds on her hands and arms. But no one ever found any forensic evidence. No one ever caught her killer, and we never learned who was responsible.

She had been a healthy, vibrant woman who took care of her health. She never smoked, drank, or used drugs. She was always very fit and active, and she never complained about her weight or appearance. She loved sex and enjoyed the things she did together with my penis.

I never understood why she would leave me like that.

I realized that I would be a suspect, although I had an alibi. The text messages we exchanged for one, plus plenty of eyewitnesses who saw me at the store. A neighbor would also vouch for me, having seen me pull into my driveway.

I couldn’t understand why anyone would want to kill my beautiful wife.

She had been a happy person who loved me and our life together. She had no enemies, no reason to be attacked, and no reason to die like that. She just went to the store for a little while, and then she was murdered on the kitchen floor.

She had been alive, talking with me by text, only 20 minutes before she died. The phone she was using that morning was sitting right on the kitchen table.

“Oh, God,” I cried again. “What happened? What was done to you?”

My mind was racing as I waited for the police to arrive.

I tried to think about every person that I knew. It seemed as if everyone must have some kind of motive. It didn’t matter that we had been happily married for years. Everyone had their secrets. Everyone had something to hide.

But that didn’t mean they were guilty.

As I sat in the house, waiting for the police, I began to wonder how this could have happened. We had just come home from the store and she had been perfectly healthy when I left her. Then I returned home to find her body. There was no sign of forced entry or anything like that. It seemed as if someone had been hiding in my home and had waited patiently until I was gone before they attacked her.

“But how could anyone do that?” I wondered aloud. “How could someone possibly kill her and escape without anyone noticing anything? And how did they get away without leaving any trace behind?”

I had no idea what could have happened to my wife.