The last Cursewright

The city of Patel was unlike anything Azel had seen before.

Towering buildings lined the horizon, blending gothic stone with intricate glasswork. Markets bustled with energy. People of all colors, shapes, and races roamed the streets—beastfolk, elves, dwarves, and humans, all mingling freely.

It was a place of second chances. A city where people from different worlds came to start new lives.

Azel entered through the southern gate, his black robe slightly tattered, hood drawn halfway over his face. He walked slowly, eyes flicking across the crowd. Couples laughed. Children chased each other. Street performers juggled flaming torches. Lanterns hung above, casting warm hues on cobblestone streets.

He walked past a café, where a group of young people clinked their glasses in celebration. Nearby, a man knelt before a woman with a ring in hand. The crowd clapped.

For a moment, Azel stood still, watching it all.

"So? what now?"

Forbanna whispered inside his mind.

He didn't respond.

"You came all this way. You must have a plan."

He remained silent.

But when he felt her presence linger, waiting for an answer, he sighed and muttered under his breath.

"Maybe I'll live however I please."

There was a long pause.

"That's your plan?"

He didn't reply. But he knew she wasn't pleased. She wanted revenge. Destruction. To burn the Church to the ground. She craved it. But she didn't press him further.

"It's inevitable, You can't hide forever."

He kept walking.

The lights, the laughter, the joy—it all felt distant. Like he was watching it through a glass window. It wasn't for him. He didn't belong here. Not with what he was. A Cursewright. A heretic. The embodiment of what the Church hunted and feared.

He found a modest inn tucked between a bakery and a bathhouse. The innkeeper, a kind middle-aged woman, gave him a room on the second floor. He paid with the last few silver pieces he had. The gold from his last escort mission was already gone—spent on travel, food, and a few new clothes that were now just as worn as the old ones.

He stood at the window of his room for a while, looking out at the city's glowing streets. Then he turned away, picked up his satchel, and left again.

If he was going to stay here for a while, he needed money.

The Adventurer's Guild sat near the city center. A wide, domed building with golden banners and a carved emblem of a sword and scroll. Inside, it was lively—mercenaries chatted, bounty hunters pored over notices, and mages bartered for contracts. The scent of sweat, leather, and old parchment filled the air.

Azel walked up to the mission board.

Most of the missions were low-tier: herb gathering, caravan escorts, pest extermination. Nothing interesting. Nothing worth his time.

He sighed.

"New face?"

Azel turned.

A middle-aged man in a white cloak approached, carrying a stack of papers. He had salt-and-pepper hair, a well-trimmed beard, and a warm, friendly smile.

"You don't look like a farmer or a peddler. Looking for real work?"

Azel nodded.

"Nothing here looks interesting."

"High-risk type, huh? You're not the only one."

"Who are you?"

"Robert. Receptionist. I run this place, pretty much."

He extended a hand, and Azel shook it briefly.

"You seem like the kind who likes to get their hands dirty."

Robert said, amused.

"I'm an ex-Inquisitor. I can handle myself."

Robert raised an eyebrow.

"That so? Didn't expect that."

Before the conversation could go further, the guild doors slammed open.

A young noble stormed in, his boots clacking against the stone. He wore a deep crimson cloak embroidered with gold, his blond hair slicked back perfectly. Behind him stood four armored guards.

"Robert!" 

The entire guild turned to look.

"You still haven't posted my request! Do you think I'll just wait like the rest of these—these peasants?!"

Robert remained calm.

"As I said before, sir, we don't put up personal vendettas or missions that serve individual agendas. We only accept requests that benefit the people or the city."

"You call this a guild? I demand—"

"You're demanding something that breaks our rules." 

The noble clenched his jaw. He stepped forward, clearly ready to explode.

That's when Azel stepped in.

He walked casually between the two, hands in his pockets, a slight smirk on his face.

"Why don't you tell me about this mission? Maybe I'll take it."

Azel asked looking at the noble.

The noble looked him over with distaste.

"And who are you?"

"Just a passerby."

"You look like a kid. Stay out of things you don't understand."

Azel's smirk widened.

"Ex-Inquisitor." 

A flicker of energy surged through his palm. For a brief moment, intricate glyphs etched into the air—symbols from forbidden rites. The air around them turned cold. People stepped back, murmuring.

The noble's eyes widened.

Robert leaned in and whispered.

"Careful. He's not just loud—he's dangerous. You don't want to get tangled up in this."

"I'll be fine."

Azel whispered back.

The noble cleared his throat and composed himself.

"Very well. If you're as strong as you claim, come with me. We'll discuss the details in private."

Azel gestured to the door.

"Lead the way."

The noble turned and stormed out, his guards flanking him. Azel followed, his robe dragging behind him as he exited into the snowy street.