Chapter-2: The feast of ruin

  "I, Malphas, THE LORD OF MALEVOLENCE, HAVE ARRIVED IN THIRA! LORD OF THIRA, OPEN YOUR PALACE AND RECEIVE MY MERCY—OR FACE MY MALICE."

  My voice echoed through the golden streets, rattling the spires of pleasure and piercing the hearts of those who dared listen. The gates of the pace trembled, and from within, the Lord of Thira rushed forth like a desperate beggar. He adorned himself in silk and gold, his hands trembling in concealed fear as he bowed before me.

  Yet, I did not acknowledge him. He was beneath my notice. I stepped forward, unchallenged, and entered his pace—a monument of indulgence. The air reeked of wine and perfumed oils; the walls were adorned with the spoils of a kingdom that had never known suffering. I walked these halls as a shadow, as an omen. The Lord of Thira scurried behind me, his servants frantically preparing a feast.

  In the grand hall, the table was set—a decadent dispy of roasted meats, candied fruits, and jugs overflowing with honeyed wine. A feast fit for gluttons. Yet, amid the excess, something was missing. There was no bread.

  I sat in silence, my gaze sweeping over the table. The nobles feasted, their ughter hollow, their ignorance vast. And then, across the hall, I saw it: a single loaf of bread, resting on the Lord of Thira's pte. I rose. The chatter ceased.

  The Lord of Thira stiffened as I strode toward him, each step an executioner's drumbeat. I reached out, seized the bread from his pte, and took a bite.It was bnd. Dry. Tasteless.

  And yet, I chewed, swallowed, and decred "This bread tastes heavenly."

  Silence suffocated the hall, was filled with sighs of relief .Then, without warning, I spat the half-chewed remnants onto the Lord of Thira's face.

  Gasps erupted around us. Servants recoiled. Nobles turned pale. The Lord of Thira trembled—not in anger, but in terror.

  "Oh, Lord of Thira... you have committed a grave insult." My voice was calm, almost amused. "Even the celestials dare not offend me, yet here you sit, withholding a mere scrap of bread. Have mortals forgotten the cost of such insolence?"

  The Lord of Thira clenched his fists beneath the table, his pride battling his fear. But he knew. He knew that the wrath of the Lord of Malevolence was not something to be summoned lightly. Through gritted teeth, he forced humility into his voice. "Pardon me, my lord. I have been an unworthy host, ignorant of the proper etiquette to serve one such as yourself. I beg you to show me mercy."

  I ughed. "Mercy? You admit your offense, and I accept your apology." Relief flickered in his eyes—a foolish, fleeting thing. "But apologies," I continued, my voice turning to ice, "do not erase sin." The Lord of Thira paled. The air in the hall grew heavy, thick with the weight of impending doom.

  "You have insulted the Lord of Malevolence. You have denied me bread. And so, it is only fair that you receive a punishment befitting your crime." I leaned in, my whisper slithering into his ear like a curse "In seven days, the city of Thira will be no more." The blood drained from his face. His breath hitched.

  "For the sin of denying me a mere piece of bread, your city of joy will know only sorrow. In seven days, your nds will rot, your streets will drown in despair, and your people will know a hunger that no bread will ever sate." I stepped back, watching as realization settled into his bones, as the first tendrils of true fear wrapped around his soul. "This is your judgment," I said, my voice an unshaken decree. "The countdown to ruin begins."

  The Lord of Thira fell to his knees, trembling, his voice desperate yet hollow. "My lord, it is unjust to doom Thira over a mere piece of bread! Please, show us mercy. We sinned out of ignorance, not malice. Do not be so cruel in your punishment—take back your curse! Thira does not deserve such ruin."

  I ughed. It was Cold, hollow, venomous. The sound sent shivers through the assembled court. The chandeliers above flickered, their fmes dimming as if the very air recoiled from me. I took a step forward, towering over the kneeling fool. "Lord of Thira... you dare forget who I am?"

  My voice slithered through the chamber like a noose tightening around their throats. "I am the abyss that watches, the venom that lingers. I am the weaver of curses, the harbinger of ruin, the master of suffering. I do not merely revel in misery—I cultivate it, nurture it, drown the world in it."

  The Lord of Thira trembled, sweat beading on his brow, his lips parting in silent terror. "Despair is my breath. Agony is my art. And your torment..." I leaned closer, whispering into his ear like a death sentence. "...is my greatest pleasure." The Lord shuddered, the weight of my words crushing what remained of his resolve. "And yet, you dare call me unjust?"

  I rose to my full height, my voice now a roaring decree. "If I retract my curse, the heavens will scorn me, the celestial court will mock me. Even the demons in hell, who cower before my presence, will sneer in contempt! No, Lord of Thira, your fate was sealed the moment you let me into this pace. Your arrogance, your ignorance, your audacity... You have ensured Thira's destruction with your own hands."

  I turned from him, my robes billowing like shadows swallowing the light. As he knelt there, drenched in terror, I left him with one final warning. "If you seek me before your doom arrives... you will find me in your celr." And so, I descended into the darkness, into the rotting cell where Bhira had once been broken. I locked the door from the inside, y in the filth-ridden hay, and slept.

  A desperate knock echoed through the celr door. The Lord of Thira's voice was hoarse, his pride long eroded into pleading desperation. "M-My lord... please... I beg you... show mercy!"

  I rose zily, stretching, then kicked open the door. The sudden force sent the groveling Lord sprawling onto the dirt.

  I needed to piss. So, I did—right on him. The nobles gasped. The guards turned away, ashamed to witness their ruler's humiliation. The Lord of Thira stayed there, kneeling in my filth, too afraid to move.

  I sighed, shaking off the st drop. "I am parched. Bring me water, and I might consider speaking of your precious curse." He scrambled to his feet and ran, stumbling, slipping, reeking of piss, back to his pace. Moments ter, he returned, breathless, holding a silver pitcher and a gilded goblet, his hands shaking. I took the goblet. One sip. Then another.

  Then I drank five entire gourds' worth of water while he and his court watched in horrified silence. I let the empty vessel fall to the ground with a hollow ctter.

  Then I smiled. "The cell still reeks of vengeance." The Lord of Thira froze. "The curse will only be lifted when the st prisoner of that cell is fed a loaf of bread and his thirst quenched."

  His eyes widened in horror. "Until then, the doom of Thira remains absolute."

  The Lord of Thira staggered backward. His court murmured in confusion, in disbelief.

  I leaned forward. "So go, Lord of Thira. Seek the boy you left to rot. Find Bhira. Feed him, quench his thirst, even if he is a corpse."

  The Lord of Thira, still reeking of my piss, ran from the pace, gathering his men. They searched the slums. They overturned corpses. They dug through gutters.

  But Bhira was no longer a boy. He was rot, ruin, and disease. His blood had soaked into the streets. His flesh had been devoured by rats, by ravens, by starving dogs. His final suffering had seeped into the bones of Thira itself.

  The slums fell first. The people who had walked past Bhira, who had gambled on his death, who had ughed at his misery—they began to cough. Their wounds festered. Their skin bckened. Their screams echoed through the golden streets.

  And I? I sat beneath a dying tree on the banks of Thira. For four days, I listened. The cries of the sick. The wails of the dying. The silence of the dead. Then, on the fourth night... I ughed. I ughed like a madman, as the city of joy began to drown in sorrow. "Care for a wager?" I asked the mad gambler of the slums.

  His bloodshot eyes flickered with curiosity. "What's the bet?"

  "A simple one," I said. "How long do you think you have left to live? I say... ten days." At that moment, something in him snapped. His lips twisted into a deranged grin. "Three minutes," he whispered.

  Before I could respond, the bde was already in his hands. One clean slice, and his throat opened like a crimson smile. He colpsed, twitching, drowning in his own bet.

  Two minutes and fifty-eight seconds ter, he was still. I looked down at his lifeless corpse, its final gamble lost. "You were close... but you still lost. So, neither of us wins." Blood pooled at my feet.

  I simply turned away. A wager is only worth something if someone lives to collect. And in Thira, none would.

  1 Last revised: 12th February, 2025