Morningstar

[CH. 0003] - The Initiation

"You will be hollow. We shall squeeze you empty, and then we shall fill you with ourselves." ― George Orwell

The box's energy throbbed, alive and almost sentient, pulsing with a mysterious rhythm that seemed in tune with the very essence of the universe. Its dark wooden surface danced and gleamed in the soft moonlight, casting a hypnotic spell on anyone who gazed upon it. The delicate etchings on its sides twisted and turned, moving like smoke rising from a fire, weaving a story of ancient wisdom and forbidden secrets.

With a wary grace, the Matriarch moved closer to Nord. Her eyes bore dread, a dark understanding of the unfathomable power within the box.

"The box, my child," she said, her voice trembling, "is a relic of ages lost, an echo of the primordial darkness that once enveloped all. It harbours an energy beyond our kin, a force that even the wisest have failed to tame." Her gaze drifted to the pulsating artefact, "Many have tried to harness its might, to bend it to their will. But most..." Her voice trailed off, her face paling as memories flooded her mind, "Most were consumed by it, devoured by the very power they sought to command. They died!"

Her eyes met Nord's again, and in them was a plea, a desperate hope that Nord would heed her warning and turn away from a path that had led many to ruin. But in the depths of those wise eyes, there was also a glimmer of fear, a fear that perhaps this time, the darkness might win.

She lies. She doesn't know.

Nord's fingers closed around the box, clenching it so tightly that the whites of her knuckles gleamed in the pale light. Her heart thumped wildly, resonating with the pulsing energy of the box as if it were a living being calling out to her. The sensation was intoxicating, terrifying, and exhilarating all at once.

The air grew cold, a chill seeping into the night, emanating from the very core of Nord's being. Her breath misted in front of her, swirling in the frigid air, a manifestation of the ancient power she now held in her hands.

A compelling and overwhelming magnetic pull gripped her. A longing gnawed at her very soul. The box wanted her, needed her, and she felt herself losing the battle to resist. Her heart raced, pounding in her chest, a drumbeat of excitement and fear that echoed in her ears. It was a dance with the unknown, a flirtation with something far beyond her comprehension, and she was caught in its spell, unable to look away, unable to let go. The darkness called to her, and she knew, at that moment, that she reached the point of no return.

"Nord, give me the box. Don't listen to this demon. We can still save you!"

She lies.

Caught between the stern warnings of the Matriarch and the soft, insidious whispers in her mind, Nord's emotions spiralled into chaos. The dichotomy tore at her, a storm of uncertainty, anger, and fear raging within her. Her breaths came in ragged, shallow gasps, each one a desperate attempt to find some semblance of control in the face of the overwhelming power that beckoned her.

"Why should I trust you? You were about to give South away! She is still a kid!" she spat, her voice raw and jagged with emotion, her eyes flicking wildly between the Matriarch's wise, sorrowful gaze and the dark, entrancing box. "All my life, I was called a witch, hidden me away from my own potential! Bullshit! I am not what you say! I'm not like you! I'm just... me!" Her voice cracked, the pain of years of confusion and neglect breaking through, "My sister will be someone! She... she will be happy! You're not taking that away from her!"