Member-only story
The Last Spell
A Fantasy Fiction Short Story
It was time for me to die.
Leaning heavily on my gnarled wizard’s staff, my hunched-over frame carried the weight of my, what was it, seventy-four years? My tattered robe, once vibrant like me, was now frayed. And worth very little.
Like me.
My eyes scanned my modest dwelling. The aroma of dried herbs and roots filled the air, their scents intermingling with the faint smoke that wafted from the ever-burning hearth. The cauldron hanging there seemed to brood in the dim light, while the vials and jars lining the wooden shelves whispered secrets only I had ever known.
Those secrets would soon be lost.
Unless…
I held in my hand the last ingredient. The exotic plant leaves I had sought for months. I had traded nearly every coin and possession I had to get these.
If this works…
Each breath was a labored chore, every breath scraping my lungs like gravel. A violent cough seized me, wracking my fragile frame and splattering droplets of crimson onto the cloth I hastily pressed against my lips.
I had accomplished things. Sure. But what value had I really brought the world? What positive good had I left behind?
