THE CURSE OF ALTVALL : CHAPTER 11 – 20

THE CURSE OF ALTVALL : CHAPTER 11 – 20

Poison and Prophecy

Deep within the blood-soaked earth of Altvall, behind six enchanted doors and thirteen seals of darkness, Surganah lay on a slab of black stone. His body convulsed violently, his veins pumping thick, black blood.

Each breath was a rasping growl, each second a war between life and death.

The poison—Murtiva’s Kiss—was doing what no sword, no claw, no spell had ever done. It attacked not just his flesh, but his essence.

It stripped his pride, layer by layer, and mocked him with the pain of mortality.

The supernatural pot beside him, now glowing with an ominous red hue, whispered again and again:

“You were warned. She is but one. Yet you were careless. Her blood sings for vengeance.”

His growl echoed in the chamber, low and guttural. “I…will…not…fall.”
He reached with trembling hands toward the sealed chest resting in the shadowed corner of the chamber.

It was carved from stone mined beneath the cursed mountain of Shur. Inside, wrapped in dragon-skin cloth, was his only salvation: the Antidote of Sarnak—a potion mixed from the blood of moon-born alphas, the tears of a cursed siren, and a silver root said to grow only where a dying star had fallen.

He uncorked the vial with his teeth, spilling half of its contents on his chest in his desperation. He forced the rest down his throat, coughing violently as his skin bubbled and steamed.

Then he collapsed.

THE CURSE OF ALTVALL : CHAPTER 11 – 20

For seven nights and seven days, the Lord of Darkness wrestled with death. He screamed. He wept. He begged the moon for strength. On the fifth night, a vision came to him—a flash of the girl’s eyes, staring through him like fire through ice. Her voice echoed in his head:

“Your reign ends with me.”

He woke on the seventh morning, his wounds barely sealed, his strength greatly diminished—but alive.

He rose slowly, wrapping a dark robe around his ruined body. His skin was scarred. His pride shattered. But his vengeance burned brighter than ever.

He stood before the pot again. “Show me her,” he snarled.
The mist rose, revealing Lyara—chained to the stone pillar of the punishment tower, half-naked, her back bleeding from lashes, her lips swollen, but her eyes… they still burned. No regret. No apology.
Surganah’s hands tightened into fists.

“She would defy death,” the pot whispered. “Even in chains, she is freer than you.”

“Silence!” Surganah roared, striking the pot with such force it cracked slightly at the rim.

He turned to his most loyal commander, Alpha Rador, a hulking werewolf with a jagged scar across his snout. “Gather the people. I will make an example of her.

I want every man, woman, and child to watch. Let her screams remind them what it means to strike the One.”

“Shall I prepare the Execution Grounds?” Rador asked with a smirk.
“No,” Surganah hissed. “I will do it myself. Her blood will be spilled at the altar of my throne.”

Meanwhile, word had begun to spread through the Island of Altvall. The impossible had happened. The invincible had bled.
Even under threat of death, whispers rippled from door to door, heart to heart.

“She wounded him.”
“He screamed like a dying beast.”
“She fought. For all of us.”

The spark of rebellion that had nearly gone cold began to flicker again.

Hidden in the caves beyond the western cliffs, a secret group of young werewolves, untouched by Surganah’s corruption, began to meet in the night. They spoke not just of survival now—but of war. They needed hope. They needed a leader.

And Lyara had given them one.
Back in the castle, Surganah paced, his claws clicking against the stone floor.

He could not let this stand.
He would not.

He approached Lyara’s prison himself.

She looked up as he entered, her breath shallow, her body battered—but she smiled.

“You survived.”

Surganah said nothing at first. He stood over her, towering like a nightmare.

“You think your sacrifice means something?” he growled.

“I know it does.”

He crouched, placing a hand against her cheek, the touch so cold her skin burned. “Your pain has only begun. You will beg for death long before I give it.”

“I’ll scream,” she whispered, “but not for mercy. For the next girl to strike deeper.”

His hand tightened around her throat, but he couldn’t crush her. Not yet. Not until the entire island saw her broken.

He turned and left, his voice echoing down the halls. “Prepare the chains. The festival isn’t over. It’s just begun.”

THE CURSE OF ALTVALL : CHAPTER 11 – 20

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