The Cursed Extra: Bloodline of Sacrifice - Chapter 55

Chapter 55: Old city of Valenthrial

[Old District – Valenthrial, 1 PM]

The sun loomed high in the sky, casting long, wavering shadows through the streets of the Old District.

The usual midday lull had settled over the area, with merchants sitting in their Shops, workers dozing against walls.

Then came the disturbance.

A sound.

Deep, rhythmic pounding against the streets.

It was the sound of something heavy. Something unnatural.

Heads turned.

Brows furrowed.

The usual apathy of the Old District’s residents gave way to wary curiosity as eyes followed the echoing footsteps of a monstrous figure making its way into the heart of the district.

What they saw made even the most hardened criminals falter.

A massive beast, pale and grotesque, its six legs dragging it forward with uneven steps.

Blood stained its matted fur—dark, fresh, reeking of iron and death.

It was not alone.

Upon its broad back sat two figures.

One, barely conscious, his body slumped forward, swaying dangerously with every unsteady movement of the beast.

The other lay motionless, his face pale, his chest barely rising.

For a long moment, there was only silence.

Then the whispers began.

“That beast… what the hell is that?”

“Wait… is that—?”

“Gods above, that’s Prince Zareth!”

The realization sent ripples of shock through the crowd.

The Old District was home to outcasts, criminals, and those abandoned by nobility.

The presence of royalty was unheard of.

Yet, there he was—Zareth El’leather, unmistakable even in his battered state.

And beside him…

“Who’s that with him?”

“That child—he’s covered in blood!”

Caspian barely registered the murmurs.

His mind was clouded, his body drained beyond exhaustion.

The midday sun bore down on him, turning the crusted blood on his skin into something suffocating.

Every breath was a struggle.

Every movement sent jolts of pain through his body.

But none of that mattered.

Zareth.

His fingers twitched weakly as he forced himself to glance sideways.

The weight of Zareth’s limp body pressed against him.

His breathing was faint, shallow—too weak.

Caspian’s vision swam.

Too much.

Too long.

His grip tightened on the creature’s fur, fingers trembling.

The beast let out a low, guttural sound, its limbs shaking as it slowed to a halt in the center of the square.

It had reached its limit.

The whispers had become a murmur.

The murmur turned into a buzz.

Then, a single voice cut through the growing noise.

“Someone get a doctor!”

That was the catalyst.

The hesitation shattered.

The crowd moved as if a dam had burst, people rushing forward.

Some with concern, others with caution.

A few, however, only saw an opportunity—glances were exchanged, calculating eyes lingering on the vulnerable state of the two figures before them.

Caspian could feel it.

That predatory gaze.

The Old District was not kind.

It was a place where weakness was taken advantage of, where desperation ruled over morality.

If he collapsed now—if they both collapsed—there would be no guarantee they’d wake up in a hospital rather than some dark alley, their belongings stripped, their bodies left to rot.

His fingers twitched.

No.

Not yet.

With the last remnants of his strength, he placed a trembling hand against the beast’s rough hide.

His lips parted, voice hoarse and barely above a whisper.

“Return.”

The effect was immediate.

The creature let out a deep, shuddering breath.

A pulse of cold air rippled outward from its body, sharp against the sweltering heat.

Then, it began to dissolve—its massive form breaking apart into swirling mist, shrinking, vanishing into nothingness.

In mere moments, it was gone.

The ground where it once stood was bare, save for the bloodstains left in its wake.

Silence.

Then—

“Prince Zareth—!”

The crowd erupted.

Gasps, shouts, movement—too much, too fast.

Hands reached out, some grabbing at Caspian before he could collapse completely.

Others rushed toward Zareth, checking for any sign of life.

“He’s covered in blood—”

“His Highness is barely breathing!”

“Someone find a healer!”

Caspian’s vision blurred.

The heat.

The exhaustion.

The pounding in his skull. Everything was blending together.

“Stay awake—”

A voice. Close. Urgent.

A firm grip on his shoulder.

Caspian tried to focus.

A face—unfamiliar yet filled with concern.

Someone was shaking him, speaking to him, but the words were distant, muffled under the weight of his own failing consciousness.

He couldn’t—

Not yet—

The world tilted.

His body gave in before his mind could resist.

Darkness surged at the edges of his vision, creeping, swallowing everything in its path.

The last thing he heard before slipping away—

“Get the medics here, NOW!”

————–+—–———

[POV: Vynesaa El’leather]

Vynessa sat stiffly in the cushioned chair across from her mother, Queen Aeloria El’leather, ruler of the Elven Dominion.

The queen’s poise remained unshaken, but there were cracks—subtle but undeniable.

A tension in her shoulders.

A tightness around her lips.

The exhaustion in her lavender— light purple eyes, dulled with worry.

The room smelled of fresh herbs, tea, and polished wood, but to Vynessa, it was choking.

She couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“It’s your fault he’s gone.”

The words came sharper than she intended, but she didn’t regret them.

Aeloria’s fingers paused against the delicate porcelain cup she had barely touched.

A flicker of emotion crossed her face—gone as quickly as it appeared.

“Vynessa—”

“No!” The ten-year-old’s voice cracked, her small fists clenching against the armrests of her chair.

“You’re the queen. You have magic. You have power. You could have stopped him!” Vynesaa said.

The words struck hard.

Aeloria inhaled, slow and measured.

“Your brother made his own choice.” Aeloria said.

Vynessa’s nails dug into the velvet fabric.

“Then why didn’t you stop him?” Her lavender eyes burned, unshed tears making them glisten.

“He always wanted to prove himself, and you let him! You let him go, and now he’s—he’s—”

She choked on the last word.

Missing.

Lost.

Maybe worse.

Aeloria’s grip on the teacup tightened.

“He had to walk his own path,” she said, softer now, yet unyielding.

“I would have caged him forever if I could, but that is not love, Vynessa. That is fear.”

The young princess sucked in a sharp breath, shaking her head.

“Then I hate your love!” The words burst out before she could stop them.

“If you really loved him, you wouldn’t have let him go! You wouldn’t have let him leave me!” Vynesaa said.

A heavy silence filled the space between them.

Aeloria closed her eyes for a brief moment, gathering herself.

When she spoke again, her voice was calm, but it carried an undertone of sorrow.

“I love you both more than anything in this world, Vynessa.” She said.

The young girl turned her face away, pressing her lips together until they stung.

She wanted to keep yelling, to keep blaming—because if she didn’t, then all that would be left was the unbearable weight of missing her brother.

The room felt too large. Too empty.

The words she wanted to say tangled in her throat.

Then—

The door swung open.

A royal guard entered, his face pale but resolute.

He placed a fist over his heart in salute before speaking, his voice steady yet urgent.

“Your Majesty, Princess—” He hesitated, then exhaled sharply. “Prince Zareth has been found.”

Time froze.

Vynessa’s breath hitched. “W-what?”

The guard continued quickly. “He was found in the Old City of Valenthrial. He is badly injured but alive. He is currently receiving treatment at the city hospital.”

The teacup in Aeloria’s hands cracked, the fine porcelain splitting with an audible snap.

For the first time in days, hope flickered through the heavy grief.

Aeloria stood in one smooth motion.

Her hands were steady, but her heart pounded like a war drum.

“Prepare the car,” she ordered, already moving toward the door.

Vynessa was on her feet in an instant. “I’m coming with you!”

Aeloria did not stop her.

Because for the first time since Zareth disappeared, they were moving toward him—not away.