On a Friday that felt like it was holding its breath. Outside Haul Academy, the night air was thick...almost suffocating...with an eerie stillness that made every shadow twitch.
Michael Thompson's heart hammered like a war drum as he slipped past the school gates, clutching the translator's cryptic note like a lifeline.
The message had sent him on a wild goose chase to an abandoned four-story wreck on the edge of town, its crumbling face barely visible in the pitch-black sky.
Armed with a flickering flashlight, Michael descended into the dank bunker hidden beneath the building. The cold stone walls seemed to close in on him, the air heavy with secrets and dust.
In the corner, a single red candle flickered on a rickety table, casting a strange, almost unnatural glow—just like the note had promised.
He pulled the book from his bag, its leather cover cool and smooth under his fingers.
With a steadying breath, he placed it under the candle's crimson light.
At first, the pages were a mess of gibberish—indecipherable symbols that made no sense. Then, slowly, the text began to shimmer, glowing faintly as if the words themselves were alive.
Michael's breath hitched. The air around him seemed to pulse with a dark energy, thick enough to taste.
He flipped to the first page, and the glow intensified, revealing a chilling title:
"The Eyes of Mistura." The story unfolded like a nightmare - centuries ago, a fierce warrior woman named Mistura wielded eyes so powerful they could enslave any man with a single look.
Her gaze was a weapon of pure control, bending wills and breaking spirits. Legends whispered of how she toppled armies, seduced warriors to their doom, and ruled with a beauty that was as deadly as it was mesmerizing.
Born in a tiny village squeezed between jagged mountains, she was orphaned when invaders razed her home to ashes. Raised by a secretive sect of warrior-priestesses who worshipped a forgotten deity of control and seduction, Mistura was molded into something both beautiful and deadly.
Her eyes—naturally a striking violet—became something else entirely during a secret ritual.
That's when the "Eyes of Mistura" were born: a gaze so potent it could enslave any man who dared meet it.
Power and Dominance : At sixteen, Mistura unleashed her power for the first time. She slipped into an enemy camp, her beauty disarming the guards like a weapon.
But it was her eyes that truly struck—enslaving their leaders, turning their own armies against them in a brutal betrayal. Her legend exploded from there, a trail of broken warriors and enthralled followers in her wake.
Historians who survived the chaos called her both liberator and tyrant. Kings and generals knelt before her, powerless to resist. Her power wasn't just on the battlefield—it was in the way she twisted desire, bending men to her will with a single, deadly look.
And with every use, her power grew darker, more insatiable.
Her power caught the attention of a primordial entity—a shadowy force hungry for domination. Mistura made a pact, trading her soul for even greater reach. The sect crafted the Parador pendant, a rune-etched talisman to channel the entity's energy through her.
But power came at a price. Her humanity slipped away, replaced by a ravenous hunger for control. She summoned wild beasts—boars and foxes—from the forests to do her bidding, foreshadowing the chaos that would later erupt at the national stadium.
Fall and Legacy
Her reign ended when a fierce coalition of women warriors, immune to her gaze, stormed her stronghold. They destroyed the temple, scattered the relics, and tore the Parador pendant from her neck. Mistura's body dissolved into shadow, consumed by the entity's essence.
But her power didn't die. It splintered into seven shards, sealed inside the untitled book Michael now holds. The sect created it to preserve her dark arts—but it carries a curse.
Anyone who wields her power inherits her darkness, facing betrayal, isolation, and an eventual loss of self as the entity claims its due.
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
Michael lay in his bed, his sleep disturbed by the book resting on his nightstand, its faint glow seeping into his dreams.
The air grew heavy as his mind plunged into a vivid vision, the bunker replaced by a sprawling, ancient battlefield under a blood-red sky.
In the dream, Mistura stood tall, her violet eyes blazing with an otherworldly power, her dark hair flowing like a storm.
She faced a line of kings—men and women alike—arrayed in golden armor, their crowns glinting with defiance.
With a single, piercing gaze, she tamed them, her eyes locking onto each ruler. The men fell to their knees, their wills shattered, pledging loyalty with vacant stares, while the women, though resistant, succumbed as Mistura's seductive control overwhelmed their minds.
She overthrew kingdoms with this power, toppling thrones as kings and queens became her puppets, their armies turning against their own.
The scene shifted to a shadowed temple, where Mistura knelt before an altar, the Parador pendant glowing in her hands.
Her curse became clear—a pact with the entity that bound her soul, granting her dominance but dooming her to an eternal hunger for control. To enhance her power, she devised a dark ritual, cradling infants stolen from conquered villages.
Without killing them, she drew their souls into the pendant, their essence fueling her eyes' strength. The babies wailed silently, their life forces siphoned into a shimmering mist, leaving them alive but hollow, a weight that twisted Mistura's humanity into something monstrous.
In the dream, she turned to Michael, her voice a seductive whisper that echoed in his mind.
"Whoever must inherit my powers must do my will. Serve me, and the world bends to you." Her violet eyes bore into his, and he felt a pull, as if her will sought to claim him even across centuries.
A sharp tap on his shoulder jolted him awake. Angela Pierce stood over him, her expression a mix of concern and impatience, the dorm room's dim light revealing the sweat on his brow.
"Michael, wake up! You've not been picking up your calls. Hurry up—we're already late for class!"He blinked, the dream's intensity lingering, his heart racing as he glanced at the book on the nightstand, its glow now dormant.
"Yeah, sorry," he mumbled, swinging his legs off the bed, his mind still echoing with Mistura's command.
As he grabbed his bag, the weight of her curse and the power he might inherit gnawed at him, a secret he wasn't ready to share.