Harry Schloßmacher
MYSTIC-Island / PART 3B / The Age of the Conquerors:
Greed Meets Myth
The day the conquerors arrived was unnaturally quiet.
The sea lay smooth as black glass, and the wind seemed to hold its breath, as if it already knew what was about to happen.
Only the island itself trembled softly—a deep, distant rumble that sounded like a warning carried through stone and earth.
The first ships appeared on the horizon like dark teeth tearing through the water.
They were massive vessels, reinforced with iron, built for war rather than peace.
And upon their decks stood men and women who did not come seeking.
They came to take.
At their head stood Captain Mordrain.
Once, he had been a man.
But the island had touched him long before his boots ever met its shores.
His head was gone—cleanly severed—yet he stood upright as though nothing were missing.
A voice emerged from his torso, deep and hollow, like sound echoing from an empty barrel.
His right hand had become a grotesque flesh-hook that glittered in the sunlight like a promise of pain.
Beside him stood Seraphin Vale, the most handsome of the White Riders.
His face was flawless, his armor brilliantly bright, his movements graceful as a dancer’s.
Yet his eyes revealed something entirely different:
a greed so pure that it was almost beautiful.
And then there was Bella Zomba.
The Red Beauty of Death.
Her skin was gray and cracked, while her eyes burned like twin rubies.
Her crimson cloak flowed behind her like a living flame.
She smiled when she first saw the island—a smile both seductive and deadly.
“It smells of power,” she whispered.
Smoke drifted from her lips as if even her words had been scorched by fire.
The conquerors stepped onto the beach without hesitation.
They ignored the stone circles that stood in the sand like silent guardians.
They mocked the ancient runes, kicked them aside, and laughed at the warnings of the island’s people.
Seraphin Vale knelt beside one of the stones, kissed the ancient markings, and whispered:
“Show me what you hide.”
The runes glowed black.
A bad sign.
A very bad sign.
Bella Zomba danced among the stones, her movements smooth and playful, like a cat toying with its prey.
“This island has taste,” she said, running her crimson fingers along the bark of a tree.
The tree immediately began to bleed.
Captain Mordrain raised his hooked hand and laughed—a deep, bodiless laugh that made the air tremble.
“We take whatever we desire,” his voice boomed from within his torso.
“And no one will stop us.”
But the island heard every word.
It felt every footstep.
It tasted their greed.
And it responded.
The ground vibrated.
The air grew heavy.
A shadow drifted across the sky although not a single cloud could be seen.
The Sky Maw opened one eye—only for a heartbeat, yet long enough for the island to understand:
These strangers are different.
These strangers are dangerous.
These strangers must be tested.
The conquerors did not notice the sign.
Or perhaps they refused to notice it.
They raised their camps, lit great fires, drank, laughed, and boasted.
They believed the island was a place that could be conquered.
But Mystic Island was not a place.
It was a will.
And that night, as the conquerors slept, the wind whispered across their tents:
“You have awakened me.”
All rights belong to its author. It was published on e-Stories.org by demand of Harry Schloßmacher.
Published on e-Stories.org on 06/21/2026.
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