"What troubles you, Atalia?" Gendur's voice was hoarse, laced with worry.
"Atalia misses Mother. Grandma…" the girl sobbed in his lap, her cries breaking like a child who had lost her whole world.
Gendur said nothing. He only gazed at the silver-haired girl — a reflection of her mother, Lady Andarea, the woman whose beauty once shone like moonlight and stirred the hearts of nobles and commoners alike.
He drew a long, weary breath. Who would have thought that the child he raised with love and devotion would one day be bound by tragedy — and curse?
His chest tightened. The fire that had long faded now rekindled, every time his mind dragged him back to the night of Andarea's screams — the cries that still haunted his dreams, though vengeance had already been paid in blood.
Suddenly, Atalia's body convulsed violently, as though something deep within her rebelled.
"Atalia!"
Gendur caught her before she fell, lifting her trembling body from his lap and laying her gently upon the wooden bed.
With trembling hands, he opened a worn leather satchel and drew out several small clay bottles. His lips quivered as he poured a bitter draught between her lips, chanting an ancient spell in a tongue long forgotten by humankind.
Moments later, Atalia's breathing steadied. The fever still clung to her body, but her soul seemed calmer. Tears still clung to her lashes — not from pain, but from a longing too deep for her mother.
Gendur sighed softly. It had been a month since they fled the lands of La Fertilité. He knew well — what consumed Atalia was not sickness nor poison, but the ache of a soul longing for what it had lost.
He turned toward the window. Outside, snow began to fall, covering the green valley beneath the hill where his wooden home stood.
After covering Atalia with a blanket, Gendur rose slowly. Every step felt heavy — burdened by the weight of the past.
Outside, the world was white and still. Snow gathered thick upon the ground as he began lifting stones, one by one, arranging them into a perfect circle.
"Forgive me, Andarea…" he whispered into the cold. "This is not what I wished for… but I have no choice."
Vannes, Western Province of France
In the grand stone castle at the heart of Vannes, a man ran breathlessly down the long corridor, clutching a rolled parchment of sheepskin. His boots echoed as he burst into the great hall, where Prince Hugh stood among the nobles of Bretagne.
"I am certain, Your Highness," declared a broad-shouldered man in a blue robe, a silver chain gleaming at his throat, "after our counterattack, Prince Lambart will not dare challenge us again."
"Indeed, Your Highness," added a knight clad in steel armor, his sword gleaming at his side.
Prince Hugh said nothing. His eyes lingered on the great map spread across the table, dotted with miniature soldiers. For weeks he had held the coast, standing firm against England's fleet.
The doors opened, and the messenger stepped inside, kneeling low.
"Your Highness…"
Prince Hugh turned, a faint smile touching his lips.
"Esmond. What have you found?"
"Here, my lord," Esmond said, holding out the scroll. "A likeness of the old woman and the girl — Atalia."
Prince Hugh took the parchment, unrolling it across the table.
The painting seemed to breathe — the old woman's white hair, the young girl's delicate face — rendered with uncanny life, as though their spirits lingered upon the page.
"This… this looks alive," murmured the noble in the blue robe. "A master's hand, truly."
Prince Hugh nodded slowly. "Excellent. Distribute copies to every province. Whoever finds them — bring them alive. Do not harm them. And remember…" His tone sharpened. "No one is to touch the skull the old woman carries."
"Yes, Your Highness!" the nobles answered in unison.
Outside, Gendur knelt within the stone circle he had built. Snow fell harder now, settling upon his white hair, as though the heavens themselves mourned what was to come.
The wind began to spiral, roaring like a furious sea. Snow and leaves rose, whirling around him.
Yet Gendur's face remained calm — a stillness born of sorrow. Before him lay a woman's skull.
It was Lady Andarea's — his beloved niece, dearer to him than his own child.
"Human of the wretched kind," a deep, ancient voice rumbled through the storm. "What do you intend to do?"
Gendur did not reply. His dark eyes fixed upon the skull, as though staring into the past.
"Do not do this, Gendur," the voice warned, echoing with power. "The dead must remain dead. To awaken a resting soul brings only ruin."
His hands trembled, but his resolve did not break. "I must… I have no choice…"
The wind howled, tearing at his cloak.
"Human of cursed blood!" the voice thundered. "Do not awaken her spirit! Her oath remains — her soul will bring destruction upon mankind!"
"The oath has no hold over her bloodline!" Gendur shouted into the storm. "I only wish to save her daughter! There is no other cure. If I do not, Atalia will die — and my line will end!"
"Gendur!" The voice roared from both earth and sky. "Her descendants will betray her! They will use her spirit for their own greed. She will suffer… for eternity!"
Gendur closed his eyes. His chest ached — torn between love and duty.
Then—
"Mother! Mother!"
Atalia's scream pierced the night from inside the house.
The sound struck Gendur's heart like an arrow. Tears welled in his eyes.
"I must do this…" he whispered. "I must."
"Very well, Gendur," the voice said at last, fading, heavy with sorrow. "Then swear to me — that your bloodline shall never teach the legacy of Morgana. Break this oath, and they shall bear the curse."
"I swear it! I swear!" Gendur cried, raising his face to the storm.
"Then this shall be our last meeting. After tonight, no bond remains between us."
The storm howled — then slowly, silence fell.
Gendur placed a bracelet woven from the roots of the Broceliande Forest upon the skull. His lips murmured the ancient incantation.
The sky darkened. The world stilled. Even the air seemed to freeze.
Then the skull cracked — fissures glowing red like living embers before bursting into a cloud of radiant ash. The ashes swirled, gathering into the shape of a woman robed in green.
"Aunt…"
The soft, familiar voice made Gendur lift his head, tears glinting in his eyes.
"Aunt, what happened? Why am I here?" The woman's silver hair shimmered, her emerald eyes calm yet cold — her beauty untouched by death.
"Andarea…" Gendur's voice quivered. "Come here. Sit before me."
Andarea knelt before him, confusion shadowing her face.
"What I have done… was never my will. But I had no choice."
She stared down at her hands, then pressed them against her chest. Her face paled.
"Aunt… why can't I feel my heartbeat?"
Gendur hesitated before answering. "Be calm, Andarea. You walk this world now… as a spirit without flesh."
Andarea gasped and rose in horror. "What?! No! You wouldn't dare—"
Then, faintly —
"Mother! Mother!"
Andarea froze. Her eyes widened.
"Atalia…?" She turned toward the house.
"Wait, Andarea," Gendur pleaded.
"But Aunt! That's my child's voice!"
"She has been calling you for a month. I could not heal her."
"No…" Tears spilled down Andarea's face. "No, Aunt…"
"That is why I did this. Her longing for you has called you back from the world of the dead."
Andarea sank to her knees, clutching her chest.
"Aunt… what have you done to me…"
Gendur drew her close, holding the cold form that had once been full of life. They wept together — the living and the dead.
"Listen to me, Andarea," Gendur whispered. "Only your daughter and her descendants will be able to see or touch you. She is the reason you returned. Protect her… and when the time comes, let her destroy your soul so you may finally rest."
Andarea nodded weakly. "What about Galant, Aunt?"
The name froze Gendur. His expression darkened.
"You dare speak his name? The man who betrayed you — who let the fire devour you alive!"
Andarea lowered her head. "I hate him… yet I still remember the way he loved me once."
"Enough!" Gendur thundered. "He is dead! I killed him — and every traitor with him! His land is nothing but ashes!"
Andarea stood silent, tears glistening.
"Your existence in this world serves one purpose — to protect Atalia. When she is grown and strong, you must let her destroy your spirit. Do you understand?"
Lady Andarea nodded faintly.
Gendur bent to pick up the root bracelet. "This charm is now bound to your soul. Only our bloodline can break it. When Atalia destroys it… you will be free."
"Mother!"
They turned — and there she was, pale and smiling faintly at the doorway.
"Atalia!"
Andarea rushed to her, embracing the girl tightly. Their cries mingled in the cold air.
"Mother… why did you leave me? Don't you love Atalia anymore?"
"No, my dear… I love you more than anything. I will never leave you again."
"Promise, Mother?"
"I promise."
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A year later, Gendur drew his final breath. Andarea remained, guarding Atalia.
When Atalia turned seventeen, Prince Hugh found her — and captivated by her beauty, he fell deeply in love. She too, loved him. They married.
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Yet as years passed, Atalia began to use her mother's spirit as a weapon — against her enemies, and her husband's. And so did her descendants, one generation after another, until their noble bloodline met its end beneath the guillotine of the French Revolution.
One descendant who wore Gendur's enchanted bracelet was buried alive while laboring in the limestone tunnels — tunnels now known as the Catacombs of Paris.
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Author's Note
Bretagne is now known as Brittany.
Gendur and Andarea were the last descendants of Faye Le Morgana, the half-sister of King Arthur.
The Broceliande Forest, located in Brittany, is said to hold remnants of Morgana's ancient magic.
This story is entirely fictional and bears no relation to any religious belief.