Mazelina sequel (in progress)

As magical powers manifest within an earthly being, they eat away at the weak. The power must be used to the best of their possessor’s abilities or they run the risk of deteriorating from the inside out. When Savaric was forced to kill the Princess Mazelina by the power of Carleth his powers had become weak, barely even existing in him. In the five years since his powers had grown strong again, but he refused to use them in remembrance of Mazelina.1

In the past five years the country of Landira had lost its queen and princess; the citizens decided on resorting to a democracy. The city of Landira had fallen into a slum. Its streets were littered with homeless children and families, buildings that were once beautiful and magnificent now crumbled all around, and the castle in the center of the city that once housed the royal family had been demolished by large boulders flung from catapults by mourning citizens. The crime rate had sky-rocketed with at least one murder every day.2

With no royal family around to serve, Savaric was out of a job, leading him to take up a post in the city’s police force. The job wasn’t much but it kept his mind away from unwelcome memories. At first the position was quite exciting with a murder every day, but now it just seemed like an old rutine.3

Savaric stood over the lifeless form of the local bakery owner, his basket of freshly baked cinnamon buns overturned at his side. Baking flour was powdered on the baker’s face, an outcome of a long day at work. There was no blood anywhere near the chubby man’s body which showed he hadn’t been killed by a sword or gun.4

“What’s the T.O.D?” Savaric asked the in-field coroner, his voice carrying no life.5

“He seems to have been killed just an hour ago; these strangulation marks on his neck are fresh and the buns are still warm.” The coroner never looked up from the victim, checking for more abrasions and contusions.6

“Another strangulation.” Savaric muttered to himself. That made eight in the past two weeks. There were no signs of any struggle from the baker, just like the other seven. But who wouldn’t put up a fight when being killed? It was just too strange to be natural murder.7

“Hey Bill.” Savaric waved over a tall skinny man with graying hair and a mustache. “Does anything about these strangulations seem weird to you?”8

Bill took a minute to examine the baker and to think about the other seven victims. “Not particularly.” He shrugged. “Why? What are you thinking?”9

“None of the victims appear to have struggled at all.” Savaric explained, his eyebrows scrunching together in thought. “It makes me think that whatever is killing these people isn’t human.”10

“What are you saying Savaric?”11

“I’m saying this is the doing of something magical; something supernatural.”12

“Does anything like that even exist anymore?” Bill asked skeptically. Savaric pointed at himself with raised eyebrows. “Oh right, sorry. You just never use your powers anymore; sometimes I forget.”13

“Its okay man.” Savaric went back to examining the body. Sadly, nothing was out of the ordinary except for the lack of struggle. The sweet aroma from the sticky-buns was slowly wafting away on the breeze, leaving room for the first stench of decay. He turned on his heel and stalked off, his officer’s sword swinging at his side.14

“This creature, this thing… So far its not leaving any evidence behind aside from strangulation marks. The fingers look long and freakishly thin. What the hell is this thing?”15

Savaric quickly walked the mile from the bakery to his home which was really no more than a literal hole in the wall. The sad excuse for a home was one of the many crumbling buildings around the edge of the city. A huge hole in the roof served as a makeshift skylight in the one room house. Mold and moss were growing up the damp walls and rats scurried along in the dark corners. There was a musky smell that seemed to encase the house and mixed with the moldy smell to create an aroma that was most unpleasant. Nevertheless, Savaric called the dump home.16

Glittering stars shined through the ‘skylight’ lightly illuminating Savaric’s home. He unbuckled his sword from his waist and took off his armor, dropping them in the center of the dirt floor. Savaric groaned at the unwelcoming state of the home and flung himself down on the sacks of flour that served as his bed. A soft white cloud puffed up and quickly died away. He chuckled quietly at the irony of his baking flour bed and the murder he’d just investigated. It was the first time he’d laughed – even just a little bit – in a very long time and the noise was slightly unsettling.