The Bodies of Fools – A Dark Tale of Magic, Judgment, and Vengeance
Hecate awoke in absolute darkness.
Her spine ached, her legs numb from cold, and her mind fogged by shadows. When she reached out, her fingers met nothing—no stone walls, no soft grass, no indication of space at all. She could have been anywhere: a room, a forest, or perhaps the edge of Hades’ Underworld itself. And yet… she felt no death, no decay. Only the ancient pulse of magic—the shadows that flowed like black oil through her blood.
A single blink. Then another.
A moon emerged overhead—round and brilliant, its silver sheen like molten metal against the sky. It cast a light upon her, revealing a flowing black cloak draped over her slender frame. The wind made it dance around her, like smoke rising from coals.
Was I born again? Or have I returned to a world that forgot me?
Before her, a figure emerged—a traveler wandering the night. Eager for answers, Hecate raised her hand and approached.
“Forgive the interruption,” she said. “Might you help me? I’m lost.”
The traveler was a young woman—golden-haired and clad in soft blue garments, her eyes crystalline and cold. She glanced at Hecate with disdain, then briskly walked past her.
Hecate blinked, bewildered.
“I spoke to you,” she said. “Please. I seek only to understand where I am.”
The traveler paused, her words sharpened like daggers. “There is nothing for you here, heathen. Return to the pit you came from. Your kind is not welcome in this land.”
A flicker of fury twisted in Hecate’s gut. She clenched her fists, hiding the tendrils of shadow creeping along her fingertips. Still, she kept her tone calm.
“I only ask for direction.”
“As I said,” the traveler hissed, “there is nothing for you here.”
She turned, her white shawl fluttering as she fled. But Hecate noticed the glint of silver upon her head—a crown. Not a traveler, then… a princess.
Hecate did not pursue. She only watched, silently. If this is the nature of the world, then so be it, she thought. Let me seek the fools and ensure their bodies find the dust. I shall be their reckoning.
For she was Hecate. Sorceress. Judge. Avenger.
The Awakening
Morning came, soft and golden, but it brought no comfort.
Hecate found herself lying upon cobblestones in the heart of a silent town square. A dirt path stretched ahead, winding toward a castle that pierced the sky—the direction the princess had vanished into the night before.
Rising with grace, she dusted off her cloak and adjusted the folds of her midnight dress. Her wild ebony curls fell around her shoulders, alive with the magic of the shadows coursing through her veins.
She stepped forward, birds chirping cheerfully above. But she had no interest in their song. With a flick of her wrist, they turned to stone mid-flight and shattered upon the earth like glass raindrops.
The castle gates stood tall, wooden and ornate. She knocked once.
The door creaked open, and there stood the same princess, her face paling with recognition. She tried to slam it shut—but shadows were faster. Hecate melted into smoke and slipped through the cracks, reforming in the gloom of the hallway.
Inside, the castle gleamed with opulence. Gilded ceilings, velvet drapes, and glittering chandeliers hung above a ballroom filled with nobles, royals, and finely dressed fools.
The princess staggered into the room, pointing frantically. “The heathen! Help me! Save me, Prince Charming! She’s come to kill me!”
But no one saw Hecate.
Not yet.
She revealed herself slowly, peeling away from the wall like liquid darkness. The princess shrieked, her terror building as Hecate pinched her fingers together. From the air, black oil slithered forth, winding around the princess’s throat. It squeezed with a serpentine grip until she collapsed—a crumpled heap of chiffon and fear.
Gasps echoed across the ballroom.
And then silence.
Hecate’s voice rang cold and regal: “You mock what you do not understand. You exile the unknown. You wear crowns of silver and speak of virtue while you rot inside.”
She clapped her hands once.
The black oil swirled outward, a storm of shadow and judgment. One by one, the nobles choked on their painted pride. Their bodies fell to the marble floor, twisted in expressions of horror and vanity.
When silence returned, only Hecate remained, cloaked in smoke and glory.
“These are the bodies of fools,” she whispered. “Let them be buried in their arrogance.”
Moral of the Story:
True evil often wears a crown. When judgment comes, it does not ask permission.
