The Price of Immortality

The king had always been a man of ambition, but in the darkest corners of his heart, there was a longing far deeper than mere power. He wanted something that no mortal could possess: time. His kingdom was vast, his wealth immeasurable, and yet, all the riches in the world could not shield him from the inevitability of death.

Then, one fateful evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the last light of day bled into twilight, Ellewyn appeared before him.

A sorceress with eyes that gleamed like stars, her presence filled the room like the pulse of some ancient magic. She was ageless, as if time itself bent to her will. She was a whisper on the wind, a name half-remembered in forgotten legends.

“King Alaric,” she said, her voice as soft and dangerous as a blade’s edge. “I offer you a gift—a gift beyond measure. I can grant you immortality.”

The king had long since tired of the fleeting nature of life. His children grew up and died before him, his friends became nothing but dust, and even his great-grandfather’s memory had faded like smoke in the wind. His empire would crumble, his name forgotten, swallowed by time. Immortality had always seemed like the only answer.

“What must I give in return?” Alaric asked, knowing that all magic came with a price.

Ellewyn smiled, a cruel, knowing smile that made his blood chill. “Every century, you must sacrifice something precious—something that you hold dear. The first will be easy, a small thing, perhaps. But over time, as the years stretch on, the price will grow steeper. In exchange for immortality, you will lose everything you hold dear.”

The king was not deterred. His heart swelled with the promise of endless years. His kingdom would endure, his legacy eternal. “I accept your terms,” he said, his voice steady, though deep down, a part of him whispered that this was the beginning of his undoing.

Ellewyn’s smile widened, and with a simple gesture, she wove her magic. The world seemed to pause, holding its breath, as the sorcery took root within him. The curse, or the gift, depending on how one chose to see it, sank into his soul like the sharp sting of a serpent’s bite. And from that moment on, Alaric would never grow old, would never know death.

For the first century, the price was light. His closest advisor, a man who had served him faithfully, died in an accident. It was a small price, almost imperceptible in its weight. Alaric felt the loss, but he had his kingdom, his power, his vitality. He had forever.

The second century brought with it the loss of his beloved wife, Elara. She had aged, as mortals did, and though Alaric had remained untouched by time, the same could not be said for her. When she passed, the king mourned deeply, but he did not waver. His kingdom endured, his people revered him, and he could not bear to let grief control him.

A century later, his children—his flesh and blood—grew up and died, one by one. His daughter, Lyanna, was the first to fall, and though it broke him, the pain was nothing compared to the endless years stretching before him. In time, he would forget the faces of those who had once been his family, their laughter fading into the distant corners of his mind.

By the fifth century, the price had grown heavier. His wealth, once endless, began to dwindle. The riches he had accumulated over countless years, the treasures his ancestors had fought for, slowly slipped away, like sand through his fingers. His kingdom crumbled, not from war or plague, but from the slow, inevitable decay of time—of the world around him that he could not control.

And then, the years blurred together. Faces became unrecognizable. The kingdoms that once feared him began to forget his name, and the magic that had once made him immortal began to feel like a curse. But Alaric did not falter. He had endured, and the centuries had stretched on. He was eternal, or so he thought.

But now, as the tenth century of his cursed immortality approached, Ellewyn returned to him, her presence as chilling as ever.

“King Alaric,” she said, her voice no longer soft, but filled with a haunting finality. “The time has come for your final sacrifice.”

He had thought that he was prepared—that there was nothing left to lose. But as she spoke, he felt the weight of her words press down on his chest like a boulder.

“What must I give?” His voice was hoarse, heavy with the years.

Ellewyn’s eyes gleamed with an ancient wisdom, a cruelty that had taken root over the centuries. “You have sacrificed your family, your wealth, your very humanity. But now, you must give up what is most precious of all: your soul.”

Alaric’s heart froze. His soul? It was a price beyond anything he had imagined, the last thing he had left to call his own.

“I… I cannot,” he whispered, suddenly aware of the depth of his own degradation.

The sorceress’s smile was cold and unyielding. “You have already given up everything else. There is nothing left but your soul. And you will give it to me. That is the price of immortality.”

Alaric fell to his knees, his hands shaking as he clutched at the air, as if he could somehow stop the inevitable. “No… I’ve already lost so much. What is left for me, if I lose this?”

Ellewyn’s voice softened, a mocking tone in her words. “You should have known, King Alaric. Immortality is never truly free. For every gift, there is a price. And now, it is time to pay the final toll.”

In that moment, Alaric saw the truth for what it was. The immortality he had so desperately sought had come at the cost of everything he loved. His family, his wealth, his kingdom, his very humanity—all had been stripped away, piece by piece. And now, standing before Ellewyn, he understood the full horror of what he had become.

“I… I will not give it,” he said, his voice faltering, but firm.

Ellewyn’s laughter echoed through the empty halls of his once-great castle. “You think you have a choice? You’ve already given it all. The only thing left is your soul, and it will be mine.”

As the centuries had passed, Alaric had watched everything he had once cherished fade away, one sacrifice at a time. Now, the price of immortality had come due, and there was no escape. With a final, dreadful sigh, the king stood before Ellewyn, knowing that he had become a mere shadow of the man he had once been—driven by ambition, but destroyed by his own desires.

Ellewyn reached out, her fingers cold as ice, and with a single touch, the last of Alaric’s soul was ripped away, swallowed by the sorceress’s dark magic.

And so, the immortal king faded into nothingness, his name forgotten, his kingdom lost. His immortality had been his undoing, a gift that had consumed him utterly.