The moor swallows lost men, and all creatures that stumble into her heart. It has a glow, that when stared at, hypnotizes. Byron knew her secret. There are sacred places, most of which have been found and desecrated. Temples were built on her magic, and rituals cast in her halls. This is holy ground, where wise men remove their sandals out of respect for her power. The moor is a manifestation of revenge, swallowing all that fall under her spell. Byron knew how to respect this magic and to stay away, but now he had to walk through the temple gates.

He went down the main path with his shotgun, looking for a great granite backbone, he could leap-frog across, into a cave that descended into hell. Sulfur choked him and blinded his eyes. It was why he didn’t see or hear the figure approaching in the shadows.

Silent hands loaded.


Byron stopped.

It was the first inkling; he was being followed. There was no turning back. It was easy to get lost when one tried to retrace their steps. Light played tricks on his eyes; rocks were not rocks, but empty holes sucking one down into the moor.

There was the cave, where prehistoric men discovered magic for the first time. Bones on the stairs as Byron stepped over, into her throat. He lit a torch with his lighter, and the green glow showed him the way. A chamber took him into a larger chamber, where stone tablets rested. He lit the fire and rehearsed his study, those ancient words learned as a child, past down by generations

He felt her energy flowing into his fingertips, bolting through his body like lightening.

Another metallic CLICK.

“Who’s there!” Byron shouted.

“Your humble servant, come to collect his fee.”


“Yes. My family served your family for centuries, but no more.”

Barrels of death were brought level with Byron’s eyes.


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