The Orbs of Tala

The Spell of Thousands

Thousands of epochs ago, the rascals had the audacity to defy the gods. And when things got a little bit tough, they prayed to the angels, the everlasting nemesis of the gods. Divine creatures they were (or so legend says), the angels sent down their best league of soldiers to fight alongside the manipulative bastards who once sacrificed their own to the same gods they eventually defied.

However, the said bastards, or rascals, or humans—as they called themselves—did not foresee the Greatest Scandal of Ages. They must have forgotten that in every war, the oldest weapon ever wielded also thrived: sex.

Delicious, godly sex.

And angels were not spared. Their stay on land made them vulnerable to fleshly desires and their holy mission was tarnished.

Products of sin and lust between gods and angels, the Opulents came to being. With the blood of gods and the grace of angels, they were almost supreme. Their wings were not made of feathers, but manifested as abilities—powers that ended battles overnight.

As the War of Grace continued, with constant shifts of alliances, the humans retreated from the war. A few thick-faced men then prayed to the Goddess of the Hearth. Ever warm and kind, she offered the humans her protection and gave them the Vestas, havens the rascals named in her honor. Allowing no godly or angelic magic within them, the Vestas protected the humans amidst the chaos.

Meanwhile, outside the Vestas, the war continued. Gods grew weary, angels fell.

All the while, the Opulents, divided between gods and angels, decided it was time to unite. A choice, they called it. An act of villainy, the others said.

Amazed by their discovery of autonomy, the Opulents embodied it. They glorified in it.

"They used their brains, see?" the great Ivor Develler often said to his great-granddaughters, or whoever would listen. "Bloody gods and angels were too busy fighting against each other. They almost didn't see it coming."

Almost.

The gods were not pleased. How could their own children defy them? The angels were disappointed and saw it as form of betrayal—another Lucifer.

And so, the biggest plot twist happened: the gods had a secret meeting with the angels.

They had a new enemy, the gods said. They had to work together and do something before the Opulents could do something, the angels agreed.

But the Opulents were too powerful. Killing them meant sending them to heaven or the underworlds. The angels would not welcome them in their holy grounds, and none of the underworld gods would welcome any threats to their thrones.

Again, the wise and opportunistic humans stepped outside their Vestas to join the convention, wanting to see an end to the war they started. They said that the problem was not the Opulents, but their wings.

Thus, the Spell of Thousands: the most infantile, imperfect, and notorious spell ever attempted.

With a great sacrifice from both gods and angels, and a few valuable ingredients the humans found among their fairy friends, they cast the spell upon the Opulents.

In a snap, the world tilted. Snow hovered in the air for a few seconds as the universe fixed itself. In a blink, the Opulents lost their wings—their powers, their weapons. And they started dying, their immortality lost forever.

As mentioned, the Spell of Thousands was infantile and imperfect.

The gods and angels meant for all Opulents to lose their wings, but something must have gone wrong, probably a wrong ingredient like a nymph's hair instead of lashes, or the lower incisor of a vampire instead of the upper one, because the spell did not affect all Opulents. Or, as Ivor Develler believed, the old gods might have done a trick.

But then there's the Curse. A condition that suddenly develops at any given time, the Curses themselves could be quite odd. They ranged from mundane to horrifying, but it did as intended—limit the wings of the Opulents.

One of Ivor's sons-in-law had his Curse when he was thirty. He woke up one day blind. One great-granddaughter got hers when she was eighteen. Her hair turned pink. It was a horrible sight until it changed into powdery blue by noon that same day. It changed three times the following day. Now it may be over five. They stopped counting after the third day.

No matter, it was a miracle. The spell did not strip all Opulents of their powers—their wings. A few kept their greatness. And as gossips say, some were still immortal.

After the Spell of Thousands, the gods retreated to their realms. The angels took a flight back to heaven; the humans remained as much as they could in their Vestas. Everyone went home, leaving a herd of confused Opulents who did not have one.

Once the perfect soldiers, they had become cursed and flawed. They were far from immortal to join the gods; not sinless and pure to stand with the angels; and most definitely not humans to live among the rascals.

But they had each other. They came together to form an empire out of the void left from the War of Grace. They crowned an emperor. And with their trusted soldiers, the emperors ensured the survival of the Opulents, centuries after another. They built alliances and treaties with other beings, including the rascals.

They came into being because of a war they did not start, they gained their freedom, were cursed for it, and they thrived. They refused to be used again. Like the rest, they had to survive. They caused havoc where it was due—giving the good a little something to fight with; throwing evil a little challenge if needed. As the most common victims (for that's how they always thought themselves to be), humans called them villains—the most disgraced word in the human dictionary. In mockery, the Opulents created the Department of Villainy, soldiers (Villains) who would spy, kill, and die for the empire.

The Opulents were their own race, a rich empire scattered all over the globe. Cursed but thriving, hated but feared.

Ivor Develler was the current Opulent Emperor.

But this would not be his story.

This would be about Isla Develler, an Opulent through and through.

She had a rare and powerful wing, and she was a proud soldier to the empire—a Villain to enemies. Also, if Ivor Develler could so gracefully die, she was next in line to be the Opulent Empress.

Well, that was until the day she got her Curse.