Midas sat at the grand council table, his hands resting carefully in his lap. His mind was elsewhere—on the creeping touch of the curse that now dominated his every movement. He had grown skilled at hiding it, though. No one suspected a thing, not yet. As long as he was careful, as long as he didn’t touch anything, they wouldn’t know. The council was deep in debate, but Midas barely listened. His eyes flickered nervously to the goblet before him. His thoughts raced. Don’t touch it. Don’t touch anything. He shifted slightly, gloved fingers brushing the table’s edge. Then, a question. The councilman next to him turned, offering Midas an ornate scroll to review. Without thinking, Midas reached out, grasping the object.
The change was instant.
The scroll—once ancient and crumbling—transformed in his hand, its fragile paper shimmering and hardening into pure gold. A collective gasp rippled through the room. The council’s voices faltered, dying off one by one as all eyes turned toward Midas. He froze, still gripping the golden scroll, now heavy and lifeless in his hand. Slowly, he set it down. Silence fell over the chamber, thick and oppressive. Fear crept into their faces, their gazes widening in horror as the truth became clear.
He was cursed.
Midas could feel the shift in the room—the hesitation, the distrust, the dawning realization. One of the guards at the door murmured something under his breath, and others followed, gripping their spears tighter. The sharp points of the weapons lifted, angled towards him. He stood up slowly, raising his hands in a futile gesture of peace. “It wasn’t intentional,” he began, but his voice faltered as he saw the fear in their eyes, the way they recoiled at his words.
It didn’t matter what he said.
It didn’t matter what he did.
To them, he was already a monster. A walking curse. And in their minds, there was only one way to deal with monsters. The spears were leveled now, their points gleaming in the dim light of the council chamber. A soldier stepped forward, brandishing his weapon with trembling hands. Midas smiled.
He reached out, deliberately, and grasped the spear. Gold. The soldier gasped, stumbling back as his weapon transformed in Midas’ grip, its once-light shaft now a solid, gleaming rod of precious metal. The spear dropped to the ground with a heavy thud, no longer the hollow clang of steel, but the weighted crash of gold. The guards looked on, wide-eyed, unsure whether to advance or flee.
Midas turned to face them all, his smile growing. “You see,” he said, his voice low and dangerous, “you can call me cursed. You can call me a monster. But if I must be your villain, I will make sure you never forget the name of the king who turned your world to gold.” With that, he strode past them, his footsteps echoing in the silent chamber as he left the council behind. His curse was no longer something to hide—it was a weapon, and he was no longer afraid to use it.
© Berfin Ünver 2024-10-23