The Fountain of Wishes - dark fantasy

The thief ran, heart pounding like a war drum, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The thick, tangled forest clawed at him—branches tore at his sleeves, roots snagged his boots, the damp earth sucking at every desperate step. Behind him, the city guards crashed through the undergrowth, their shouted orders sharp as the gleam of their drawn swords. Flickering torchlight wove through the trees, casting long, twisting shadows that danced like specters in the night. His lungs burned, his legs ached, but he didn’t dare slow. He had stolen from the wrong nobleman, a man with no patience for thieves and even less for mercy. If they caught him, he would not live to see the sunrise.

Just when his strength threatened to give out, his foot struck something smooth, and he tumbled forward, sprawling onto soft grass. For a moment, the world spun, and he braced himself for the hands of his pursuers—but they didn’t come. Pushing himself up, he realized he had stumbled into a clearing, the thick canopy overhead giving way to an open sky dusted with stars. In its center stood an ancient stone fountain, weathered and cracked with age. But unlike anything he had seen before, the water within did not sit still—it swirled with strange, shifting colors, glowing softly as if it held captive the very essence of the moonlight.

A shiver ran down his spine. He had heard whispers of such a place, of a fountain said to grant a single wish to those desperate enough to drink from it. Some called it a gift from the gods, others a curse in disguise. He had never believed in fairy tales. But then again, he had never believed he would be running for his life through a forest at midnight, hunted like an animal.

The shouts behind him grew louder. The guards were closing in. His time had run out. He swallowed hard and took a step toward the fountain. Every wish had a price. But right now, the price of hesitation was death.

With shouts growing louder behind him, the thief hesitated only for a moment before dropping to his knees and plunging his hands into the water. It was cool, unnaturally so, sending a shiver up his arms even as it calmed the frantic pounding of his heart. He scooped up a handful, the swirling liquid catching the moonlight like liquid silver. His breath came in sharp gasps, his mind screaming at him to act before it was too late.

“I wish to be safe,” he whispered, the words barely escaping his trembling lips. Raw desperation clung to every syllable. He brought the water to his mouth and drank deeply. It was impossibly smooth, sliding down his throat like silk, carrying the faint taste of honey and something else—something he couldn’t name. Starlight, perhaps. For a brief moment, the world seemed to still, as if the very air around him had drawn in a breath and was waiting for something to happen.

Then it did. A strange warmth bloomed in his chest, spreading outward like ripples on a pond. His ragged breathing steadied, his aching muscles loosened, and the sounds of the forest around him grew distant, muted. A sense of stillness settled over him—not the stillness of peace, but something deeper, something unnatural.

The guards burst into the clearing, their torches flaring like angry fireflies. The thief tensed, waiting for the inevitable shouts, the clash of steel, the rough hands grabbing him—but nothing came. The men glanced around, their faces twisting with confusion. One of them strode to the fountain’s edge, peering down into the water as if expecting to find him lurking beneath its surface. Another swept his torchlight over the clearing, the orange glow passing directly over the thief’s face—and yet, they saw nothing.

The thief’s breath caught in his throat. He was right there, barely a few feet away, yet to them, he did not exist. He let out a shaky laugh, the sound barely more than a breath. The fountain had worked. He was safe.

Or so he thought.

Then he tried to move. His legs refused to obey. Panic surged through him as he willed his feet to take a step, but they remained rooted to the ground. A strange heaviness settled over his limbs, like iron shackles tightening around his flesh. His arms, once light and quick, now felt like they were weighed down by invisible chains. His breath hitched—shallow, uneven—as if the air itself were turning thick in his lungs.

Dread coiled in his gut as he forced his gaze downward. His fingers, once nimble and skilled at slipping coins from unsuspecting pockets, were no longer flesh and blood. They had hardened, their color fading from warm skin to cold, unyielding gray. His breath came in sharp, ragged bursts as he watched the transformation spread—up his wrists, consuming his arms, locking his elbows in place. A horrible numbness followed, neither pain nor relief, just an eerie absence of feeling.

“No,” he choked, but his voice was already failing. He tried to cry out, to scream for help, for mercy, for anything—but the sound died in his throat as his lips stiffened, frozen mid-breath. The stone climbed over his chest, coiling around his ribs like a vice, his heartbeat slowing as if the fountain had reached inside him and silenced it. His vision blurred, his world narrowing to the last thing he would ever see: the fountain, its water still shimmering, still glowing softly, as if whispering to the night that another wish had been granted.

Then everything went dark.

By morning, the clearing was silent, untouched by the stirring of the waking world. No birds sang from the treetops, no breeze rustled the leaves—only an eerie stillness hung in the air, as if nature itself dared not disturb what had transpired. The stone figure of the thief stood rigid beside the fountain, his posture betraying the terror that had gripped him in his final moments. His wide eyes, now dull and gray, stared endlessly into the distance, his mouth parted as if caught in the echo of a scream that had never been heard. The fine details of his clothing, the folds of fabric, the strands of his hair—each had been preserved with unnatural precision, as though the fountain wished to immortalize its latest victim.

The water rippled gently, undisturbed by the fate of the one who had dared to drink from it. Its glow had dimmed slightly, satisfied, perhaps, with the wish it had granted. And yet, just beneath its surface, something shifted, as if the fountain itself was alive, waiting, listening for the next desperate soul to come seeking salvation.

On the fountain’s edge, where timeworn carvings told the stories of countless others, a new inscription had appeared—etched deep into the ancient stone, its meaning cruel in its simplicity:

“Safe at last.”

The thief had gotten exactly as he'd wished for.