Ale approached the imposing wooden doors, placing his hands on their surface. The moment he attempted to push them open, a dark surge of energy crackled at his fingertips, forcing him to step back slightly in surprise. Before him, a complex seal materialized, its dark contours radiating an oppressive shadowy aura. It was a magical lock, a malicious barrier pulsating with energy. Ale frowned, sensing something strangely familiar in this dark aura—like a weak imitation of Nyxion's power.
“Maybe I need to use dark magic to unlock this…” he muttered under his breath. Resolute, he infused a tiny portion of Nyxion’s inherited dark magic into the seal. Instantly, a dark flash radiated from the symbol, cracking the barrier in several places before it shattered completely, releasing the doors from their bindings.
Ale pushed once more, and this time, the massive doors opened without resistance, revealing a dark tunnel beyond. It was about two meters high and five meters wide, stretching into an endless void. Magical stones attached at intervals along the walls emitted a faint glow, casting sinister shadows upon the walls.
As he prepared to step forward, Ale recalled an idea. He removed the Prince of Light mask, then took out the dark mage’s mask he had taken from the defeated sorcerer. Putting on the mask, he felt himself shrouded in an aura that helped him blend seamlessly into the shadows.
To complete his disguise, he created ten clones, smaller silhouettes mimicking the appearance of children. Ale turned toward the docked boats, grabbing some sails and cutting them to craft wide hoods. The clones donned the hoods, concealing their shadowy features and enhancing the illusion.
“Take some animals on leads and follow me,” he ordered the clones. Once assembled, Ale led this procession into the tunnel. The faint glow from the enchanted stones added an eerie touch to the atmosphere, but he hoped this display would allow them to slip unnoticed among the Tenebrous.
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The barony of Drakelune, located east of Devalin, is renowned for its fertile hills and famed weaving workshops, where Bimo, heir to a long line of weavers, upholds an ancient family tradition. From a young age, Bimo was trained in the art of working with fibers and fabrics, a skill meticulously passed down by his father and grandfather. His future seemed predestined: to become a master weaver, open his own shop, start a family, and pass down this precious knowledge to his own child, ensuring the tradition continued.
But at sixteen, Bimo was entrusted with a secret that shattered his view of the world and his place within it. His parents revealed that they were among the last descendants of a once-powerful people from the ancient Empire of Valcaris. This empire, which worshipped Nyxion, the spirit of darkness, was renowned for its spiritual strength and mystical traditions. However, this reverence for an often misunderstood spirit had attracted suspicion from other nations.
Under the guise of battling evil, all the great powers of this world allied to invade Valcaris. Nyxion’s followers, forced into a desperate resistance, saw their empire fall, and Nyxion himself seemed to vanish with the destruction of their homeland, erased from existence by a political and religious conspiracy. Their lands were ravaged and divided among the conquerors, leaving only ruins as testament to their former grandeur.
To survive, Nyxion’s followers were forced to conceal their identity, blending into the cultures of the victorious nations. The generations that followed kept a low profile, carefully hiding their origins and faith in utmost secrecy. But despite their dispersion and years spent in the shadows, their faith in their god of darkness had never weakened.
From that day on, Bimo understood that his role was greater than that of a simple weaver: he was one of the last guardians of this collective memory, an heir to the beliefs and hopes of an entire scattered people.
Once Bimo became an initiate of dark magic, his life changed forever. By day, he remained the simple apprentice weaver beside his father, but by night, he delved into his family’s occult secrets, uncovering the mysteries of dark magic and attending clandestine gatherings of Nyxion’s faithful. These gatherings, organized in small groups of ten to preserve anonymity and safety, were held under the cover of elaborate masks, symbols of devotion and mystery. The faithful lined up in ranks, and each mask bore unique symbols, sealed with dark magic.
At nineteen, during a nighttime gathering, the organizer, the leader of their cell, made an announcement that electrified the crowd: their god, the spirit of darkness, Nyxion, was not dead as popular belief suggested. Rather, he lay dormant, waiting patiently for his followers to help him regain his strength so he could return and restore the glory of their fallen empire. From that day, Bimo joined a secret organization, the Brotherhood of the Tenebrous, an elite society dedicated to protecting Nyxion’s legacy and preparing for his resurgence.
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The Tenebrous, operating within a strict hierarchy, wore unique masks according to their rank. Bimo’s mask, adorned with a winding serpent on the forehead, marked him as rank 8. His leader, a feared mage named Morren, wore a rank 7 mask decorated with a half-moon emblem.
For months now, the upper ranks of the Brotherhood had ordered the assembly of a hundred children in the region. They were to be secretly transported to Mount Argental, the highest peak of the former Valcaris empire, to be trained and initiated into Nyxion’s mysteries. These children represented the future of the Tenebrous, bearers of the faith and heirs to the cult of darkness.
After Morren’s departure, Bimo was tasked with maintaining the rain ritual over Devalin, aimed at forcing the inhabitants to surrender their children. The magical device, an ancient relic, required animal sacrifices and a steady supply of mana stones to remain active. This rain ritual, fearsome in power, plunged Devalin under relentless downpours that only ceased when the device was deactivated. However, Bimo had begun to worry. Ten hours had passed, far more than the usual five needed by Morren on previous missions. Doubt crept in: had something gone wrong?
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.
The heavy sound of the knocker echoed through the hall, shaking the gathered faithful. Bimo jumped slightly. “That must be the leader,” he murmured to himself, feeling a wave of relief mixed with nerves. He approached the door, trying to quell the anxiety that bubbled up as he prepared to open it.
Through the peephole, Bimo spotted his leader’s imposing figure, his rank 7 mask adorned with a half-moon. Behind him, he saw a group of children and captive animals. Bimo hurriedly opened the door.
“Leader, you’ve finally returned!” he said with a mixture of relief and admiration, bowing slightly before his superior. His leader entered with a measured step, his posture stiff. “Did you encounter any trouble?” Bimo asked, curious but cautious.
“Uh, a… slight setback,” the leader replied hesitantly before continuing, “but it’s handled.”
Bimo felt a shiver of admiration course through him. “I knew nothing could stop you,” he added admiringly, watching his superior.
“Mm,” the leader acknowledged curtly in his usual cold, detached tone. Yet something felt… off. Despite the magical masks designed to protect the Tenebrous’ identities—capable of concealing not only faces but also any distinguishing features—even details like beard or eye color became indiscernible. Still, Bimo sensed an unusual aura emanating from his leader. Perhaps it was simply fatigue or the effects of the “small setback,” he thought, pushing his doubts aside.
Turning to his subordinates, Bimo spoke firmly to issue orders: “Doran and Fiala, take the animals to the enclosure. Kellen and Lira, bring the children to their quarters.”
The Tenebrous moved forward to carry out his orders, and Bimo turned to follow his leader, who had already headed toward the main hall. Noticing that his superior was waiting, Bimo hurried to catch up.
The hall, though rudimentary, was decorated with ancient symbols carved directly into the stone. Murals depicted mythic creatures in haunting shapes. On each side of the hall, narrow alcoves held statues in black stone, each figure cloaked and masked, their faces eroded by time, yet their imposing postures exuded a sinister authority.
“Is there anything else you wish me to do, my leader?” he asked respectfully.
“The rain…” began the leader, his tone uncertain.
“Yes, the rain, of course! You’re right. We can now stop the magical relic,” Bimo hastily added, finishing the sentence as if reading his leader’s mind. A slight nod from his superior confirmed he was correct. Bimo felt a rush of pride, pleased he’d anticipated his leader’s wishes.
“Well, what are we waiting for?” the leader asked, in a strangely commanding voice.
Bimo was surprised. Usually, his leader handled deactivating the device alone, without anyone’s company. But this time, he was invited along. It could only mean one thing: he was now important enough to be entrusted with this crucial task.
“It’s an honor to accompany you to the ritual room,” Bimo replied eagerly as his leader placed a heavy hand on his shoulder.
“Help me walk,” murmured the leader. “My leg… that earlier battle left it somewhat paralyzed.”
“Of course, leader!” Bimo replied promptly.
He wrapped a firm arm around his leader’s waist, supporting him carefully. Together, they moved slowly through the dimly lit hall, Bimo adjusting his pace to match his superior’s. He felt the heaviness and exhaustion in every movement of his leader, as if he bore the weight of an invisible burden. Yet Bimo couldn’t help but smile inwardly, his heart beating faster. Never before had his leader been this close to him, and this unexpected proximity fueled his ambition to rise through the Tenebrous ranks.
They crossed the hall, following a winding corridor where every step echoed in the oppressive silence of the base. At each turn, torches mounted on wrought iron brackets cast a flickering light, powered by magical stones. The torches' unsteady glow heightened the dancing shadows, giving the place a mystical, foreboding aura. The corridor seemed to stretch endlessly, as if it were built to lose intruders in its labyrinthine twists.
Finally, the passage opened up, revealing a spiral staircase descending into darkness. The worn, irregular steps made each step precarious. Along the staircase walls, embedded crystals emitted a spectral green glow, bathing the area in an eerie light. This strange hue seemed almost to throb, adding an undercurrent of tension and mystery with each step they took.
“The ritual room is just below,” murmured Bimo reverently, casting a glance at his leader before beginning the descent.