The ride had been long and grueling, but the sight before Denzel was worth it. The ziggurat loomed against the horizon like a mountain shaped by human hands. Its terraces rose in precise layers, each one carved with symbols that seemed to whisper secrets to the wind. Moss draped over the stone in ragged sheets, while faint etchings of star charts caught the fading light, their purpose unreadable but heavy with meaning.
Denzel dismounted, his boots sinking slightly into the damp soil as he surveyed the structure. His warhammer swung idly in one hand, its weight a familiar comfort. Mewlissa leapt gracefully from her perch, stretching her striped body in an arch before sniffing the air. Her tail flicked once, twice—a sign of curiosity, not alarm.
“Looks like we found it, girl,” Denzel muttered, brushing a hand over the glowing key hanging from his neck. Its light pulsed faintly, matching the rhythm of his heartbeat.
As if in response, the ziggurat began to stir.
Lines of light traced their way along the ancient stone, etching glowing patterns across its surface. Torches mounted on either side of the wide, weathered steps burst to life with a cold, bluish flame. The air thickened with energy, a subtle hum that seemed to rise from the ground itself.
Mewlissa froze, her ears flattening for a moment before she relaxed, watching the display with the detached confidence only a wildcat could muster.
“It’s... alive,” Denzel breathed. He couldn’t help but take a step forward, the key’s glow intensifying as he approached the broad staircase. Each step seemed to exhale mist, the cold vapor curling around his boots. At the top, a massive gate loomed, its surface adorned with intricate carvings that seemed to shift when he tried to focus on them.
The key grew warm against his chest, tugging gently as if urging him onward. He climbed the steps slowly, the weight of his warhammer steadying him as he scanned the path for danger. By the time he reached the gate, the key’s glow had faded entirely, leaving only its metallic sheen.
Denzel frowned, lifting it from his neck to inspect it. “Don’t tell me you’re taking a break now.”
The gate offered no reply. Its ornate carvings glittered faintly in the torchlight, but no mechanism or seam was visible. At its center, however, was a keyhole—oval and ringed with symbols that seemed to mirror those on the artifact in his hand.
“Well, that’s convenient,” he muttered, stepping closer. He pressed the key against the hole, expecting some grand reaction—a click, a surge of power, anything.
Nothing.
Denzel pulled the key back, his frustration mounting. “Alright, if you’re gonna be fussy about it...” He examined the gate more closely, tracing the carvings with his free hand. The symbols shifted under his fingers, shimmering like water, and he drew back instinctively.
Mewlissa, meanwhile, had begun to circle the base of the ziggurat, her nose low to the ground. She stopped occasionally to paw at something invisible, her tail swishing in wide arcs. Denzel glanced back at her, sighing.
“You got any ideas, girl? ’Cause this thing isn’t budging.”
Mewlissa chirped in response, padding back toward him with a deliberate air. She stopped a few feet away, sitting primly and tilting her head, her green eyes locking onto the gate as if to say: Figure it out.
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Denzel huffed, his freckled face twisting into a faint scowl. “Yeah, thanks for the vote of confidence.”
He turned back to the gate, his sharp green eyes narrowing as he scrutinized the carvings. Each symbol seemed familiar in a way that tugged at the edges of memory—star charts, constellations, the kind of thing his mentor, Drennavar, had once tried to teach him between hammer drills.
“Stars,” he muttered. “And here I thought this was gonna be simple.”
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Denzel leaned back, resting his weight against the cold stone of the gate. The silence of the place pressed against his ears, heavy and unnatural. It wasn’t the kind of quiet he’d learned to appreciate during long nights on the road. This was something different—an absence, as if the world itself had forgotten to breathe inside these walls.
He looked down at the key, turning it over in his calloused hands. It gleamed faintly in the torchlight, its intricate carvings a mockery of his attempts to understand them. The puzzle box wasn’t giving up its secrets tonight—or anytime soon, it seemed. The thought gnawed at him, but he pushed it aside.
“Guess we’re not in a hurry,” he muttered, his voice a low rumble that barely stirred the air. The ziggurat didn’t respond, of course. Neither did Mewlissa, who had stretched out in the shadow of a nearby pillar, her tail flicking lazily as if to say she’d solved her part of the puzzle by simply waiting.
With a sigh, Denzel stood, slinging his warhammer across his back. If the key wasn’t ready to cooperate, there was no point in sitting around. He started down the steps, his boots scuffing against the worn stone, and glanced back at Mewlissa. “Stay here, girl. Don’t want you getting into trouble.”
The cat blinked at him, unbothered, and returned to her nap.
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The grounds surrounding the ziggurat stretched wider than Denzel had realized. Smaller structures dotted the landscape—altars, monoliths, low walls that might have been foundations once. They were half-swallowed by time, draped in moss and lichen, their carvings faded to ghostly impressions. He traced his fingers over one of the stones, its surface cool and damp, the symbols unrecognizable.
“This place must’ve been something,” he muttered. His dragonhorse snorted in agreement—or maybe it was just the sound of the beast tugging at a patch of stubborn moss growing between two rocks. The animal seemed unconcerned by the oppressive quiet, its jaws working rhythmically as it grazed.
Denzel moved on, circling the perimeter of the complex. The absence of life nagged at him. No birds called from the towering walls. No insects buzzed around the patches of moss or grass. Even the wind seemed reluctant to stir the air. It reminded him of stories Drennavar used to tell—of cursed places, where the gods had walked and left their shadows behind.
He crouched beside a small, circular well, its edges lined with smooth, dark stone. Peering into the depths, he could see nothing but blackness. The water, if there was any, didn’t reflect the light of the glowing torches above. He dropped a pebble in, listening. No splash came. Just more silence.
“Figures,” he muttered, standing and dusting his hands on his trousers.
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As the faint light of evening began to deepen into night, Denzel completed his circuit and returned to the gate. The glowing torches along the ziggurat’s steps hadn’t dimmed, their bluish light casting long, flickering shadows. Mewlissa was still sprawled by the pillar, her ears twitching occasionally in her sleep. The dragonhorse stood a little ways off, its head low as it tore at another patch of moss.
Denzel dropped onto the bottom step, letting his warhammer rest across his knees. He pulled the key from around his neck, holding it up to the light. The carvings glimmered faintly, almost mocking in their complexity.
“Alright, you little bastard,” he said quietly. “You got me here. Now what?”
The key offered no answer, of course, but the weight of it felt heavier somehow, like it carried more than just its strange, arcane mechanisms. Denzel leaned back, tilting his head to look up at the towering gate.
“Waiting, huh?” he said aloud. His voice didn’t echo; the stillness devoured the sound before it could bounce back. “Well, fine. I can do that. You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”
He settled in, stretching his legs out in front of him and resting his head against the cool stone. Mewlissa stirred, yawning and blinking at him before curling back into herself. The dragonhorse snorted again, and Denzel allowed himself a small smile.
The quiet pressed in around him, but he didn’t fight it. He’d come too far, through too much, to give up now. If the gods—or whatever forces had led him here—wanted him to wait, then he’d wait.
Tomorrow, or the next day, or however long it took. He wasn’t leaving.