I couldn’t sleep. The thought of that old hag, that septuagenarian cougar, comfortably snoozing in Sid’s room refused to let me rest. Ju, of course, found my worry hilarious. In her opinion, if Sid decided to roll over in his sleep, it was Therella who’d be in danger. Oh, well.
Now Ju was sleeping like an angel. It seemed that our troll mojo had a very different effect on her than it did on me. Maybe elves handle that poison—pardon, drink—differently.
Unable to sleep and unsure what to do—aside from pouring myself another glass of troll mojo—I remembered that Drackar had asked to speak with me privately. It was late, but not yet midnight, and for reasons I couldn’t quite pinpoint, I felt unusually energetic.
Carefully, I extricated myself from the bed without waking Ju. I took a few steps toward the door but then stopped and sighed. “Life is so complicated,” I thought. “I can’t just wander downstairs in my nightgown. Being a baroness comes with certain expectations.”
Quietly, I rummaged through my wardrobe until I found something suitable: a beautiful red evening dress Ju had picked out for me during our trip to the capital. It flowed elegantly to my knees, with a daring slit on the right side that climbed all the way to my hip. The design left my arms and back bare and featured a tasteful, eye-catching neckline.
I marveled again at how Ju had organized my shoes in neat parallel racks opposite the mirrored cabinets that housed my clothes. My wardrobe was practically a walk-in dressing room. After a bit more searching, I found a pair of high heels that perfectly complemented the dress, accentuating the curves of my calves.
Satisfied with my reflection in the mirror, I grabbed the bottle of troll mojo and a few glasses, tucking them into my inventory. Once I finished my talk with Drackar, I figured I might find Alice, the boys, or perhaps even Drackar and his lieutenants willing to test the drink with me. Anything to keep my mind from wandering back to Sid.
With a quiet grin and a spring in my step, I started descending the stairs, ready for whatever the night had in store.
As I glanced at the broad wooden balustrade running along the staircase, an idea popped into my mind.
Should I?
Without giving myself time to overthink it, I sat on the balustrade in a very daring position and let myself slide down one floor, fighting to keep my balance the whole way. Sure, it would have been easier on my belly, but not nearly as thrilling.
It was exhilarating—pure, childish fun—but the landing nearly wrecked my shoes. I laughed softly, slipped them off, and padded barefoot down to the next floor.
Why hadn’t I done this sooner? Ever since I first laid eyes on that balustrade, I’d wanted to try it. The satin dress had been perfect for sliding, too! I made a mental note to repeat this at some point—preferably without the heels.
By the time I reached the ground floor, I was already a seasoned balustrade-sliding expert, thoroughly pleased with my newfound skill. I nearly startled the two orcs standing guard at the entry as I landed gracefully on my feet.
“Lady Lores?” one of them asked, his eyes narrowing slightly in confusion as he tilted his head to get a better look at me.
“Hello!” I greeted him with a wide, cheerful grin, brushing a stray strand of hair off my face. “Where’s Drackar?”
“Good evening, Lady Lores,” the other guard said, recovering from his initial surprise. “Captain Drackar is currently making his evening round. He should be somewhere on the East wall right now,” he added, gesturing toward the opposite side of the yard. “Shall I send someone to fetch him?”
“Do so!” I replied, flashing a polite smile.
Five minutes later, Drackar arrived, his steady steps hurried.
“You called, Lady Lores?” he asked, his tone calm but curiosity evident in his eyes.
I shrugged lightly. “Did you not say I should let you know when I was free for a talk? Well, here I am,” I replied with a faint smile, suddenly recalling the pair of shoes tucked away in my inventory. I decided it was time to put them on.
His face lit up instantly—not, I assumed, at the sight of my lovely shoes, but perhaps at the prospect of finally having this conversation. Meanwhile, the guards exchanged uncertain glances, unsure whether they should offer assistance. One even took a cautious step forward, ready to steady me if needed, but by the time he moved, I was already finished slipping on the heels.
I couldn’t help but wonder what Drackar had done to train his orcs to be so unusually polite and attentive. Orcs weren’t exactly renowned for their gallantry, or even kindness for that matter, yet these guards were far more civil than one might expect.
“Oh, of course, Lady Lores!” Drackar said, snapping back to attention. “Would you be so kind as to follow me?” He gestured toward a quieter area along the wall, ready to lead the way.
As I nodded, he turned and began walking along the wall at a brisk pace. I followed in silence, wondering just how far he intended to go. After several minutes, he stopped in front of an unremarkable door that looked as though it led to a basement.
A different basement entry? I wondered, curiosity piqued.
When he opened the door, a wave of stale, damp air wafted out to greet me. Instinctively, I took a discreet sip of the troll mojo I had tucked away. It was surprisingly effective, dulling the unpleasantness of the air as I followed him inside.
The door revealed a flight of stairs that descended far deeper than I expected. As soon as I stepped in, Drackar lit a torch, and with a faint flicker of magic, an entire line of torches along the walls ignited, casting a warm, flickering glow. He closed the door behind us, sealing the corridor in a sense of isolation, and continued forward between the narrow stone walls.
The walls themselves caught my attention—they were different from those above. The stones were darker, striated with unusual patterns, and clearly from a different quarry. The floor was uneven and dusty, a fact that immediately made me regret my choice of attire. My lovely shoes were not made for this kind of terrain, and I was beginning to wonder if my elegant red dress had been a grave miscalculation.
The trip didn’t end there. Drackar stopped in front of one of the wooden doors on the left side, opened it, and revealed yet another set of stairs descending further into the depths. He took a torch from the sconce above and started down. The soft sound of the door closing behind us echoed faintly as I followed.
Surprisingly, the air quality improved on this level. The stone walls were dry, the atmosphere no longer stale. At last, he broke the silence.
“All these chambers were once used as warehouses, but also as living quarters during the winter months in earlier times,” he explained.
“You mean we should start storing food reserves down here?” I asked.
He shrugged. “It’s an option, depending on how you want to organize life during the long winters. Remember, the ground above will be buried under meters of snow. We might even need to dig tunnels to move between buildings.”
“Is this what you brought me down here to show me?” I asked, growing curious.
“Not exactly,” he replied, his tone calm. “But since we’re here, I thought you should know. We’re almost there, Lady Lores—just one more level.”
One more level? I thought, surprised.
"How old is this part? It seems ancient, but wooden doors can’t last that long," I remarked.
He chuckled softly.
"Self-repairing enchantments, Lady Lores. As long as there’s magic here, they endure. And deep below, it’s believed a dragon vein runs through this mountain."
Finally, we arrived in a circular chamber carved directly into the foundation stone, its raw and ancient design reminding me somewhat of Sid’s room, though this was deeper within the mountain. At the center stood a massive stone pillar, about five meters in diameter, encircled by the room’s broad, circular ring. Bass-reliefs adorned the walls, intricate and aged, while several stone slabs resembling benches lined the edges.
Drackar moved to a handle on the wall, securing the torch he’d been carrying. Its light flared brighter, illuminating the room further as several crystals embedded around the space began to glow.
He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed casually. "You might want to sit," he suggested, gesturing to one of the slabs. "I have a story to tell you, and it’ll take a few minutes."
I glanced around. If this is his idea of a romantic rendezvous, I might need a bit more troll mojo in my system. Suppressing the urge to roll my eyes, I cast a warming spell on the slab and settled onto it, the pleasant heat spreading through my thighs.
I slipped off my splendid little shoes, now a bit dusty from the descent, and made myself comfortable, pulling my legs up beneath me on the slab. Reaching into my inventory, I retrieved the troll mojo and two glasses, setting them on the slab beside me.
"If we’re going to sit here and tell stories, we might as well enjoy a drink," I said with a grin, pouring the glowing liquid into the glasses. The bottle’s eerie luminescence cast a strange light on the stone around us. I teased: “Though fair warning—I’ve already got a head start.”
He raised a brow.
“Oh!" he replied with a chuckle. "Before I begin, what exactly are the effects of this troll mojo?”
I tilted my head thoughtfully. “So far, it just warms the belly. Honestly, a bit underwhelming.”
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
He grinned, his tusks glinting faintly in the crystal light.
“Good to know. But you should be aware—troll mojo isn’t one-size-fits-all. Its effects vary depending on the troll tribe, or even the specific family, that brewed it."
After a shrug, he raised his eyes to look at me and continued.
“I must ask you to keep this place, and what I’m about to tell you, a secret,” he said.
A secret story? Now this was getting interesting. I raised a brow, intrigued, then nodded.
“Alright,” I replied, gesturing toward one of the glasses as I picked up the other.
He smiled faintly. “Not even my lieutenants know the full story—or about this room and its purpose.”
I glanced around, taking in the eerie atmosphere. It looked more like a dungeon designed for torture than anything else. Strange place for a first rendezvous, I thought, stifling a chuckle.
“And you’re telling me because…?” I asked, teasingly.
“Because I trust you,” he said simply, “and my gut tells me it’s the right thing to do. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this, but this place was once an ancient orc fortress.”
He picked up his glass, and I followed suit. We clinked them together before he tipped a bit of the liquid onto the floor.
“For the dead,” he murmured.
I raised a brow in surprise but mirrored his gesture, pouring a few drops onto the stone. Afterward, we both drank.
“Wasn’t this an elven castle? Everyone seems to believe so,” I said, pulling a pillow from my inventory to prop against the wall as a backrest.
He chuckled softly, then shrugged with a sigh. “The castle was built on the ruins of an old fortress... This was my family’s fief, a long time ago.”
His gaze grew distant, as if seeing something far beyond the room.
Family stories, I thought, stifling a smirk. He’s trying to impress me. Though, I had to admit, this ancient chamber did have an imposing, almost otherworldly presence. But if this were a torture chamber, where were the instruments? My eyes drifted to the central pillar, where four chains—two high and two low—hung ominously. They gleamed like polished obsidian, untouched by rust or decay, as if waiting, ready to be used.
The pillar's stone caught my attention next. Unlike the rough stone of other parts of the fortress, here it seemed... crystalline. The polished surfaces reflected the torchlight in an unsettling way, casting faint, fractured patterns that danced eerily across the room. There was an undeniable aura about this place—ominous and heavy.
“Now, the reason I brought you here,” he began, his tone more serious, “is because, according to legend, this old dungeon houses a thousand-year-old spirit tool. If it truly works, it could be used to create a domain around the castle. Such a domain would offer significant advantages—like ensuring no one can cast a portal within its bounds without your permission. Plus, any domain created by someone else would be undermined by yours.”
“You mean like the domain the paladin created?” I asked, intrigued.
“Exactly. Good example. With this domain in place, they could still create their own, gaining certain advantages, but they wouldn’t be able to impose their rules on you. Your domain would lie beneath theirs and override it.”
I tilted my head, “That sounds incredibly useful, but why are you showing this to me? Why not make it your domain?”
He sighed, shaking his head. “I don’t have the mana or the capabilities to even initiate the process. Awakening the spirit tool is far beyond me. I’ve tried before, and even my uncle, who was a high mage, couldn’t do it. While I hope that someday one of my descendants might succeed, it seems wasteful to leave it dormant now—especially if it works and you have the ability to awaken it.”
I pondered whether it was just a legend. If a high mage couldn’t awaken it, what chance did I have? Perhaps only if I could access my full power. As I considered, he continued explaining.
“Any attack against your domain, or against my tribe, would be severely hindered. They wouldn’t be able to use portals or teleportation within the domain, but we could. That alone could change the outcome of a battle—and that’s just one of the perks the domain offers.”
“Is the spirit tool really that intelligent and versatile?” I asked, curiosity deepening.
“Yes, she is,” he confirmed with a firm nod.
“What kind of spirit tool are we talking about?” I pressed.
He sighed and lowered his gaze. “There’s a legend about her, but... perhaps it’s better not to dwell on those details. It’s just a sad story.”
I arched a brow, the warmth of my spell under me, combined with the troll mojo, leaving me feeling unusually content and indulgent. The thought of leaning against his strong green hands didn’t seem so far-fetched at the moment.
I shook away the treacherous thoughts and refilled both of our glasses, the bottle’s glow reflecting between us.
“A spirit tool story,” I declared, “is exactly what I want to hear right now.”
He chuckled softly and raised his glass. We clinked again, and once more, he dripped a bit of the drink onto the floor. I raised a brow at him, questioning silently.
“For the spirit tool,” he said with a wistful sigh. “As I mentioned, it’s a sad story. Are you certain you want to hear it?”
I mirrored his action, dripping a bit from my glass—what a waste. “For the spirit tool,” I repeated. “If we’re going to use it, I suppose I should learn its story.”
“Her story,” he corrected. “Very well,” he said, taking a deep breath. He emptied his glass in one go, and as I refilled it, he began.
“Do you see those chains on the pillar over there? That’s where she was bound—Yisila, the elf. Look closely, and you might discern her silhouette against the stone. That shadow there... it’s said to be her.”
I squinted toward the pillar, and now that he pointed it out, a faint outline resembling a tall figure with long hair, arms and legs chained to the stone, emerged from the interplay of light and shadow. The longer I stared, the clearer it became, as if her presence lingered in the very rock.
“She was that tall?” I asked, glancing at him.
He nodded pensively. “Yes, she was. Yisila was exceptional—both in stature and spirit.”
"Or so the story says..." he added after a while.
“She was in love with Wrohex, my great-great-great-grandfather—or something like that,” Drackar began, his words starting to slur ever so slightly, a clear sign the troll mojo was working its magic. “They were both very young at the time. Wrohex was the fifth and youngest son in his family. They met by chance in the forest, where she once saved him from a dangerous beast. After that, they started meeting in secret, regularly, and their romance deepened.”
He paused to sip from his glass, which I had dutifully refilled, before continuing. “One day, Yisila decided she couldn’t follow the path her family had laid out for her. In elven society, it’s the grandmothers who decide whom a girl must marry and what role she’ll play in their community. But, as we’ve seen in our own dealings with Miss Therella,” he added with a knowing glance, “young elven women sometimes have very different ideas.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle at the way his speech began to loll a little, the troll mojo loosening his tongue and blurring the edges of his usually composed demeanor. I refilled his glass once more and topped off my own. This was turning into quite the tale.
“Oh, well, Yisila's family did not take kindly to the idea of her running away,” Drackar said, taking another sip from his glass. “They assumed the orcs had kidnapped her. Wrohex had hidden her inside the tower, keeping her presence a secret even from his parents. But the elves managed to track her down and discovered where she was. In a surprise attack, they took over the tower, killed most of its defenders, and captured both Yisila and Wrohex.”
He paused, his expression heavy. “In their desperation, just before being captured, the two performed an ancient spell to bind themselves in marriage—the way wood elves used to marry in those days. The spell tied their lives together, making it impossible for her family to marry her off to another elf while the bond existed.”
I raised a brow, intrigued. “What did her family do?”
“They believed she’d been brainwashed—enchanted with who knows what orcish spell. Killing him wasn’t an option because it would have killed her as well. He was just a simple warrior, unable to cast any spell. The only way to break it was if she willingly undid it herself, or...” He hesitated, his voice darkening, “...if they could drain her magic completely to force the spell to break.”
“So making her run out of mana would have sufficed?” I asked, leaning in.
He shook his head.
“No, it wasn’t just about draining her mana. They needed to go deeper, to reach her very essence—much like what a succubus demon might do—before attempting to remove the spell. It was a dangerous and invasive method, but they believed it could work.”
“You’re saying the elves bound her there to drain her magic?” I asked, horrified.
He nodded with a sigh.
“They didn’t intend to harm her more than they believed was necessary to save her. In their minds, it was like treating a sickness—sometimes you have to hurt the body to heal it. This place was originally a dungeon where mages were restrained to have their mana drained. One of my ancestors, Gorak the Mad, used it for his experiments. The central pillar you see was designed to aid in creating a domain around the tower. But Gorak didn’t want to use his own mana for that—he thought, why not use the mana of captured mages instead?”
He sighed,
“Of course, his experiments failed, likely because creating such a domain requires the mage’s genuine intent for it to exist. Oh, well, the elves knew the story about Gorak and this dungeon and decided it was the perfect place to ‘cure’ poor Yisila.”
"Wrohex had been forced to witness it all," he said, his voice heavy. "He begged her—pleaded for her to give up, to relent—but she refused. She fought against the draining power with everything she had, crying and resisting until her very essence left her. It’s believed she sacrificed herself to save him, though no one knows the exact mechanism or how it happened. The spell binding them should have taken both their lives, yet somehow, she transformed into a spirit tool, and he descended into madness."
He paused, his gaze distant.
"With the power granted by the domain that emerged in her sacrifice, he broke free of his chains and drove out the invaders. He became the ruler of this place—but at the cost of losing her, and with it, his sanity."
He let out a sad chuckle, his gaze drifting to meet mine.
“Oh well, it’s an old story," he said, his tone resigned. "A family tale that’s been passed down for at least a thousand years. Generations later, my ancestors could no longer access the spirit tool. A few centuries after that, the fortress fell. The elves took over and built their castle on these ruins, completely unaware of what lay hidden beneath.
He paused, leaning slightly against the wall. "This room is protected in a way only my family understands. You can’t find it unless you’re a descendant of my bloodline—or you’ve been brought here, as you have. But if you manage to establish a connection with the spirit tool, the magic will recognize you, and you’ll be able to enter on your own. It’s enchanted to ensure anyone who comes searching for it will simply overlook the entrance, no matter how hard they try.”
"A spirit tool that hasn’t been active in hundreds of years?" I repeated skeptically. “I don’t think I can awaken it,” I said plainly.
“If it doesn’t work, at least we tried,” he replied with a shrug. “All I know is that you have to place your hands on her chains and make contact. What happens next, I couldn’t tell you. That’s the supposed way to awaken the spirit tool, but if it deems you unworthy or if you lack the power to wake her, nothing will happen. You don’t have to try now. Wait until you—”
I waved off his words, standing up and walking toward the pillar.
“Let’s just give it a quick try and settle this,” I said.
A simple demonstration that it doesn’t work, and we can move on to discussing more practical matters - I thought to myself.