The words echoed in the silence of the Forbidden Archive, hanging in the air like a curse. Aethren felt a chill crawl up his spine as Thalia's gaze hardened, her eyes shadowed with knowledge that carried the weight of centuries.
"The City of Lost Souls?" Elyra repeated, her voice tinged with disbelief. "Where is it?"
Thalia closed the ancient tome with a soft thud, her fingers lingering on the worn leather. "It is a place hidden from the living. Its location is lost to most. Some say it lies beyond the borders of known lands, where the world itself forgets. Others claim it lies in the heart of the Black Marshes, surrounded by an eternal fog that no light can penetrate."
Rhael scoffed, crossing his arms. "A city that’s been lost for centuries? And you think we can find it?"
Thalia met his skeptical gaze with a quiet certainty. "It’s not about finding the city. It’s about finding the key—the only way to enter. The seals that bind the dark creatures were hidden there long ago, and the last one was buried in the heart of that forsaken city. Whoever controls the key controls the fate of the world.”
Aethren’s stomach tightened. The key. It sounded like a legend, a myth too fantastic to be real. Yet, in his bones, he felt the truth of it.
"How do we find it?" he asked.
Thalia’s eyes flickered to the ancient tome. "The key is tied to the bloodline of the last of the First Kings—the ones who sealed the darkness in the first place. That bloodline has been lost to time, but there are whispers. Old prophecies. They speak of a warrior who will be able to awaken the key."
Elyra frowned. "A warrior? Who?"
Thalia didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she turned and began rummaging through one of the drawers near the wall, pulling out a piece of parchment. It was old, the edges frayed and brittle. She unrolled it carefully and placed it on the table.
The words on the parchment were written in a language Aethren didn’t recognize, but the symbols were familiar. Magic, runes, symbols of binding.
"This is the map to the City of Lost Souls," Thalia said, pointing to the drawing. "But there is no direct route. The city shifts, hiding itself from those who would seek it. The key must be awakened by a descendant of the First Kings, and that bloodline... it’s been hidden for a reason."
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
Aethren leaned forward, his heart pounding in his chest. "I don’t care about the prophecy. I care about stopping the darkness. We need to find this key, and we need to do it now."
Thalia regarded him for a long moment before nodding. "Then you must go to the Black Marshes. Follow the map, and seek out the places where the seals were hidden. The last one, the true key, can only be found by one who bears the blood of the First Kings."
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The Journey to the Black Marshes
The journey to the Black Marshes was treacherous. For three days, they traveled through dense forests, winding paths, and harsh weather. The farther they ventured into the land of the Black Marshes, the darker the world seemed to grow. The air grew thick with mist, and the sun’s rays were little more than a distant memory, blocked out by the perpetual gloom.
Elyra had cast spells to protect them from the swamp’s poisonous vapors, but the air still tasted sour, and the ground was slick and treacherous. Aethren’s boots sank deep into the muck with every step, but he didn’t care. The thought of the key, the only weapon capable of sealing the rising darkness, drove him forward.
The fog was dense, swirling like a living thing. Every step felt like it took them deeper into the unknown, where nothing made sense and the world seemed to stretch on endlessly.
“This place is cursed,” Rhael muttered as he wiped the moisture from his face. “No one comes out of the marshes, and no one ever remembers.”
Elyra looked ahead, her eyes scanning the murky landscape. "We must be close. The map says we should reach the entrance to the city by nightfall."
The sun was almost gone, and Aethren could feel the weight of the land pressing down on them, the oppressive silence broken only by the soft squelching of their footsteps. It was as if the very earth was holding its breath, waiting for something.
Ahead, a flicker of movement caught Aethren’s eye. A shape—no, a figure—stood in the distance, half-hidden by the mist. It was impossible to make out its features, but the silhouette was unmistakably humanoid.
"Did you see that?" Aethren asked, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his sword.
Elyra nodded, her staff glowing faintly as she raised it, warding off the encroaching darkness. "Stay alert."
They moved cautiously forward, the figure not moving, as though waiting for them. When they drew closer, Aethren saw that it was a man, or at least what was left of one. His skin was a sickly green, his eyes hollow and sunken. He was dressed in ragged robes, his body emaciated, but his presence was undeniable.
"You should turn back," the figure rasped, his voice like gravel. "The city does not welcome the living. The key is lost, and the darkness will consume you, just as it has consumed us."
Aethren stopped, his grip tightening on his sword. "Who are you?"
The man’s lips twisted into a grim smile. "I was once a keeper, a guardian of the city’s secrets. But I failed. We all failed. Now, we are the Lost. We wander in the fog, seeking redemption that will never come."
Elyra took a step forward. "We are not here for redemption. We need the key. Tell us where it lies."
The man’s hollow eyes glimmered with something like pity. "The key is not a thing—it is a burden. A curse. And it is tied to blood you do not know."
Aethren’s heart skipped a beat. "Blood? What do you mean?"
The figure’s smile widened. "The blood of the First Kings. You do not know it, but it runs through your veins, warrior."