Ilea knelt in the shadows just outside the royal archives, her eyes flicking across the perimeter as she conducted one final check of her gear. Her frame was cloaked in dark, supple leather that melded perfectly to her athletic build, granting her both the protection and agility required for her work. Each piece of her attire was meticulously fastened with a series of buckles, hugging her torso and allowing for subtle shifts in movement as she scanned the area.
The archives were empty at this hour, the caretakers long gone to their dreams. She had already breached the wards that surrounded the archives and was confident that no alarms had been raised yet. Otherwise, the death guards would have been hot on her heels by now. Ilea's heart raced with anticipation, but she kept her breath steady, focusing on the task at hand.
Her auburn hair fanned out around her shoulders, catching the moonlight in glimmers of fiery red as it framed her pale face. The high collar of her leather tunic drew attention to her sharp jawline and the piercing look in her hazel-tinted eyes, which constantly flickered with a mix of caution and determination. As she surveyed the sprawling structure before her, the moonlight glinted off the ornate stonework, casting eerie shadows that danced along the walls. The intricate carvings told stories of a bygone era—tales of power and betrayal that resonated deeply within her. The very knowledge housed within those walls was coveted, a trove of secrets waiting to be unearthed. Tonight, she was not here for herself; she was on a mission for her master, Osric, tasked with retrieving a specific memory ball hidden within these walls—a ball rumored to hold the memories of an ancient Crydonian king, from the time when Crydonia was still an empire and not a republic. That didn’t mean Ilea wouldn’t mind stealing something for herself if she found it useful. The archives could house something that might aid her escape from her master’s bond.
With deft fingers, she adjusted her belt, ensuring her lockpicks and silencing powder were easily accessible. A small pouch of chaos bombs dangled at her side, their potential for mischief promising an easy escape if things went awry. Beneath her fitted tunic, a vial of haste potion rested. She had three blink potions hidden behind her waist—crucial for emergencies and escape. Her master had warned her not to use them unless absolutely necessary. Each of these was worth several years of her income. Ilea was nothing if not prepared.
The faint rustling of leaves nearby made her tense. Instinctively, her hand drifted to the hilt of a dagger secured at her waist, fingers curling around the familiar grip. She took a moment to listen intently, heart pounding in her ears. A brief silence followed, then she caught a glimpse of a shadow flitting between the trees—just a stray cat, perhaps. Still, in her line of work, it was wise not to take chances.
Ilea shifted her attention back to the entrance of the archives, the heavy wooden door now the only barrier between her and her prize. With one last look at the surrounding area, she reached for her silent whistle, ready to detect any wards that might still lie ahead. After a deep breath, she quietly moved towards the door, every sense heightened, ready for whatever lay beyond. Tonight, she would claim what her master wanted—and then demand her freedom.
The heavy wooden door eased shut behind her, and Ilea stood still, letting the silence settle. The vast expanse of the Royal Archives stretched out before her, shrouded in shadow. The air was cool and still, carrying the faint, musty scent of parchment and centuries-old stone. As her eyes adjusted, she took in the towering shelves crammed with books and scrolls, their faded bindings hinting at a time long past.
Ilea moved forward cautiously, her gaze sweeping over murals that lined the walls, each one depicting scenes of ancient Crydonian history. There were kings and queens, warriors locked in battle, and scenes of fierce magic wielded against invaders. She recognized some of the faces from stories she’d heard as a child-- godrick the grafted, radagon the destroyer, socrates the scholar, the butcher of altmar robert —legends of Crydonian rulers who had forged the empire from dust. Their painted eyes seemed to follow her every step, as though they were watching her intrusion from beyond time.
Her fingers brushed lightly over an aged tapestry, its colors faded but still vibrant enough to convey the epic struggle of Crydonia’s past. Weapons from every era were displayed nearby—ornate swords, halberds, and ceremonial daggers, some encrusted with gemstones dulled by centuries. There were shelves displaying mage staffs and wands, each one a masterpiece. She passed a glass case holding a crown, its gold dimmed with age, surrounded by an aura that hinted at forgotten enchantments. Ilea felt a strange, unsettling reverence for the place; it was like walking through the kingdom’s memories, a relic in itself.
At the far end of the hall, she spotted a staircase descending into the darkened depths of the archives. The memory ball wasn’t likely to be kept on display in these upper chambers—it was too valuable, too dangerous. She knew it would be hidden somewhere secure, protected by layers of wards and traps that only someone with Osric’s training could hope to dismantle.
Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.
Taking a deep breath, she moved down the staircase, her boots echoing softly off the stone steps. The walls around her grew colder, and a subtle hum of magic began to pulse in the air. She paused briefly, her silent whistle pressed to her lips, and felt the faint vibrations confirming the presence of wards woven tightly around the lower level. Ilea proceeded carefully, unraveling each ward as she came upon it, her hands moving with practiced precision.
At the bottom of the stairs, a hallway opened up before her, dimly lit by enchanted lanterns that flickered with a pale, purplish glow giving the whole thing a eerie appearance. This lower level was different, filled not with shelves but with glass cases and stone pedestals holding relics of all shapes and sizes. There were pieces of ancient armor, enchanted amulets, scrolls sealed with dark red wax, and strange artifacts whose purposes had long been forgotten. Each one radiated a faint energy, whispering of the power that had once coursed through them.
Finally, at the end of the hall, she saw it: a small iron door engraved with runes and set with symbols that looked freshly inscribed. This had to be it—the room containing the memory balls. Her pulse quickened as she approached, feeling the layers of magic reinforcing the door. She set to work, carefully dismantling the first layer, which resisted her touch with surprising strength. It was as though the wards themselves recognized her intrusion.
Ilea gritted her teeth, focusing intensely as she moved to the second layer, feeling her mana channels strain under the delicate work. The deeper she went, the stronger the resistance grew, as if the wards had been built to protect something vital.
After several tense minutes, she felt the final ward give way, releasing a rush of cold air. She pushed open the iron door and stepped into a circular chamber. At its center, arranged in a ring, were several memory balls, each glowing faintly with a soft, pulsing light. They sat on stone pedestals, each one labeled with the name of a different ruler. Her eyes scanned each pedestal until she found the one she was searching for—an orb marked with the name of a king from the earliest days of Crydonia’s empire.
Ilea’s fingers tightened around the memory ball, feeling the faint warmth of ancient magic pulse beneath her grip. For a moment, she hesitated, her heart pounding with the weight of what she held. Osric had been clear—retrieve the memory ball and bring it directly to him, no detours, no questions. But curiosity had always been her weakness, and this was an opportunity she couldn't resist.
Reaching into her belt, she withdrew a small, intricately engraved crystal ball, nearly identical to the original. She’d brought it precisely for this purpose—a chance to glimpse the secrets hidden within. A memory ball was precious and fragile; each viewing consumed a bit of its power until it eventually faded. But copying was different, requiring only a delicate transfer of essence, which left the original untouched.
She balanced the two balls in her hands and pulled a fine-tipped stylus from her pouch. Carefully, she tapped each ball, murmuring the faint incantations she’d memorized, watching as a tendril of blue light bridged between the two. The original memory ball glowed faintly as the copy absorbed a portion of its essence, filling with a soft light as the transfer completed. The entire process took barely a minute, but her breath was tense until it was done.
Satisfied, she tucked the original ball into the one-dimensional pocket in her jacket—a tiny enchanted space sewn directly into the fabric, capable of holding a single object, yet entirely undetectable from the outside. The copy she secured against her skin, slipping it into her tunic beneath her leather armor. It would be safe there, hidden, a secret just for her.
As she turned to make her escape, something caught her eye on a nearby pedestal—a small, delicate device that seemed out of place among the ancient artifacts. It was a miniature disk, no larger than her palm, with a series of glyphs around its edge that glinted faintly in the low light. Intrigued, she stepped closer, her fingers hovering above it. The inscriptions on the disk were intricate, bearing the unmistakable mark of ancient magic.
Her pulse quickened as she recognized its purpose—a teleporter. It was an open secret among the population, the earliest rulers had teleporters that allowed them to teleport to their closest blood relatives. Its significance hit her all at once; such an artifact could grant her an escape route that even Osric hadn’t foreseen. She knew that the current royal family traced their line back only so far—this teleporter would bypass them, connecting her instead to the nearest member of the ancient bloodline. Wherever that might lead, it was far from here and far from Osric’s reach. Anything was better to her than staying one moment longer under Osric's thumb. Without hesitation, she slipped the teleporter disk into one of the small pockets in her jacket. If things went badly, this could be her last resort, a way out.
Just as her fingers left the disk, the air around her shifted, and the faint hum she had sensed earlier grew louder. She froze, realizing too late that she’d triggered a hidden ward. The magic pulsed through the room, a dark energy coiling through the walls, alerting the archive’s defenses to her presence. There was no time to dwell on the consequences—she spun on her heel and dashed for the exit, heart hammering as alarms began to echo through the ancient halls.