Nord's hand hovered inches away from the doorknob, her fingertips feeling the pulsating chill emanating from Room 32. It was as if she stood at the precipice of an abyss, one where life wavered in a shivering dance with death. The room smelled like pine—distant, almost nostalgic—a scent she couldn't dismiss as imaginary, although no one else had ever mentioned it. Where did the smell come from?
Just as she hesitated, the distant clinking of glass filled the heavy air, incongruent in this sombre setting, and fractured the silence.
Caught off guard, Nord pushed the door open just a sliver, her eyes scanning the room. She saw Baal—his back to her—shuffling jars of various sizes and shapes onto shelves, windowsills, and tabletops. His face, usually a kaleidoscope of expression, was etched into a stern, unreadable mask.
"Can I come in?" Her voice feathered through the sliver of the open door, soft as the drop of a petal on a still pond.
Baal looked up, and for a moment, his face relaxed. The corners of his lips twitched into something resembling a smile. "Of course, Morningstar. Always."
As Nord stepped over the threshold, the atmosphere shifted subtly, as if she'd crossed from mere reality into something thick with an enigma. "What's all this? A home décor project?" Nord tried to jest.
"Preparing a spell," Baal said, picking up a jar and gently caressing its lid with his fingertips. He paused, his fingers grazing a glass jar, caught in a brief caesura of thought. "Adamastor wants to be in the opening. I'm buying him time, just a couple of days. That's all I can do. I'm not that powerful to trick death."
A note of frustration twisted in his voice—a nuance so rare for him that it twisted her guts with concern.
"How?" Nord shifted her gaze toward Adamastor, who lay almost serenely on the bed, a statue carved from marble. "How do you plan to do that?" Her eyes settled on Adamastor, who lay on the bed, eerily still, like a chiselled statue made of marble.
"We made a trade. His happy memories, for a little more sand in his hourglass. Oh, and he has information about the Hollow. Fair enough, right?"
His movements resumed, a dance of precision as he arranged the jars in a pattern that only he understood.
Nord looked back at the unmoving form of Adamastor. "Is he—"
"Asleep? Hardly," Baal interrupted. "Even spawn vampires have limits to the pain they can endure."
Her eyes flicked back to Baal. "And the Hollow? What did Adamastor say?"
"We aren't the only players in this game. You've got enemies, Morningstar—Marcella and her creator, Restelo. Two vampires. Old ones."
"Enemies?" Her brows scrunched, the word slipping from her lips as though it were an unfamiliar language. "Why?"
"They're after the Hollow, and it seems whatever is inside of you is a key of some sort. Don't ask me what it unlocks—Adamastor was short on details."
Baal set the final jar on the table with a soft clink and met Nord's eyes squarely, fiery defiance glittering within his own. "So the stakes have been raised. How do you destroy a key, Morningstar?"
"We do what it's supposed to do—we destroy it as the original plan," Nord suggested, her voice tinged with uncertainty.
Baal shook his head. "Try again, Morningstar."
She paused, her eyes narrowing as if sifting through an unseen puzzle. "We break what it opens."
A glint of satisfaction flashed across Baal's face. "Exactly. If the lock is broken, the key is worthless. Just another piece of detritus cluttering the world."
He moved back to survey the jars, an odd landscape of glass and possibility. "You know, something tells me the secret to all this madness resides in Onxyburg."
Nord felt a chill as if the name itself was a prophecy. "Onxyburg? What's there?"
"I don't know yet," Baal replied, his eyes catching hers, "I'm about to begin. You can stay if you'd like."
Nord smiled, a serene glow amidst the shrouding uncertainty. "I would like that very much."
As Baal moved to stand behind her, Nord felt a peculiar blend of tension and serenity weave itself into the air around them. "Try not to move," Baal whispered, his voice a warm cadence tingling her ear. She sensed the unspoken gravity of the moment, the way time itself seemed to stall in anticipation.
Baal extended his arms to either side of her, levelling them with her shoulders. His voice swelled, the timbre rich and resonant, echoing as if invoking the spirits themselves. "From wish and trade, from word to accord, I will perpetuate your memory through all Atua; therefore your will, therefore your praise, therefore you, forever and ever shall your light become mine, so it is decreed, for my words are carved into my being—Baal Berith!"
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As he enunciated his name, a swell of warmth unfurled around her as if the air had thickened into a comforting embrace. It was a sensation both alien and profoundly comforting—a fusion of earthy dampness and the invigorating zest of mint. For a fleeting moment, she couldn't fathom how anything could harm her; she felt cradled in the hands of eternity.
Awe filled her as droplets of luminescence began to seep from Adamastor's eyes, tiny motes of light drifting like celestial fireflies. One by one, they swirled into the open jars, illuminating the room in a hypnotic dance that cast oscillating patterns of light against the sombre walls.
Baal's whisper returned, imbued with a reverent devotion like a mantra whispered into the embrace of the divine. "From wish and trade, from word to accord, I will perpetuate your memory through all Atua; therefore your will, therefore your praise, therefore you, forever and ever shall your light become mine, so it is decreed, for my words are carved into my being—Baal Berith!"
The light from the jars began to move, converging into a stream of radiance that darted toward Baal. Startled, Nord felt one of Baal's arms tighten against her chest, anchoring her to him. His recitation never faltered, each word a resonant vibration in the air that seemed to absorb the very light he'd summoned.
Unable to resist, she turned to look at him. His face was awash in an otherworldly glow, an aura of liquid gold tinged with hues of orange that gave the impression of twin suns burning in his eyes. Her gaze then fell to his lips, articulating each whispered word with a rhythmic grace that felt hypnotically poetic. The world fell away; only the echo of his prayer and the luminescent theatre around them remained.
Gradually, she noticed his words fade into silence. Yet, his eyes remained locked onto hers—a radiant exchange of unspoken understanding, a momentary glimpse into an eternal connection.
With a gentle, measured motion, his other arm moved to envelop her, completing a circle of protection of shared secrets and intimacy more powerful than either had ever known. In that singular moment, they stood as if suspended in their own pocket of eternity—spellbound.
The scent of pine pervaded the air, subtle but unmistakable, like the earthy whisper of a forest after rain. Nord recognized it as the olfactory signature of a completed spell. It was the ephemeral scent of resolution, of something bound and sealed. Nord Morningstar had engaged in an agreement. That much was clear. Yet, the exact terms hung in the air like an unsolved riddle, tantalizing and elusive.
Not yet. Don't tell him yet!
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Nord felt the warmth of the bed enfold her, a cocoon against the reality that awaited beyond her bedroom door. She should be excited—today was the day that the Morningstar would officially open its doors to the world. But ever since the spell, ever since the scent of pine and the nearness of Baal, her mind had been a labyrinth of thoughts she had no wish to explore.
She threw a longing glance to the closet that kept her phone secret, debating whether to delve into the mysteries that had ensnared her or to concentrate on the endless list of tasks that awaited her attention. "Feed the Hollow. Prepare for the opening. Focus on Onxyburg," she mentally recited, trying to anchor her thoughts.
But amid the litany, her mind kept straying, replaying the whispered incantations, the movement of Baal's lips, their silent communication in a room suffused with pure Atua magic. She shook her head as if physically dispelling the distractions.
"What's wrong with me?" she muttered, almost angrily.
Just then, three sharp knocks reverberated against her door. She heard the soft scrape of metal against the floor, followed by footsteps fading away. Intrigued, she reluctantly extricated herself from her comfortable sanctuary and opened the door. A tray sat there, an offering of warm toast, fresh orange juice, and—a red rose. A vivid, almost impossibly red rose.
A myriad of questions buzzed in her mind. Did Baal leave this for her? Would he even do something so... sentimental? So human? Her cheeks suddenly felt hot, a flush of crimson colouring her face and creeping down to her neck.
She lifted the tray, bringing it inside and setting it down on a table. The aroma of the toast mingled in the air with the fragrance of the rose, but her senses seemed to be searching for something else—the elusive scent of pine. Whether it was a phantom of her imagination or a trace of some enchantment lingering on her skin, she didn't know. But it seemed to draw her back to that room, to that moment, to him.
"Focus, Nord," she chided herself. But as she picked up the rose, examining its velvety petals, she realized that some things, some feelings, were perhaps not meant to be tamed or understood but merely felt. It was both terrifying and exhilarating.
"No, no, no! Get your shit together!"
With a deep sigh, she sat down and began to eat her breakfast, pondering how to navigate the labyrinthine day ahead. There was still the Morningstar to open, a Hollow to feed, and secrets to unlock in Onxyburg. And nothing else!
As she took a sip of the orange juice, her eyes fell on the vivid red rose again, and she couldn't help but smile. Today was indeed a big day. And for the first time in what felt like forever, Nord Morningstar was intrigued by the uncertainty of it all.
"Is it me, or is Adamastor adding more and more salt into the juice?"
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The salon of the Morningstar had been transformed into an indoor Eden, a sanctuary awash in the hues of lavender and roses. The tables were laden with platters of gourmet offerings, their sumptuousness in stark contrast to the barren chairs surrounding them.
Elegant glasses sat atop gleaming counters, their hollow emptiness waiting for the kiss of fine wine or aged liquor. And yet, despite the opulence, an eerie silence dominated the room, waiting to welcome yet unbroken by footsteps or applause. It was a masterpiece of elegance and invitation but one that had yet to fulfil its purpose.
An awkward silence enveloped the room, a stillness that betrayed the expectancy that had preceded it.
Baal stood near the stage, his violin in hand. He adjusted the tuning pegs with a studious frown. Each twist was a wordless admission that the evening was not going as planned.
Nearby, Merlin, Finnea, Kirara, and Bram sat around a table with a deck of cards scattered in front of them. They pretended to be engrossed in the game, but their eyes kept darting to the empty entrance, each glance a silent plea for guests to arrive.
Behind the counter, Perdita stood as if she were a soldier at attention. Her posture was impeccable, a carefully maintained facade that screamed professionalism. But her eyes betrayed her, flicking nervously toward the clock on the wall, each tick-tock amplifying the humiliation of the evening.
At the bottom of the staircase, Nord sat, her black gown pooling around her like a dark aura. Her eyes were fixed on the vacant salon, her mind toggling between confusion and regret. She had invested so much into this—emotionally, financially, everything. Yet here she was, grappling with the looming prospect of failure.
"It's a fiasco," she whispered to herself, the words feeling like shards of glass in her mouth.