The last remaining witches were finished off, with those surrendering being killed without hesitation. I’m not sure who’d ever want to have a prisoner who could shoot fire from her fingertips.

That’s one positive of being a witch, no one is mad enough to try to rape them.

Doing a head count, 15 of us are left. Everyone important to me is still alive anyway.

This is the reason I don’t bother to remember half of these idiots names, they’ll be dead at one point or another.

Not me and Torben though. Not us. We’ll get through anything so long as we stick beside each other.

The werewolf dropped dead shortly after the witch died, with Finnian repeatedly stabbing its corpse for good measure.

Of course out of everyone, that mad bastard will survive.

Spotting one of the corpses, I recognise the face. I’ve forgotten the name already, but the face I definitely remember.

Appears he won’t be skinning the gnoll after all.

Though I’d bet he’d have freed himself by now and is already halfway out of the ruins.

Perhaps I’ll be meeting him again in the future.

Ignoring everything going on, I walk around the edges of the room and check out each of the giant constructs.

They make me curious just what used to power them, and exactly what purpose they served. From just looking at them, it would appear they’d be very good at killing stuff.

But what would they be killing with them exactly?

Moving a past one of the bigger golems, I see a door that was blocked from sight by the ancient metal relic.

Rather plain, though slightly smaller than most others in the ruin. But we have come across similar doors in the ruins.

The door opens soundlessly, and isn’t accompanied by a cloud of dust, unlike many of the other doors.

This room must be used often.

The room is by far the most furnished I’ve seen in the ruin.

If some of the decorations weren’t so obviously ancient, I would even say this is the fanciest room I have ever been in. Though the only other examples I’ve seen are the higher ranking officers rooms in the fort.

In one corner of the room is a tidy bed, with fresh sheets and all. Similarly, the rest of the room looked carefully organised, with the thing not properly tucked away being a book.

I walk up to the small desk where the book lies, which is just another typical old book that has no right to still be intact. Yet this one seems in far better condition than any others are. I wonder why this is?

There is no title on the book, nor any writing at all.

I take a seat at the desk, immediately realising how tired I am the second I sit down. How long have we been out here I wonder? If killing the witches broke their control over their army, the fighting should be finishing up now.

I open to the first page, revealing writing neither in the common tongue nor the foreign script found in the ruins.

Not only this, but the ink itself doesn’t match the ancient look of the parchment it is written on.

The language flows from one word into the next with a strange fluency, that somehow makes perfect sense to me. As if I know that is how all language aught to be written.

It is a completely new language, yet I can read it as if it was my own. No, rather it is easier to read.

I rub my eyes for a second, making sure my exhaustion is causing me hallucinations. Since it had no effect on what I see, I’ll just have to trust I’m not going mad.

I think I’ll take the superstitious person’s approach of, ‘If I can’t explain it, it is probably magic’.

The amount of text on the first page is very small, no more than a lines.

I notice the words seem to take up more space writing like this, and there are no gaps in-between words. Which makes it odd to read, yet I don’t get confused by reading in this strange fashion.

The first page reads as so.

So, I guess this is something I’m trying out.

I’ve never really written things like this before, so…

Wow, this is really stupid. What was I even thinking when I came up with this idea!

Idiot.

And so the first page, of what I assume is an attempt at a diary, ends.

I quick turn of a page reveals to me that it continues further, though the writing is similarly short. However, quickly flicking through the book indicates the amount of text increases fairly quickly.

Around half of the pages have writing on, with the latter half of the book being blank. And likely with forever be, considering the state of the owner.

Moving back to the second page, I read through the brief entry.

I’m trying out this again.

I’m thinking of tearing out the first page, it is embarrassing. Never mind, nobody’s is ever reading this anyway whilst I still live! And if you dare read this after I’ve died, then I’ll fucking curse you from beyond the grave.

Since you’ve seen this far, you’re already cursed! The only way to remove it is to immediately burn this book and never speak of its contents to anyone!

I’m being serious!

Damn, and she said the first page was embarrassing!

I wait a moment in mock expectance of this inbound curse, my face frozen in feigned fear. A skill I have perfected since childhood.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Now I’m just hoping her spirit lingers in this place, so I actually have an audience to my humour.

Satisfied with my self with myself, I begin to turn the page only to be hit with a unpleasant feeling in the pit of my stomach.

After it persisting for far too long, I finally belch and release the built up pressure.

Before I continue, I hear someone open the door behind me. With a quick backwards glance showing it to be Torben.

“We have all agreed to sleep here in the ruins, and some of the people are even sleepin’ already. Dropped like a rock at any spot that they pleased.”

I frown at the idea of everyone sleeping around the corpses of the friends.

“Surely they aren’t sleeping out there, amongst their dead.”

He shakes his head and responds.

“No. Well… A couple of people are. But the rest are searching for a cosy room along that giant hallway.

I see you got a bed though.”

I briefly chuckle, returning my gaze to the book in front of me.

“I killed the bitch that owned it, so I say the bed’s mine.

I’m reading though, so I guess you can sleep there for a couple of hours. As soon as I’m done, I’ll be immediately waking you up. It still is my bed after all.”

Torben gives me a warm smile and nods, but as he makes him way over to the bed I gesture for him to come over.

Pointing at the strange text, I ask him.

“What do you make of this, can you read any of it?”

He looms over me, his face scrunched up in thought.

“Just looking like a lot of fancy squiggles to me, can you actually read this stuff? I’m not even sure where one word begins and another ends.”

I ponder this a second, running through a couple of possible explanations in my head.

“No matter, there are a bunch of rags over there” I say pointing to a neat pile of clothing material. “Go wipe the blood of your stuff and yourself while you’re at it. Make sure to pass me some too.”

Both me and my brother spend the next ten minutes wiping the grime off us, but more importantly, our weapons.

Soon enough, Torben is fast asleep on the dead witch's bed, and I’m left to delve into her belonging.

Skimming through her journal entries, I make sure to read the important detail.

However, most of it became recording of that day’s grievances, complaints about the ruins and the food they grow here. Occasionally a spot of magic or two will be mentioned, but not at all in detail. The in fact, she even mentions the rituals preformed by the coven aren’t written down anywhere, in case someone steals it and sells the knowledge to another coven.

With the mention of a grimoire of the witch existing, I skip to the last entry.

A shorter entry once again, but it looks to be written hastily. The handwriting erratic rather than the neat and careful curves that are consistent through the journal.

I have done another divination today. Though far more thorough than the last attempt, in the effort to confirm my last reading.

Even though I wish it to be false, I saw my death again. At the hands of a dark entity.

The shadows were drawn to it, making me unable to see it’s body.

And then it killed me, looking deep into my eyes as my vision fades.

The Taldarians will be dealt with by these new gnoll slaves.

Once they are gone, I can concentrate fully on finding the identity of this demon and how to avoid my fate.

I can’t write here anymore until that is done. I can feel the creature reading my words as I write them, perhaps it is even in here now.

Well, it appears I ended up beating the demon to it. Unless it actually refers to me, in which case she should use something more reliable.

If it did refer to me, the knowledge that I am just a man could have saved her life.

Also, I have learned from the witch was called Sitara. Not that it really matters anymore.

I close the book, and look around the room from my chair.

I can’t see the grimoire anywhere, so I’m guessing it is hidden somewhere.

Time to play hide and seek with an inanimate object.

I first look under the bed. Though nothing is there, not a thing.

After looking in a chest, I find an interesting leather glove. Upon touching it, I can feel the faint trace of mana.

For now, I’ll leave it in the chest.

After a few more minutes of rummaging, I am left with the final possible hiding place.

A set of wooden draws.

I pull open the top draw, revealing clothing. I briefly dig through the neatly folded clothes, almost feeling the wrath of the dead witch as I mess up her tidy room.

Moving onto the middle draw. Which is once again filled with clothes, yet no grimoire.

Now on the final draw and my last hope, I open it and reveal… her underwear.

With no option, I begin to rifle through the draw like a common pervert. My hands come across two separate hard objects, I take the one that is book shaped and pretend the other never existed.

Moving back to the desk, I sit back down.

Examining the black covered book.

The red witch’s grimoire.