We had walked for what felt like an eternity to reach the trade district. It was understandable why the Zhentarim had only managed to clear four of the seven districts. Abyssmourn Deep was a labyrinth of streets, vast and expansive. As we stepped into the market square, the sight that greeted us was one of timeless decay—the architecture featured an array of buildings crafted from rough, dark stone, now succumbing to the ravages of time. Arched doorways and fractured windows emerged from the encroaching shadows, some clinging to the remnants of ancient wooden shutters.
The market stalls around us, once teeming with the vibrant bustle of trade, lay smothered in dust and draped in webs, the abandoned counters a silent testimony to the exotic wares they once proudly displayed. Tattered canopies, faded from their former glory, stirred faintly with the drafts that haunted the cavernous expanse. Overturned baskets and remnants of merchandise were scattered across the cracked, mossy stone floor, forgotten relics of commerce.
Dominating the marketplace was a vast, circular structure, its several tiers telling tales of a once-thriving hub of trade and communal vibrancy, now fallen silent. Each tier was decked with derelict wooden shelves and counters, the remnants of merchants long vanished. The intricate carvings on beams and pillars were nearly obscured by grime and encroaching vegetation, as nature slowly reclaimed this man-made wonder. The sparse sounds that broke the quiet were the occasional drip of water and the soft rustle of unseen creatures, the only signs of life in the desolate expanse of the abandoned market.
As a faint purple glow beckoned from the distance, marking the location of the Amethyst Enclave just west of where we stood, we marched toward it, a sense of purpose driving our steps. Yet, with every stride, irritation gnawed at me. Who truly desires the life of an adventurer? I'd much prefer to be savoring a glass of wine rather than trudging endlessly through this abandoned city, haunted by unknown creatures and, even worse, the prospect of—ugh—heroics. The mere thought drew a sneer from me. Heroes—what had they ever done for me? Nothing. When I was ensnared in the torturous grip of Cazador, no heroes came. As I was compelled to lure innocent, beautiful souls to that vile bastard, where were they? My glare intensified; I knew exactly where they were.
Hunting me. In their eyes, despite the cruelties I endured, the torture inflicted upon me, I was the monster. The only escape they offered was a painful death. They failed to see the victim behind the villain's facade, blind to the suffering that shaped my actions. Such is the curse gifted from heroes to those like me branded as a villain: misunderstood and condemned, with heroics often nothing more than a cruel joke played at my expense.
The weight of despair, darkness, and brutality crushed me. Bitterness burrowed deep within my soul. On the night I was beaten nearly to death, no hero came to my rescue. Instead, a villain—vicious and cruel—ensnared me, marking the next two centuries of my torment. I spent the whole of my life weeping, praying, and pleading for a savior, only to be met with the bitter agony of silence. I mocked the notion of calling it 'life'; it was merely an existence shrouded in pain and engulfed by darkness. Torment became my constant companion, death, my coveted escape. As resentment surged within me like a raging inferno, my blood boiled with fury.
The anger within me ebbed as suddenly as it had surged, replaced by an unexpected calm. Lyra had moved closer, her arm lightly brushing against mine as we walked toward the Amethyst Enclave. Her proximity seemed to anchor me in the present, pulling me away from the shadows of my past. It was as though she intuitively understood my turmoil and sought to reassure me with her presence. Confusion swirled within this newfound calm; her comforting presence was both unfamiliar and unasked for. Gratitude stirred within me, a sensation alien and unsettling. I quickly suppressed it; she was merely a means to an end, nothing more. Once Cazador was defeated, I would have no need for her—or so I told myself. But was that truly all there was to it?
Karlach let out a soft whistle as we stood before the grand gates, weathered with age, leading into the Amethyst Enclave. Hidden from the common eye, this secluded quarter once housed the underground nobility, celebrated for its awe-inspiring style where raw amethysts were embedded into walls and structures, casting a serene purple luminescence across the cavernous space.
Before us lay a labyrinth of ornate buildings hewn directly from the bedrock, their facades boasting gothic arches and soaring spires that reached for the cavern's ceiling. These majestic edifices were linked by a network of slender bridges and spiraling staircases that wove through the district in a fascinating dance of architectural mastery. The buildings shimmered with embedded amethyst crystals, bathing the enclave in a gentle, radiant light.
As we passed through the gates, we were greeted by scenes of decay—corridors and grand halls whispered of a forgotten era, their once-polished stones now muted and cloaked in moss and lichen. The air hung heavy with the scent of decay, permeating every corner. Through the windows, I could see cobwebs veiling once-lavish furnishings and tapestries, their colors faded, and threads frayed.
The district lay in silence, broken only by the occasional drip of water echoing down the halls, setting a somber rhythm that melded with the faint amethyst glow. As I surveyed this once-vibrant noble quarter now surrendered to time, I pondered the creatures that might now dwell here and the secrets they kept hidden.
“It’s… hauntingly beautiful,” Lyra murmured, pausing to take in the spectral beauty of the ruins before us.
"Yes, I suppose it is," Gale paused, his gaze fixed on a ghastly scene. "Except for the... remains?" He stood beside what seemed to be one of the missing scouts, or rather, the remnants of him. The creature that had claimed his life had been brutal and unforgiving. The scout had been transformed into a macabre marionette, his limbs strewn about haphazardly, as if a grotesque artist had whimsically rearranged a human figure into an unsettling tableau.
"This man was no meal; whatever savaged him did so for pleasure." Lyra cringed, trying to shake away the thought.
"I've never seen such cruelty," Halsin remarked, surveying the scene. "Whatever we're up against, it won't be pleasant."
"Hmm," Lyra mused aloud. "If only there was a way to talk to the man and learn what creature did this to him." She turned to me with a speculative glance.
"Oh sure, I’ll just jump right on that, shall I?" I replied sarcastically, rolling my eyes. "If only he weren't dead…" The words escaped my mouth before I remembered—I could speak with the dead, thanks to Xykrath's first necromantic gift. Lyra looked at me, her head cocked, her expression one of bemused incredulity. "Right, as if you've never forgotten a gift you received, darling," I retorted, attempting to deflect my embarrassment. Lyra simply raised an eyebrow and shook her head, barely hiding a chuckle.
I stepped forward, raising my hand, and as I uttered, "Mortis Imperium Oratio!" my hand swirled around, weaving the spell that clasped the soul of the man before us. His body rose, levitating to meet my gaze. Our eyes ignited with a ghostly green flame, mirroring each other, sealing the bond between us.
"Choose your questions wisely, Astarion. We only have five before the spell fades, and he can never be asked again," Gale cautioned me.
"Got any other brilliant tips?" I glared at him, only to realize too late what I had just done.
"Should've listened to my mother... adventuring is overrated... should've taken up knitting instead... yarn is far less likely to try and eat you," the scout muttered in response.
"Gods damn it," I sighed, resisting the urge to wipe that smug grin off Gale's face. "Sound advice, I'll keep that in mind. What killed you?" I asked the scout.
"Don't know," the scout responded dully.
"Fantastic," I muttered with a glare.
"Maybe be a bit more specific?" Lyra chimed in, nodding like she was coaching a toddler.
"What can you tell me about how you ended up here?" I asked the scout.
"I was searching for The Amethyst Athenaeum," the scout began, his voice ethereal yet tinged with lingering terror. "Heard voices tempting me toward another treasure... then a howl that chilled my soul... Dropped my sword, Starstrike, in panic... Made a desperate dash for the gate... Pain and fear tore through me... then nothing but darkness."
"Did you find the library?" I asked.
"No," the scout replied.
"Of course not, that would have been too convenient," I huffed. In my irritation, I began, "Is there anything useful you can..." but stopped as the implications of his answer sank in. Hurriedly, I added, "about this different treasure?"
"If the book is dusty… and the cover bears words like 'Doom' or 'Death' in any language…—or even just a skull—…don't read it aloud. Silence is golden…, less likely to awaken ancient evils," he advised. As he finished, the green flames illuminating his form flickered and died, and the scout's presence receded back to the floor.
Karlach chuckled, "I was right all along—it's always wise to steer clear of opening a creepy book, ahh… ahh...am I right." I pinched the bridge of my nose, feeling the day's frustrations culminate into a throbbing headache.
“Gods below, it'll take hours to trace where this fool started his ill-fated marathon of death” I groaned in exasperation.
“Not necessarily,” Gale mused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “He mentioned dropping his sword, right? If I had a divination rod, I could cast Locate Object, and it would lead us straight to where he was.”
“Do you have a divination rod?” I asked, arching an eyebrow at him.
“Ahh… no,” he responded sheepishly, scratching his head. Before I could even begin to unleash my frustration, he quickly added, “BUT! There’s an Arcanist’s shop in the market square, just a stone’s throw away. Despite the decay, they might still have a rod lying around—they’re very common, you know?” Gale offered an optimistic grin.
“Take Karlach and Shadowheart with you, and make it quick,” Lyra instructed, nodding at Gale. “The rest of us will stay here by the gate. I haven’t seen any signs that the creature leaves the enclave—it must be guarding something it doesn’t want to stray too far from.” With a mix of hope and resignation, Gale, Karlach, and Shadowheart dashed off towards the market district.
Halsin and the Gith positioned themselves strategically to keep watch for any threats, while Lyra and I stood ready by the gate, prepared to assist them as necessary. Standing there, the anger I had managed to suppress earlier began to resurface, creeping back into the forefront of my mind. Compounding this, the book, sensing that I was even closer now, buzzed incessantly with an eager chatter that only fueled my irritation. A bitter urge surged within me—I wanted to shout at the book, to tear out its pages when we found it, one by one as an outlet for my mounting frustration.
Lyra's eyes swept over my face, reading me with an unsettling precision. I always bristled when she did that—not out of vanity, though my face isn't lacking, but because she seemed to peer straight through to my core. She could discern parts of my soul that I preferred to keep to myself. Yet, despite her uncanny ability to read me, Lyra was meticulous about respecting my boundaries. She never pressed for more than I was willing to reveal. It was almost as if she didn’t have to; she understood my innermost thoughts without me having to say a word, and I begrudgingly appreciated that she cared enough to maintain that silent understanding between us. In that moment, however, I found myself wanting to keep these feelings to myself, desiring nothing more than for her to leave me alone with my anger. I longed to hold onto some secrets, away from her insightful watch.
Lyra's gaze lingered on mine a moment too long, probing deeper than I wanted. I met her look with an icy stare, barricading myself behind a facade of detachment. Her expression shifted from contemplation to something akin to hurt before she turned away, focusing on the road ahead. Gods damn it, I cursed inwardly. Lyra hadn’t done anything to deserve such a contemptuous look. She hadn’t spoken a word, yet I glared at her as if she were the source of my turmoil. What a fool I’d been, silently lashing out at someone who had only been trying to help me today. I couldn’t afford to jeopardize all the effort I'd put into cultivating her as a formidable ally.
I sighed and walked over to Lyra, positioning myself directly in front of her. I eased my expression as our eyes met. She studied my face once more, assessing the softening of my features, yet she remained silent, cautious. I reached up gently and brushed away the stray curl that perpetually shadowed her forehead. As she maintained her gaze on me, a hint of amusement flickered across her face before she broke the silence.
"Was that our first quarrel?" she asked, a playful note in her voice. Her humor caught me off guard, and I couldn't help but release a hearty laugh.
"My dear, only you could manage a silent quarrel," I replied, still chuckling lightly at her ability to diffuse the tension with a touch of levity. "It's just..." I hesitated, the words catching slightly. "There are some things I'm not ready to discuss." I hurried to add, "But you do honor my boundaries, and for that, I am grateful."
Lyra studied my expression, absorbing the weight of my words. A soft smile graced her lips as she extended her hand toward my face. With a tenderness I recognized, she traced her fingers gently down my cheek to my chin, a gesture I had often shared with her. Holding my gaze with deep understanding, she cradled my face. “Gods above, we all have the right to choose what we share and with whom we share ourselves,” she whispered. With a final look of caring, Lyra released my face and stepped back, giving me the space I needed.
A tumultuous wave of emotions crashed through me. Terror gripped my heart at the thought of choosing freely a liberty so alien and daunting. Anger and pain from centuries of torment surged, mingling with the fear of the feelings Lyra was awakening within me. Desperately, I battled to suppress these emotions, to shove them back into the darkest recesses of my soul where they had long been confined. Drawing a deep, steadying breath, I sought to center myself amidst the storm. I needed to focus on the tasks at hand; my emotions could not be allowed to overwhelm me now. Where the Hells was Gale, I growled to myself.
Gale seemed to materialize out of nowhere, with the others just a few blocks down the street. His grin, broad and unmistakably triumphant, irked me—despite it signaling his success, which theoretically should bring me joy too. As Halsin and the Gith rejoined us, Gale's pride was palpable as he brandished the divining rod, its forked wooden prongs held aloft like a trophy.
“Oh, don’t look so pleased with yourself.” I muttered, rolling my eyes in annoyance.
"Not even you will dampen my spirits today, Astarion," Gale chuckled before continuing, "I've not only found the materials we need but also stumbled upon a scroll detailing the very weapon we seek." He stood beaming at me, an almost playful taunt in his eyes as if he were on the verge of sticking his tongue out.
"Where did you find the scroll?" Lyra asked, her curiosity piqued.
"Well, the real credit should go to Karlach," Gale responded, nodding towards her with a grin. Karlach's own smile was just as wide, her excitement barely contained.
"You see, I got bored waiting for Gale to locate that magic stick thingy," Karlach began.
"Divining Rod," Gale interjected.
"Right, so I started exploring and might have... sort of crashed through a wall into the shop next door." Despite her attempt to maintain her usual composure, I could almost see a blush creeping across Karlach's fiery red skin.
"Do go on," I urged, keen on the details. "And how, pray tell, did you end up crashing through the wall?"
"That's not really important..." Karlach quickly skipped over the how, focusing instead on her discovery. "The store next door was a small weapons museum! Looks like the Zhentarim had cleared out the weapons, which is probably how our half-eaten friend there got his hands on Starstrike, but the scroll detailing the weapons was still there."
Gale unfurled the scroll as we all gathered around to read about the weapon.
The Starstrike short sword, cradled within its display case, is a masterpiece of lethal beauty and precision. The blade, forged from lustrous silver, captures the light and radiates an ethereal glow reminiscent of a star's brilliance. Along its length, intricate patterns crafted from celestial stardust are etched with sublime skill, featuring a harmonious blend of Elven runes and constellations. These engravings lend the weapon a mystical and menacing allure.
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The crossguard is both broad and ornate, sculpted from dark obsidian. Its design is rich with elaborate carvings that reflect the stellar motifs of the blade, combining swirling lines with sharp angles. This intricate detail serves not only as decoration but also enhances the wielder's protection.
Wrapped in supple black leather, the hilt ensures a firm grip, while the pommel is adorned with an understated yet elegant gold filigree, providing a striking contrast to the dark hilt.
Commissioned by King Iankian Ashspell, Starstrike transcends its role as a mere weapon of war, embodying both beauty and lethality. Its luminous appearance sets it apart from ordinary blades, heralding it as a legendary weapon in any era.
In the hands of its kingly wielder, Starstrike becomes a potent extension of his will, its silver glow is a beacon of hope and a testament to unwavering power. The elaborate engravings upon the blade recount ancient victories and the lineage of the king, forever binding him to the epic saga of his people. As a symbol of both power and artistry, it enhances his regal authority, cementing his status as both a master tactician and a guardian of his culture’s rich heritage.
"With this scroll," Gale remarked, his smile broadening subtly, "locating the weapon should be straightforward."
Lyra responded with a smile, "Well done, both of you. Finding the sword might lead us to the creature's lair, and perhaps that so-called dusty book it's guarding could prove useful." I scrutinized our companions for any reluctance about pursuing the book—our primary mission was to slay the beast and discover the great library, the Amethyst Athenaeum.
Gale paused, pondering, before adding, "In my view, knowledge is the greatest treasure. Once its guardian is defeated, what harm could there be in seeking out the tome?"
"Agree to disagree, but shall we proceed?" I suggested, nodding towards the divining rod.
"Right, yes, Astarion," Gale sighed. He clasped the divining rod firmly in his right hand, its forked tines pointing skyward as he extended it before him. Gale's voice deepened, resonating with magical power, as he intoned the incantation in a rhythmic chant, "Arma locate, divinus potential!" His eyes ignited with bright purple light, flickering like ethereal flames.
With deliberate movements, Gale traced his left hand around the divining rod. As he did, runes appeared, searing into the wood—bright blue and white lines intricately forming each rune before shifting to the next. When the rod was fully inscribed with these glowing symbols, Gale's voice sank even deeper, imbuing the final words with potent force: "Locate stella percuntiens!"
As the last syllable echoed, the runes on the divining rod flared into brilliant orange. They pulsed with radiant light as Gale positioned his left hand on one of the tines and his right hand on the other, channeling the spell's full might. The divining rod, as if possessed by a will of its own, abruptly spun Gale to the left, its tip eagerly pointing up the road toward the Amethyst Enclave. Gale wrestled with the rod, struggling to maintain control as it strained forward, eager to advance toward the sword it sensed.
"We need to move quickly," Gale muttered, barely keeping the rod from dragging him down the street. "Once the last rune disappears, the spell will expire, and we'll be left to navigate without its guidance." Lyra nodded, signaling urgency with a swift gesture. Gale, spurred on by the rod, moved forward as it pulled insistently in the direction of the elusive sword.
The rod yanked Gale relentlessly through the city, zigzagging him down alleys and side streets in its frantic quest to locate Starstrike. In its rush, it dragged him not just along the public thoroughfares but through the unlikely shortcuts of empty houses. My amusement grew with each of Gale’s unintended detours and collisions with walls, furniture and anything else unfortunate enough to block the rods ambition. I almost lost all semblance of composure watching Gale mutter curses after being yanked through a leaking pipe spewing an unidentifiable sludge, only to subsequently barrel through a kitchen door, scattering bags of rotten flour and disturbing what were undoubtedly the largest cobwebs I’d ever seen.
When we finally reemerged onto the streets, Gale was a sight: coated in grime, his usually neat hair in wild disarray, his robes far from their usual pristine condition and now smelling of unspeakable things. After one last, undignified tug, the rod lunged forward, its tip touching something ominously dark on the ground as the last rune flickered out. Releasing the rod, Gale surveyed his bedraggled appearance.
“Mystra’s will,” he uttered, sounding almost mournful, as if utterly vanquished by the little rod, now just a useless stick lying in the dirt. Gale vigorously shook his hands, hoping to fling off the grime that clung to his skin. With a resigned sigh, he raised his hands, weaving them through the air in a fluid dance. He chanted, “Lava lutum!” Small bubbles materialized, swirling around his face and shoulders as the prestidigitation spell took effect, lifting away the dirt from his skin. Despite the spell's limited range, Gale gave a shrug, a hint of resignation in his tone. “It’s better than nothing, I suppose,” he murmured, resigned to his still foul-smelling situation.
Before Gale could advance another step, a torrent of pristine water crashed down upon him, soaking him to the bone and purging the remnants of bile from his robes. Water streamed from his sopping hair, tracing rivulets down his face and dripping from his chin. After a moment of stunned silence, Gale sputtered out a mouthful of water, resembling a whimsical fountain centerpiece. Blinking away the shock, he nodded, accepting his soggy fate. Our party whirled around to face Shadowheart.
“What?” she shrugged nonchalantly. “Now we don’t have to smell him either. You’re welcome, by the way,” she added with a self-assured nod.
“Thanks, are in order, I suppose,” Gale responded, his appearance reminiscent of a drowned rodent, as he eyed Shadowheart. I couldn't help but chuckle when his gratitude fell noticeably short.
“If he refuses to say it, I will,” I declared, trying to contain my laughter. “Thank you, most effective use of a Create Water spell, I think.”
Lyra, barely suppressing her laughter, touched my arm and nodded toward the ground near Gale’s feet. “Is that the sword?” she asked, shifting the focus. I, still chuckling, stepped forward and lifted the weapon by its hilt. Holding the blade before me, I scrutinized it from hilt to tip. Indeed, it was Starstrike—a weapon of captivating charm. The blade, polished to a mirror finish, gleamed a striking silver, its edge kissed by a delicate white glow that seemed to dance along its razor-sharp boundary. Intricate runes, deeply embossed into the metal, sparkled with a vibrant blue light, flickering like stars strewn across the depths of a nocturnal sky. The obsidian hilt, too, was remarkable, radiating a celestial grace that matched the blade’s elegance.
“Beautiful.” Lyra murmured.
“Quite, Darling…the sword is not hard on the eyes either.” I grinned. Lyra almost snorted at me, before rolling her eyes.
“What is this place?” Halsin’s voice cut through the air with a sound of wonder. We were in front of what appeared to be a rather opulent manor, even in decay. A few feet from us stood a ruined gate, abandoned by time, the sign rusting above it read Evershade Manor. Behind the gate lay the subterranean marvel, once a vibrant testament to architectural prowess, now forgotten relic, its grandeur withered by time and neglect.
A labyrinth of descending stone staircases made their way to the main facade, mirroring the intricate design of an aboveground manor but cloaked in perpetual shadows. The exterior, a blend of sharp gables and ornate stonework, is shrouded in thick moss and luminescent fungi, which emit a ghostly glow, casting eerie light onto the surrounding stone.
Each window, once resplendent with stained glass depicting scenes of mythical splendor, now stands barren, the glass long shattered, leaving jagged remnants that glitter menacingly in the dim light. The grand balconies and ornamental railings are coated with a patina of mildew and grime, reflecting none of their former glory.
As I approached the gate, a sharp snap echoed underfoot. Glancing down, I discovered I had stepped on what appeared to be a bone. My eyes trailed the stone pathway ahead, which was strewn with bones, their ages ranging from ancient relics to chillingly fresh remains. Where once flourishing beds of nocturnal flowers and raw, glowing amethysts had thrived, now lay a grim landscape—a macabre garden of skeletal remains, testament to the ghastly creature that claimed this abandoned manor as its lair. Rows of these silent victims replaced the vibrant life that once decorated the manor's grounds, painting a stark and haunting picture of its malevolent transformation.
A chorus of ethereal voices filled the air, their excited pleas and cries emanating from the book as it sensed my proximity. Like a siren's song, its hauntingly beautiful calls beckoned me forward, each cry woven with sweet promises and joyous anticipation. Despite the allure, I shook my head to clear the enchantment and continued down the path, my companions trailing behind me toward the main entrance. I diverted my attention to our surroundings, resisting the book's captivating cries. In this realm of shadows, vigilance was crucial; this was not the moment to be ensnared by the lurking creature.
I halted abruptly, causing Lyra to nearly collide with me. "Ooof... Astarion? What is it?" she inquired, pressing her hands against my back to steady herself.
"The bones..." I trailed off, turning to survey the path we had just traversed, "They are all running away from the manor." As Lyra and the others followed my gaze, I felt Lyra's hand slide from my back to my waist, her grip tightening slightly. Her hand trembled against me, a silent testament to her rising fear.
"Do you think the creature responsible for those terrifying baying sounds last night... could be here?" Her voice quivered, heavy with the fear that had overwhelmed us the previous night. Her question hung in the air, thick with the dread of what might lurk within the shadowy confines of the manor.
"Of course it will be," I muttered with a frown. After all, what did I expect? That fortune would favor me. Never in five millennia would the fates align in my favor. "Best be cautious, and quiet. We need to catch a glimpse of what we're up against," I cautioned the others. Lyra gave my side a slight squeeze before withdrawing her hand. I met her eyes with a gaze meant to reassure, but we both understood the hollowness behind it. Whatever creature lurked in the shadows, waiting with bated breath for our misstep, was the very embodiment of madness and death. Its presence was an ominous shroud over the manor, a specter of doom that haunted every corner.
I began to move cautiously again towards the entrance. Approaching the front doors, I carefully pushed open one side, peering into the entrance to the manor. Before me was a grand hall, a magnificent chamber with a vaulted ceiling, from which hung massive chandeliers studded with amethysts. The chandeliers were now still, their crystals clouded with age, casting distorted shadows on the ground below. The hall’s long dining table, carved from the same amethyst-studded rock, stood empty, surrounded by high-backed chairs that hinted at the grandeur of past gatherings.
An imposing staircase, which spiraled upwards to nowhere, bared the weight of neglect, its once-polished wood now splintered and decayed. Statues and busts line the corridors, their faces obscured by the shadows and the passage of time, creating an almost spectral presence.
We ventured down a hallway to the right of the staircase, and soon, we entered what used to be a magnificent ballroom. Once a symbol of elegance, the room was adorned with intricate ceilings and golden chandeliers, now overshadowed by a somber atmosphere. The ballroom, once alive with opulence and jubilation, now stood silent, its grandeur replaced by shadows and debris. A thick layer of dust blanketed the floor, and remnants of once-magnificent tapestries clung desperately to the walls, their vibrant colors faded, and threads frayed, whispering tales of forgotten splendor. Judging by the amount of dust on the floor, this room had been untouched for quite some time. I turned back through the doors and ventured further down the hallway.
As we neared the end of the hall a small set of stairs led up to what appeared to be a small room. I paused for a moment, my breath catching, before us was a door unlike any other, a relic from another time, another world. It loomed tall, towering above us, its arched frame elegantly curving towards a pointed apex. The dark, polished surface of the door seemed almost to absorb the weak light surrounding us, its deep midnight blue hue bordering on black. Yet it is not the darkness that captivated me—the intricate golden patterns that dance across the door's surface, shimmering faintly as if they were alive, beckoning to me.
As I stepped closer, unable to resist the magnetic pull of the door's beauty, I could hear the book frantically calling to me. I froze captivated by the door’s gold glints in the dim light, tracing out vines that spiral from its base, twisting and curling with a life of their own. The vines were delicate yet strong, their sinuous lines creating a labyrinthine design that is at once chaotic and orderly, wild yet restrained. As my eyes followed the path of the vines upwards, I noticed how they split into smaller branches, each adorned with slender leaves and tiny, perfect flowers. The flowers seem to glow with an inner light, their petals softly luminescent, casting a gentle glow on the surrounding foliage.
At the very top of the door, just below the apex of the arch, an image of a book surrounded by a full moon is etched into the surface, its round form a muted golden orb that seems to radiate a quiet power as it cradles the book. The moon guardian is surrounded by the highest branches of the vines, which clasp it as though it were a precious jewel. The craters and shadows of the moon are so finely detailed that I almost expect to feel the roughness of the lunar surface beneath my fingertips.
I reached for the door running my hand along its graceful surface, the textures coming to life beneath my touch—the cool, smooth surface of the polished dark wood, the slight ridges of the golden vines, the delicate edges of the leaves and flowers. The door felt ancient, imbued with a magic that has long since faded from the world above. It whispers of secrets long forgotten, of a world beyond this one, waiting to be rediscovered.
I was not the only one caught in the door’s trance. Lyra’s gaze drifted to the corners and edges of the door, where baroque-style motifs twisted and turned, framing the central design with swirling patterns that evoked the elements—wind, water, perhaps even a touch of fire. The motifs were more rigid, more structured, yet they complemented the wild vines perfectly, grounding the fantastical elements in something solid and real.
She approached the door, her eyes captivated by the background. Behind the gold, beneath the vines, the surface of the door is etched with the faintest of patterns, like a starry night sky. Tiny symbols, almost too small to see, are interwoven with what appear to be constellations and ancient runes, their meanings lost to time. The entire door is one of ethereal beauty, a work of art that seems to guard more than just an entrance—it is a place of pride, for a treasure full of magic and mystery.
I stood before the door, entranced, for what felt like an eternity, my hand resting on the cool surface of the door. My instincts were calling out to me, this was no ordinary door. It has seen centuries pass, watched as the world around it changed and crumbled. And now, it waits for me.
“Oey…not to be pushy mate, but are we going to go through the door or continue to stare at it?” Karlach’s voice broke through the silence.
I turned to see Karlach gesturing at me to move forward. With a heavy sigh I turned to Lyra, before I could speak, she grinned at me “After you” she chuckled.
“Darling, your too kind.” I rolled my eyes. I pushed the door open slowly and stepped cautiously into the vast, shadowed chamber. Before my eyes could adjust to the dark, enchanted candles mounted on the walls began to spark to life with dancing green light. The air was thick with the scent of aged parchment and the mustiness of timeworn wood. The room was enormous, the ceiling lost in the shadows high above, supported by towering arches that gave the space a cathedral-like grandeur. Rows upon rows of ancient tomes lined the walls, their spines cracked and faded, some bound in leather so old it has started to curl at the edges.
The chamber we had stumbled upon was a library, but not one of quiet study or gentle reading. No, this place felt more like a vault—a sanctuary for knowledge too powerful, too dangerous to be left in the light of day. The shelves were high, impossibly so, and they loomed over us as we entered the chamber. The chandeliers hanging from the ceiling are heavy with dust and cobwebs, their candles sputtering weakly at first before bursting into vibrant verdant flames, casting long, wavering shadows that danced eerily on the cold stone floor.
In the center of the room, where the flickering candlelight converged, stood a pedestal made from twisted iron shaped as gnarled bark. The iron, almost black, seemed to pulse with a life of its own, as though the very tree it was cast from still lives somewhere, its roots deep in some forgotten, cursed soil. The branches of the pedestal reached upward, twisting and curling around one another, forming a cradle that held a single book aloft. The way the branches weaved together gave the impression that they were protecting the book, holding it reverently, yet possessively, in their iron embrace.
The book itself is a curious object. Its cover is bound in deep, dark leather, cracked and worn, with golden runes etched into the spine. The runes glow faintly, pulsing with a soft light that seemed to beat in time with my heart. Unlike the first book’s cover, this one is grotesquely adorned with the face of a creature, its features locked in a permanent sneer. Hollow eye sockets seem to pierce through me, and its mouth was twisted in a frozen grimace, almost emitting a ghostly growl that sent chills down my spine.
As I inched closer, a tangible pressure filled the air, the presence of the book magnifying with each step I took towards it. The room seemed to grow colder as I neared the pedestal, the shadows darker, the whispers from the shelves more insistent. Just as with the first book, I could almost make out words, phrases that flitted through my mind before I could grasp their meaning, like the remnants of a half-forgotten dream.
My hand hesitated as I reached out toward the book, the twisted branches of the pedestal almost seeming to move, as if to loosen their grip, offering me the book. The air was thick with tension, everyone in the room seemed to hold their breath as I stood on the precipice of discovery—or more likely doom. The book pulsed once more, a faint glow illuminating the runes on its cover, inviting me, challenging me, to open it and uncover the secrets within.
I steeled myself, taking a deep breath as I prepared to confront the secrets bound within this ancient volume. Hidden in the depths of this forsaken library, the book held knowledge lost to time—knowledge that could perhaps explain the scars that marked me, secrets that might unravel my past or dictate my future. My need for understanding outweighed the looming threats whispered by the shadows; leaving it untouched was a risk I could not afford.
Compelled by a force stronger than caution, I resolved to uncover whatever powers or revelations lay dormant within its pages. There was no turning back—this book might be the key to mysteries that have long haunted me. As I reached out to grasp it, a fleeting thought crossed my mind: if all else failed, the weight of the tome made it a formidable weapon, I could always beat Cazador to death with it, he would never see it coming. The thought brought a grim smirk to my face as I touched the ancient cover, ready to face whatever lay ahead.
I tentatively curled my fingers around the spine of the book, lifting it with deliberate slowness. My face contorted in anticipation, and my eyes squeezed shut, bracing for a divine retribution that never came. Gradually, I cracked open one eye, then the other, and found myself unscathed, the book still in my grasp. A relieved sigh escaped my lips as I scrutinized its cover. Noticing the empty sockets where gems should have been, I murmured to myself, "It appears I need two keys for this one." Content for the moment with my progress, I gently placed the book into my pack.
"Will find the keys, just like the last book," Lyra nodded at me, her expression instilling confidence.
"Aren’t you just the optimist, darling," I grinned back at her. But before Lyra could respond, a ghastly howl echoed through the depths of the manor. The sound, deep and resonant, seemed to vibrate through the very air, chilling the marrow in our bones. The fear was visceral, a primal urge to flee was trying to override all sense of direction and safety. As the echo of the howl permeated every corner of the manor, I found my resolve crumbling. I fought against an almost overwhelming compulsion to escape the dreadful sound by any means necessary. Instead, we stood motionless, a cold dread washing over us as our gazes snapped towards the door. The creature was awake.