Whispers of dust drifted in the lantern light as Østberg, Elara, and Famed pressed forward into the maze of corridors in the Southern District. Every footstep echoed on the cold stone floor, carrying with it a heartbeat's worth of tension.
Østberg's ragged breaths filled his ears, each inhale heavy with the apprehension of discovery, each exhale electrified by the promise of long-buried secrets. The stolen lanterns.
Elara's flickering with quiet determination, Famed's trembling slightly at the edges cast dancing shadows on the time-worn walls, revealing glimpses of carvings and faded murals hewn into the very bones of the palace.
They crept along the corridor's gentle curve, keeping low to the ground where the dark swallowed them almost entirely. The stagnant air bore the faint scent of mold and centuries-old incense, mixed with a trace of ozone that hinted at the lingering residue of long-ago sorceries.
The hush pressed in on them as if the palace itself were holding its breath, waiting to see whether the children would proceed or retreat in fright.
At last, Elara held up a hand, her lantern's glow falling upon a massive wooden door inset with metal studs and adorned with a single, ominous symbol, 'a broken circle cradling an unblinking eye.' The symbol seemed to stare back at them, as though it had witnessed a thousand betrayals and judged each in silence.
Østberg's heart pounded wildly, half from the fear of being discovered, half from the thrill of unearthing the secret that lay just beyond this door.
"Up ahead..." Elara whispered.
"This is it! The Secret Archives. They say the Ancient Watchers kept all their records here."
The three of them paused. Østberg felt the weight of his heart's drum in his throat. Every nerve in his body sang with anticipation.
He could almost taste the antiquity of the place, the way centuries of hushed conversations and forbidden rituals had seeped into every crack in the walls, pointing at a heavy wooden door carved with a single symbol, 'a broken circle cradling an eye.'
"This is it, the Secret Archives. They say the Ancient Watchers kept all their records here."
Famed frowned, his eyes narrowing in curiosity and unease. "If that's true, why would they leave it unguarded?"
Østberg licked his dry lips, remembering the old stories Uncle Arvid had whispered by firelight, stories of complacency among the elite, of secrets they believed were too powerful to steal. He wondered whether those elites truly felt safe or merely blind to the dangers of their own folly.
"Complacency, perhaps," he answered, voice taut with meaning.
"Or only those in the inner circle know this door exists." He straightened, forcing himself to steady the tremor in his limbs.
Østberg took a moment to lay a hand on the door's cold, rough surface, feeling the grain of ancient oak and the rust of iron.
"Let's go."
They edged forward. With a soft click, Østberg turned the heavy knob, and the door groaned, a deep, resonant sound that seemed to awaken the sleeping ghosts of those who had stood here before.
The space beyond yawned open, and for a fleeting instant, the world felt suspended between past and present.
Inside, rows of waist-high bookshelves stood in neat, silent formation, their shelves weighed down by dusty tomes and scrolls. The air was thick with the scent of old parchment and mildew, and grains of dust motes drifted in the lantern beams like tiny specters.
At the room's center, a marble table bore the weight of countless years, streaked with faint cracks that hinted at its antiquity. In one shadowed corner rested a small wooden chest, its surface etched with intricate runes that pulsed faintly under their lantern light.
Elara stepped forward and ignited her lantern to full brightness. The flame's steady glow cast long, wavering shadows across the floor.
"This is… larger than I expected," she murmured.
Her eyes traced the length of the shelves, lingering on volumes bound in dragon-hide and others in delicate silken covers embroidered with silver thread.
"Do you see this emblem?" Elara said, pointing at a faded relief carved high on the far wall.
There, the Thonse Remains, skeletal fragments. Were elegantly entwined around one another.
"It's straight from the old folktales."
Famed lowered his lantern to study it. "We're definitely breaking some royal order doing this."
Østberg's pulse thrummed as he approached the marble table. He traced the dust with a fingertip, revealing a small patch of smooth stone beneath. With deliberate care, he reached for the wooden chest.
The hinges protested softly as he lifted the lid, and his breath caught when he saw what lay inside: a single leather scroll, bound by a ribbon of deep violet.
The silence that followed was thick enough to taste. Østberg pulled the ribbon free, feeling its silk whisper through his fingers.
He unrolled the scroll slowly, the parchment crackling softly like a sigh from another era. In shimmering silver ink, ancient script revealed itself:
["Under the Red Moon, the threads of destiny entwine. The chainbreaker shall find the path.
Beware the shadows of the past."]
Elara's breath caught. "The Red Moon… that's what Uncle mentioned about your father! He said when the sky bleeds crimson, everything changes."
Famed reached for the scroll. "If your father was involved in this… then you might play a pivotal role in this greater design, Østberg."
Østberg felt the world tilt beneath him. The parchment trembled in his hands, its message settling into his bones like a prophecy.
He closed his eyes briefly, recalling tales of his father's last words, rumors of a ritual that could break a cycle older than time itself. When he opened them, resolution shone in his gaze.
"I need to uncover more," Østberg said, voice soft but unwavering. "Let's search for more clues, there must be other hidden compartments."
They turned to the bookshelves. Rows of leather-bound volumes in a spectrum of colors beckoned like silent sentinels. Elara's hand hovered before settling on a dark green book, its title worn but still legible, Chronicle of the Ancient Watchers.
Østberg took the book from her, and the moment he did, a subtle click reverberated from the shelf behind him.
Famed stiffened, eyes darting to the source, a small steel panel beneath the bottom shelf had shifted. Before any of them could react, it slid aside to reveal a narrow, unlit passage that descended into darkness.
Famed gripped Østberg's arm. "Are you sure? This isn't exactly a welcome mat."
Østberg exchanged a determined glance with Elara. The weight of the scroll at his side felt heavier now, pulsing with promise and peril. Without a word, he relit his lantern and stepped into the hidden corridor, the others following close behind.
The narrow tunnel smelled of damp earth and forgotten tombs. Their boots clinked against ancient stone steps, each footfall a testament to the patience of centuries. Moss clung to the walls in thick mats, and water dripped from unseen cracks above, adding a rhythmic accompaniment to their descent.
Three steps down, the corridor turned sharply to the left and opened into a circular chamber. At its center stood an unlit iron torch bracket; around the walls, clusters of ruby-red gemstones were set into the stone, their faint glow reflecting off the damp floor in crimson patterns.
Elara pressed a lantern to the wall, revealing a mosaic of symbols etched into the stone beneath the gems. "Is this… what connects to the Red Moon?" she asked, voice hushed.
Østberg's lantern beam found one gemstone whose light flickered more brightly than the rest. As his gaze sharpened, the red glow revealed a carved relief of a man with silver hair and piercing eyes, draped in flowing robes bearing the broken-eye emblem. His fingers traced the carving reverently.
"My uncle had this identical symbol in one of his old paintings," Østberg whispered. "He called him Zu'th'Nahr, one of the aliases of Always, Forever, the ancient force prophesied to end the world.'
Famed's expression twisted. "So, we're in… what, a cult ruin?"
Elara inhaled sharply. "More like… the bones of one." She studied the ceiling beams.
"See those gouge marks? Huge chains must have scraped across the wood, as if something enormous was restrained here."
Østberg reached up to touch the scarred wood. A warm pulse radiated from the gems, as though the chamber still throbbed with life.
Elara met Famed's gaze. "Remember the Arkhavel scroll urging the chainbreaker to choose his path? Now I see why you're so determined, Østberg. This… is far bigger than any of us."
Without warning, the ceiling above shuddered. A small stone dislodged and struck Elara's forehead. She gasped and bent over, clutching the wound.
Famed kicked one of the ruby stones loose, the sparkle cast a giant, dancing silhouette against the wall that looked like claws reaching for them.
"Run!" Østberg shouted, grabbing Elara's arm.
"I don't know how long this place will hold!"
They sprinted back through the tunnel, the roar of collapsing stone echoing behind them, as if the chamber itself sought to swallow them whole.
Bursting back into the archives, Elara coughed, blood trickling down her forehead.
"I'm fine… just a scratch."
Famed rummaged in his pouch and produced a small vial of greenish tonic, an herbal remedy taught to him by the village healer. He dabbed the wound tenderly.
"You're too reckless, El. This isn't some game."
Elara offered a wry smile. "I'm with you both. Even if it costs me everything."
Østberg studied the scroll in his hands. The broken-eye seal, the Arkhavel warning, the relief of Zu'th'Nahr, and felt a chill of purpose settle in his bones.
"I must know what it all means… who my father truly was, and why he left these breadcrumbs." Østberg says.
Famed squared his shoulders. "Then we find more. There must be records detailing the Watchers' downfall, why they were attacked, and how it ties to the prologue."
They returned to the shelves in a frantic search. Elara produced a tome bound in deep green leather, 'Libri Codex Ethvissle.' Another in weathered gray, 'Annals of Xar'Kairos.' Østberg flipped open the Annals to a midsection.
The faded passage read:
[ "In the Third Age of Darkness, the Ancient Watchers were gifted Ethvissle's power to maintain the world's balance. Yet Zu'th'Nahr's conspiracy, believing fate must be broken, razed the Northern Observatory, forcing survivors into hiding beneath the Southern District."]
Elara laid her hand gently on his shoulder. "You're not alone. Others endured too, waiting on a new generation to set the world right."
Famed replaced the Annals on the shelf with care. "Truth will surface. But we must tread carefully, the crown would destroy these records if leaked."
Østberg rose, resolve hardening in his gaze. "At dawn, we head for the city gates. We'll carry photostats of these scrolls and texts. Uncle Arvid knows a scholar in the capital who can translate the ancient script."
Elara nodded solemnly. "And I will help you learn Ethvissle's magic, so you can break your own chains of destiny, rather than be just another link."
Famed patted Østberg's back. "I'll guard you to the end. No matter what waits beyond these walls."
Amid the dust-laden silence of the hidden archive, the three friends exchanged determined looks. They knew their choice would alter the fate of the world, every secret revealed.
Every ancient text translated, would bring them ever closer to the dark truth beneath the Red Moon. And they were ready to face whatever consequences lay ahead.
In the hush of the hidden archive, dust motes dancing like dormant spirits, the three friends exchanged determined looks. They knew that with each secret uncovered, each ancient text deciphered, they would move closer to the truth concealed beneath the Red Moon's ominous glow. And whatever darkness lay ahead, they were ready to face it, together.