It had been five days since Bell had slain the wyvern outside Morningveil, and the village was still caught in the euphoria of song and cider. His name had become a festival chant, his armor polished every morning by grateful innkeepers, and, to his increasing horror, there were now three pies named after him in the bakery.
Bell stood near the edge of the market, adjusting the strap on his golden pauldron. "We can't stay in one village forever," he said, watching children reenact his battle with sticks.
Seria folded her arms, leaning against a post. "You just want to fight something bigger."
Bell smirked. "Maybe. But mostly, I want to leave before someone tries to bake me into a pastry."
From the back of the supply cart, Cid let out a theatrical groan. He lay sprawled across the sacks of potatoes, a strand of hay dangling from his lips. "Can't argue with that. The hero worship is exhausting to watch."
Bell mounted his white mare, shaking his head. "Cid, you haven't walked a single step in three days."
"I'm conserving energy," Cid replied. "In case a dragon shows up again."
"Convenient."
Their destination lay east of Morningveil: Valkheim Pass, a mountainous route choked in fog and superstition. A merchant had recently returned from the pass claiming he'd seen ruins—ancient ones—and heard sounds at night. Hissing sounds. Whispers. Rumors spread fast, and soon there were tales of cursed temples and serpents carved into stone.
To Bell, it sounded like an adventure.
To Cid, it sounded like a good way to get eaten.
By the second evening, the forest gave way to sharp crags and narrow paths. They came upon a stairway half-buried in moss, carved into the mountainside like a forgotten vein.
"This is it," Seria said, unfolding her worn leather map. "The merchant described broken pillars and arcane glyphs. If it's from the Elder Era, it'll be older than the Kingdom itself."
"Lovely," Cid muttered. "Old, cursed, and abandoned. Why don't we just go knock and see if the ghosts are home?"
"Cid," Bell called from ahead, "you're carrying the lantern."
"Of course I am."
They ascended the ruined steps carefully, the air growing colder with every breath. At the top was what remained of a temple—circular, roofless, and half-swallowed by the mountain. Vines choked the walls. Stones lay scattered like bones. Faint etchings marked what was once a grand archway: two serpents, coiled around a single eye.
Bell stepped past the threshold, sword loosely sheathed. "Feels… quiet."
Seria knelt by one of the stone walls, brushing moss aside to reveal more glyphs. "This predates the Church. I think it's proto-Valen. The language of the first era."
Cid tapped a nearby rock with his foot. "Which means: definitely cursed. Possibly explosive. Should I step on it just to find out?"
"No," Seria and Bell said in perfect unison.
They entered a chamber that had somehow resisted time and gravity. Its walls curved inward, covered in snake-like patterns that coiled into an eye motif at the apex of the arch. At the center of the room, resting in a shallow pool of unmoving water, stood a black obelisk about the height of a man. It shimmered faintly.
Seria placed her hand near it but didn't touch. "It's holding magic. Old magic. Maybe a containment spell."
Bell stepped closer, eyes narrowing. "It doesn't feel… evil."
"No?" Seria asked.
"No. It feels… sad."
He touched the obelisk's surface with the palm of his gauntlet. A faint warmth pulsed beneath the stone. "It's mourning," he whispered. "Like it remembers something."
Seria looked puzzled, but before she could respond, the wind picked up and a loose stone from above crashed to the ground behind them.
"Okay," Cid said, backing away. "That's our cue."
Bell pulled his hand away, the warmth lingering in his skin.
They made camp just below the ruins. The fire crackled. Stars stretched across the sky like threads of silk. Crickets chirped softly between the rocks.
Bell sat with his sword beside him, staring up at the stars
Cid was snoring already, wrapped in two cloaks like a caterpillar waiting to become slightly more annoying in the morning.
"This place," Bell said quietly, "it feels like something lost. Like someone was sealed away here."
"maybe it was as if someone was forgotten here" Seria said.
"I dont know " said Bell
Seria reached for his hand but didn't say anything.
That night, while the fire dimmed and the woods slipped into silence, a figure moved unseen among the ruins.
It walked barefoot over the moss, silent as breath, cloaked in shifting shadow. The obelisk waited. When the figure placed a hand upon it, the black surface pulsed—not with mourning, but with recognition.
A whisper echoed through the chamber, low and feminine, like silk sliding across stone.
"You are not forgotten."
From the darkness, a pale serpent slithered forth—scales the color of old snow, eyes like molten pearl. It did not hiss. It did not bare its fangs.
It bowed.
The figure knelt before it and whispered a name:
"Vyrniss."
The obelisk dimmed again.
And the figure vanished into shadow.