From the treetops above the chaptel, the observer blinked.
A young girl with short black hair and a scarf wrapped over her face crouched in the branches, eyes wide with disbelief.
"…He found it."
She stared at the cracked wall and the spiral staircase now exposed, mist curling still at its edges.
"I've been tailing him this whole time. He never looked back. Didn't even scout the area."
Her heart thudded.
Assigned to surveillance—ordered by House Elmwald to guard their heir from the shadows—she'd expected a sheltered noble. A first-time traveler with decent instincts, maybe—but no real experience.
Not this.
Triggering the entrance to a hidden ruin—one even seasoned adventurers tended to miss?
She blinked again, unsure if it was luck… or something else entirely.
Did he know? Or just… feel it?
Lila grinned beneath her scarf.
Her pulse quickened—not from duty, but from something deeper.
She had a dream. A secret one.
To become the greatest explorer in the realm. To dive into ancient tombs, uncover lost cities, and chase the kind of treasures whispered of in tavern songs.
And now, here was Arven Elmwald.
Walking straight into an untouched ruin like it was just part of his itinerary.
She leaned forward, eyes gleaming.
"…He might actually be fun to follow."
With that, she slipped from the branch, vanishing into the chaptel like a shadow chasing a candle flame.
* * *
The narrow stairs creaked underfoot as Arven descended deeper into the ruins. Moss clung to the walls, dampness thick in the air. It felt as if no one had set foot here in ages.
A chill crawled up the back of his neck—strange, eerie, almost otherworldly.
Skele padded ahead, silent and steady. Occasionally, the skeleton dog glanced back, faint blue glow casting soft light on the stone floor—an unspoken comfort, a tether in the growing silence.
One hand trailed along the cold wall, the other rested lightly on his sword hilt.
He'd cleared this place before. In Runebound, the Ruins of Whispertrail were little more than a crumbling chapel south of Elloria City. A minor fetch quest sent players here to retrieve a keepsake left behind by a fallen guard's friend. Most players grabbed the item and left without a second thought.
But Arven had stayed.
He liked reading NPC dialogue. Every line, even the awkward ones. Sometimes the devs slipped in easter eggs—tiny clues meant only for those who paid attention.
That was what set him apart. While others rushed quests, he absorbed everything: item descriptions, background lore, even subtle environmental hints. Anything that might lead to something hidden.
That's how he'd found the secret glyph. And the stairway leading down.
Back then, it had felt like a neat little secret. A reward for thoroughness.
Now, it felt different.
The magic was no longer just decoration.
It was alive.
Watching.
The stairs leveled out into a corridor, framed by narrow arches. Pale blue runes flickered to life overhead—like moonlight trapped in glass.
Arven brushed his fingers across one.
ᛇ— Eihwaz
"The Eihwaz rune stood as a sentinel between worlds, guarding the spirit's passage and the endurance of the soul."
The air shifted.
From somewhere ahead, metal scraped against stone—slow, rhythmic.
Then came the rattle of bones. Figures stepped from the shadows.
Skeleton knights—half-armored, blades drawn, eyes burning the same cold blue as the runes. Behind them, wisps floated like torn soul fragments, drifting without purpose.
Arven drew his blade, eyes narrowing.
The knights moved in stiff, practiced motions—like they were still following orders long after forgetting who gave them. The faded insignias on their rusted tabards matched the old crest above the archway behind them.
A memory clicked.
These weren't random undead.
They had been guards—tied to this place. Left behind to protect something long forgotten, now drifting without purpose.
The knights moved in jerky sync, like broken puppets still obeying a routine long after forgetting why.
Arven drew his blade, and Skele charge forward at the same time coated itself with a burst of fog.
'Mist' spread wide like a veil, cloaking the enemy's sight.
Arven then hold the pendant he received from his mother.
The pendant is etched with 2 runes.
ᛟ — Othala
[The Rune of Ancestral Inheritance. Legacy. Dormant Strength.]
ᛉ — Algiz
[The Rune of Protection. Shield. Ward.]
As he charged, the rune flared. A soft red light spread from the pendant, coating his blade.
He recalled how runes worked. Each runes were symbols packed with meaning.
In Runebound Online, they weren't just lore. Each rune carried an effect tied to its symbolism. Some acted like spells. Others surged briefly to enhance reflexes, sharpen perception, or push through fatigue. Used right, they turned the tide of battle.
The fight didn't last long.
Skele darted past a drifting ghost, baiting it straight into a pressure plate. The trap snapped shut with a hiss of old magic. Before the ghost could recover, Skele turned and slammed through a nearby slime with a full-body charge—'Bone Rush', his newest trick after the level-up.
[You have levelled up.]
[Skele have levelled up.]
[Skele's affinity has increased.]
Arven gave a short nod as Skele padded back to his side, bone tail flicking. He adjusted his grip on the sword, the corner of his mouth twitching, just once.
* * *
The next chamber opened into a wide hall, the stonework smoother than the rest. At the far end stood a raised platform—and on it, a pair of boots shimmered faintly with runelight.
[Swift Boots]
'Increased movement speed, and air-bone duration'
Arven squinted. "You've got to be kidding."
In the game, these belonged to the Corrupted Pope—the shadowy figure behind Duskwither's creation. Barely more than scraps in the lore: flavor text, half-deleted quest hooks, whispers of forgotten storylines.
Still, Arven didn't step forward.
Treasure that obvious was rarely a good sign.
Traps, probably. And he wasn't equipped to deal with them yet.
He took a careful step back.
Better to come back after he'd dealt with Duskwither.
* * *
They reached a circular chamber where a long-extinguished ritual fire pit sat at the center—ringed with old ash and scorched stone, the remnants of flames long since died out.
On the far wall stretched a mural.
Charcoal lines—rough but deliberate—formed an unsettling tableau. Dozens of hooded figures stood in silent congregation around a towering pillar of flame. At its heart loomed a massive bull-shaped beast, its horns curling upward like infernal crowns, as if crowned by the very fire that sustained it. The flames didn't consume the creature; they seemed to feed it, fueling some dark power beyond understanding.
The beast's eyes were painted as hollow black pits, empty yet unyielding, as if the gaze pierced through the stone and into the soul.
Even as mere charcoal on plaster, the mural felt alive—watching him with an unseen presence.
Arven stepped closer, brow furrowed, every instinct on edge.
This wasn't in the game.
He examined the figures again—their obscured faces, the ominous pillar of flame, the towering bull that seemed less a beast and more a dark deity.
'The Cult of Flames.'
A name that sent a cold shiver through his spine.
Nothing like this had ever been mentioned—not in quests, not in any cut content or hidden files. No rumors, no whispers. It was as if this entire chapter of history had been deliberately erased.
Arven pulled out his journal and began to sketch, his hand steady despite the weight of the discovery. The lines were rough but enough to preserve the chilling image for study later.
Beneath the drawing, he wrote:
[Unknown cult. Fire-based. Why is this here, in the Ruins of Whispertrail? What were they worshipping?]
He lingered, eyes following each charcoal stroke—the silent devotion of the hooded figures, the pillar of flame frozen in perpetual flicker, the bull's unwavering, eternal gaze. The chamber's stillness pressed against him, as if the weight of long-buried secrets lingered in the air like a suffocating shroud.
A tight knot formed in his chest, burning with unease.
Without a word, he closed his journal and took a slow step back, reluctant but knowing he couldn't ignore what he'd found.
* * *
They moved deeper into the ruin, where the stone grew darker and the carvings older. Faint runes traced the walls—half-erased by time, but still humming with forgotten magic.
The air grew dense. Not cold, just… still.
As if the ruin had been waiting.
Eventually, the corridor widened. The path sloped downward, and the air turned sharp.
Faint glyphs lined the walls—barely glowing at first, then pulsing brighter as they neared the sealed door.
A gate. Familiar, but altered.
This was it.
Arven stepped forward, placing his hand on the center glyph.
Mana sparked beneath his fingers.
ᛇ — Eiwaz
ᛒ — Berkano
ᛜ — Ingwaz
The stone beneath his palm warmed. Threads of light spread from the glyphs, crawling across the door like veins, pulsing softly in the gloom.
The wall shuddered.
Then, slowly—grinding, groaning—the door began to open.
Mist spilled out, cool and thick, like breath from a long-forgotten tomb.
They stepped into the chamber.
The ceiling above had fractured long ago, and thin shafts of sunlight cut through the shadows in dusty beams. The floor was strewn with shattered armor and rusted weapons. Bones lay where they'd fallen—unceremonious, undisturbed.
And at the center—
A swirling mass of black mist, hovering above the stone like a suspended stormcloud.
A flicker of text blinked across Arven's vision.
[Duskwither]
[Rank: Unique]
[Level: ??]
[Status: Sealed]
The air turned cold.
The ruin shuddered.
A low groan echoed through the stone—like the walls themselves were exhaling.