Leaving the dubious safety of Montath's outskirts behind, I follow the muddy track that leads toward the dark, brooding line of the Everplag Woods. With each step, the air grows colder and heavier, the cheerful clamor of the village fading into an oppressive silence broken only by the mournful sigh of the wind. The gnarled, half-dead trees at the forest's edge seem to reach for me with skeletal branches.
The entrance to the woods is not a clear path, but a tangle of undergrowth and shadows between two massive, blighted oaks. The very air smells of damp earth, decay, and something else... a faint, metallic tang like ozone after a storm. The canopy is so thick that twilight seems to have fallen hours early, the little light that filters through casting long, distorted shadows that dance at the edge of my vision.
I remember the landmark from the parchment: a stylized tree with roots that look like grasping hands, situated next to a jagged, crescent-shaped rock formation. Finding it in this tangled morass will be a significant challenge.
I press forward into the oppressive gloom of the Everplag Woods. The initial minutes are fruitless; every gnarled root and moss-covered stone looks the same in the shifting, murky light. It feels like the forest itself is resisting my search, the paths twisting back on themselves and the shadows seeming to deepen just where I intend to look.
Just as frustration begins to set in, my eyes catch on something unnatural. Partially obscured by a thicket of thorny vines is a fallen log. Carved into its rotting bark is a crude symbol: a circle with a single line slashed through it. It's fresh enough that the sap is still dark and wet. This is no natural formation; it's a marker. A warning, or perhaps a territorial claim.
The woods are not merely haunted by an old legend; they are actively being used or patrolled by someone—or something—that does not wish to be disturbed.
Crouching low, I examine the crude, sap-weeping symbol. It's a clear, deliberate mark. Abandoning my search for the ancient landmark for now, I decide to follow this fresher trail. It speaks of a current, active presence, and such things are often more immediately dangerous—or useful—than old ruins.
I move with deliberate care, my dark robes blending with the deep shadows. The path of the marker is not straightforward. I find another one several yards ahead, carved into the north side of a lightning-blasted tree stump. A third is hidden under a shelf of fungus, only visible from a specific angle. Whoever made these did not want them found by casual observers.
The trail leads me deeper into a part of the woods where the trees grow unnaturally close together, their branches intertwined like locked fingers, blocking out nearly all the light. The air grows still and cold.
It is in this twilight grove that I find them.
Three figures are gathered around a small, smokeless fire that burns with a faint purple hue. They are clad in dark, hooded robes marked with a single, stark symbol embroidered in crimson thread on their chests: a jagged, abstract sigil that seems to pulse in the firelight. The Crimson Sigil.
They have not noticed me yet. They are speaking in low, fervent whispers, their attention on a small, obsidian bowl set within the flames. One of them holds a ritual dagger.
I am hidden at the edge of the clearing. I can hear their muttered words.
"...the convergence is near. The Liber Tenebris will awaken..."
"...the final component... the sacrifice must be willing, or the power will be flawed..."
"...the Hand's spies are everywhere. We must secure the site before dawn..."
One of the cultists, a hulking brute with a heavily scarred face, spins around, his eyes wide with surprise and rage. "An intruder!" he snarls, grabbing a heavy mace from his belt.
I step from the shadows, my hands weaving through the somatic components as I whisper the arcane words of enchantment. A faint, shimmering field of magical energy erupts from my fingertips and washes over the three cultists.
I weave the enchantment, and a shimmering field of magical slumber washes over the clearing. The cultist with the fanatical gleam in his eyes—the caster—stiffens, his muttered incantation dying on his lips as his eyes roll back into his head. He crumples to the mossy ground in a deep, magical slumber. The acolyte holding the ritual dagger also stumbles, his grip loosening as he fights the spell for a moment before succumbing, slumping next to his companion.
The scarred, brutish acolyte remains standing, shaking his head as if to clear it, his face a mask of pure fury. He is now alone and awake.
The remaining cultist lets out a guttural roar. "You'll pay for that, spell-slinger!" He hefts his heavy mace and charges directly at me, closing the 30-foot distance with surprising speed! He takes a swing when he closes the distance.
Despite the force behind the blow, I manage to twist at the last second, turning a potentially bone-breaking impact into a heavy, glancing hit that sends a dull ache through my shoulder but does little real harm.
The two other cultists lie unconscious and helpless on the ground. The remaining brute stands before me, his weapon held ready, his chest heaving with rage.
I grit my teeth, manipulating arcane energy and aim my hand at the brute. The three bolts of pure force slam into the cultist's torso with a concussive THUMP-THUMP-THUMP. The air leaves his lungs in a pained gasp, and he stumbles backward, the heavy mace slipping from his numbed fingers to clatter on the ground. He looks down at his chest in disbelief, then back at me, his fury now mixed with a dawning, mortal fear. He clutches at his ribs, wheezing, but remains on his feet—barely.
He is grievously wounded, but not yet defeated.
The scarred brute glares at me, hatred burning in his eyes. He knows he cannot reach me in time. Instead, he does something unexpected. He throws himself toward his two sleeping companions, shaking the one with the ritual dagger violently.
"Valentine! Wake up!" he bellows.
The acolyte with the dagger stirs groggily, his eyes fluttering open as he is roused from his magical slumber. The other cultist, the caster, remains fast asleep on the forest floor.
The newly awakened Valentine scrambles to his feet, looking disoriented but quickly grasping the situation as he sees me and his wounded comrade. He still clutches his ritual dagger.
Heat rises in the air as i manipulate my arcane power once more. The Fire Bolt slams into the brute's chest with a sickening sizzle. He lets out a choked cry, his eyes wide with pain and shock as the fire consumes him. He stumbles back a step, then collapses to the ground, his body smoldering. He does not get up.
The acolyte with the ritual dagger, Valentine, stares in horror at his fallen comrade, then back at me. The fanatical caster still lies unconscious at his feet. Outnumbered and clearly outmatched, fear finally overrides his zealotry.
"Mercy!" he shrieks, dropping his ritual dagger and raising his empty hands. "Please! Don't kill me! I'll tell you anything!"
He is completely surrendered, terrified, and looking for any way to survive.
I keep my hand raised, a faint wisp of smoke still curling from my fingertip. The air is thick with the smell of ozone and burnt flesh. I fix the terrified cultist with my intense gaze.
"Earlier," I say, my voice low and dangerous, cutting through his pleas. "You spoke of a convergence. Of the Liber Tenebris awakening. And a willing sacrifice. Elaborate. Now."
The acolyte, Valentine, flinches as if struck. His eyes dart from my face to his dead companion, then to the still-sleeping caster. He wrings his hands, his composure shattered.
"The... the convergence," he stammers, "It's an alignment... a thinning of the veil between what is and what could be. The Liber Tenebris is not just a book, it's... alive in a way. It sleeps, and it dreams, and its dreams warp these woods. The convergence is when it will be most receptive... most powerful."
He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing.
"And the sacrifice... the book doesn't want blood or death. Not like that. It wants... memory. Experience. A lifetime of thoughts and feelings, willingly given. That's the 'silvered tear' the old texts mention—a soul's essence, poured out. We were... we were preparing the ritual site here to find a suitable candidate from Montath to... convince."
He looks at me with desperate, pleading eyes, waiting to see if his information has bought him his life.
I gesture with my chin towards the robed figure still lying insensate on the ground. "And him? Your slumbering friend. Does his knowledge of the Liber Tenebris run deeper than your own catechisms?"
Valentine follows my gaze, and a fresh wave of fear crosses his face. He seems to be warring with himself, loyalty to his faction battling his overwhelming desire to survive.
"He... Oswald," he says, the name slipping out in a whisper. "He's the one who interpreted the signs. He's been... communing with the whispers in the woods longer than any of us. He believes he's been chosen by the book itself." Valentine's voice drops even lower, as if afraid the sleeping man might hear him. "He's the one who said the final component had to be willing. That it wouldn't accept a stolen soul. He knows where the ritual must be performed—the exact location from the old tales."
He looks from Oswald back to me, his meaning clear: the real prize of knowledge lies with the unconscious caster.
There is no hesitation. The plea for mercy is a useless noise to my ears. This man is a loose end, a witness, and a member of a rival faction seeking the same artifact I desire.
My expression remains impassive as I raise your hand once more. Valentine's eyes widen in dawning horror as he realizes your intent, his raised hands trembling violently.
"No, wait—!"
A mote of flame ignites at my fingertip and streaks across the short distance. The Fire Bolt strikes him directly in the face. There is a brief, sizzling crackle and a choked gurgle before he collapses backward, his features blackened and unrecognizable. The clearing falls silent once more, save for the faint crackle of the unnatural purple fire and the slow, deep breathing of the sleeping cultist, Oswald.
I stand alone amidst three bodies—two dead, one magically slumbering—and the evidence of their ritual.
I first summon the spectral, floating hand of my Mage Hand. It glides silently through the air and settles firmly over the sleeping cultist, Oswald, applying a steady, unyielding pressure to his chest and shoulders, pinning him to the ground. He stirs slightly in his sleep but does not wake.
Now, to rouse him. A simple, non-lethal application of force should suffice. I point a finger at his leg and unleash a Ray of Frost. A beam of freezing cold energy shoots forth.
A patch of his robe over his leg freezes instantly, and the sudden, biting cold jolts him awake.
Oswald's eyes snap open, wide with panic and confusion. He tries to sit up, to scramble away, but finds himself pinned by the invisible force of the Mage Hand. His head whips from side to side, taking in the gruesome scene: his two comrades dead, and me, a wizard, standing over him with calm, predatory intent. The fanatical gleam I heard described is gone, replaced by raw, animal fear.
"Who are you?!" he gasps, struggling futilely against the arcane grip. "What do you want?!"
I lean over him, the Mage Hand keeping him pressed firmly to the damp earth. My voice is flat, devoid of anger or mercy, carrying only the weight of an absolute demand.
"You have been communing with whispers. You believe you are chosen. That ends now. The knowledge you have gathered on the Liber Tenebris is no longer yours. It is mine. You will tell me everything. Start with its exact location."
Oswald's eyes dart around wildly, looking for an escape that does not exist. He sees the cold determination in my gaze and knows pleading will be as useless as it was for Valentine.
"You... you don't understand," he chokes out, "The book doesn't have a location like a stone in a stream. It... shifts. It hides. The woods themselves are its pages! The landmark—the grasping-root tree and the crescent stone—they are merely a focus point, a place where the veil is thin enough to perform the calling ritual!"
He is terrified, but a sliver of his fanaticism remains, believing his understanding of the book makes him special.
"The ritual requires a nexus of personal memory, offered willingly under the convergence! That is the 'silvered tear'! I have spent months preparing, attuning myself to its frequency! I can feel it! Without my guidance, you'll just become another lost soul, another meal for its hunger!"
He is trying to barter his unique knowledge for his life, presenting himself as an indispensable guide.
I apply more pressure with the Mage Hand, making him gasp as his ribs are compressed against the ground. "Your 'guidance' is a currency I am willing to extract, not barter for. The ritual. Describe every component, every gesture, every syllable. Omit nothing."
Oswald's bravado cracks completely under the physical pressure and my unyielding tone. The words spill out in a frantic, terrified rush.
"The components! You need a focus carved from the heartwood of the grasping-root tree itself! You need water collected from a pool that never sees the sun! And... and the sacrifice. It must be a sentient being who offers a memory of profound emotional weight—joy, grief, love, terror—willingly. The ritualist channels that offering, that 'silvered tear' of experience, into the focus. As the convergence peaks, you speak the words of unbinding... 'Lux est umbra dei, et memoria pretium est'... and if the book finds the offering worthy, it will... manifest."
He shudders, his eyes wide. "But it's a lie! A trick! The book doesn't just manifest! It... it invades. It takes more than you offer! It showed me... it showed me power beyond imagining, but the cost..." He trails off, a fresh terror in his eyes as he looks at me, realizing he may have just given me the keys to my own damnation.
The ritual's requirements are now known to me: a specific focus item, a rare material component, and a "willing" sacrifice of memory.