The morning fog lay over the Floating Hills of Aeralis like a living mantle, wrapping every gnarled root and every suspended rock in a silent breath. The air held a damp, earthy scent, but also something ancient, difficult to define. Eryon Vale paused for a moment to inhale deeply. Every morning, that feeling grew inside him, as if the world wanted to speak to him. Not with words, not with visions, but with an instinct that pulsed in his chest like a second heartbeat.
Today, something was different.
As he advanced along the main slope, he heard a rustling sound coming from a small rock formation he knew well. Or at least, he thought he knew it. Among the suspended stones, a small, mole-like animal was digging its way through with incredible energy. It had tiny iridescent feathers along its back and luminous eyes that seemed to reflect the internal light of the Aeralis crystals. With quick movements, the animal forced a gap between the rocks, creating an opening that hadn't been there before.
Eryon froze. He had walked that path hundreds of times and had never seen anything like it.
The animal stopped, stared at him intently for an instant, then vanished into the darkness of the passage.
Whatever the creature was, it seemed to be inviting the young man to follow it.
Without allowing thought to slow him, Eryon slipped into the gap. The rock grazed his shoulders, cold and smooth, and the scent of ancient earth immediately enveloped him. The tunnel was narrow but not suffocating: a natural passage but... aided. As if the dungeon itself had waited for the right moment to reveal itself.
The descent was brief but intense. Every step echoed in the darkness, amplified by a mysterious energy that vibrated in the walls. Shortly after, the tunnel opened into a vast, silent underground chamber. The sight took his breath away.
Luminescent crystals dotted the walls like stars concentrated in the depths of the earth. They emitted a faint, blue glow, enough to illuminate the entire environment. The surfaces were smooth, almost sculpted, and the air carried a light, almost imperceptible sound, like a voiceless song.
In the center of the room, a skeletal figure lay seated against a smooth boulder. The bones were wrapped in fine cobwebs and ancient dust. Its hands clasped a dark leather pouch, worn by time but still incredibly intact. At its feet, a rolled-up parchment lay motionless, as if it had been waiting for that moment for centuries.
Eryon felt his skin prickle. Not with fear—with destiny.
He approached the body with reverence. It was not uncommon to find ancient remains in the Aeralis hills, but there was something different about this scene. Something that brushed against his mind like a whisper. As if the place itself recognized his presence.
He reached out for the pouch.
As soon as he touched the leather, a vibration shot through his entire arm. Not pain, not cold—power. A live current that seemed to want to acknowledge him, measure him, accept him. The skeletal grip instantly yielded, letting the pouch slide into his hands.
The parchment unrolled by itself, with a slow, natural movement. The ancient writings illuminated faintly, pulsing irregularly, like a heart beating after too long a silence. The letters were entirely unfamiliar, yet Eryon felt they were not there to give instructions. They were enigmas. Symbols. Broken phrases of a language intended to be interpreted more with intuition than with logic.
Something inside him changed in that instant.
In the air, a subtle presence brushed his thoughts, as if the pouch was whispering for him to open it.
Eryon did.
Inside there was neither chaos nor mundane objects. Only a single item emerged slowly as if floating from a spaceless void: a grey stone, smooth, compact. It appeared simple, almost common, but its weight was strangely disproportionate. When he picked it up, a tremor ran through his arm, much more intense than the previous one.
It was as if the stone were breathing.
The surface was smooth as glass, but it emitted a constant, light yet present vibration, like a small, hidden beat in its mineral heart. Eryon raised it to the crystal light and saw tiny veins moving within it, like filaments slowly awakening.
It was not a normal object.
The Tired Stone.
The name crossed his mind without anyone speaking it.
With the stone in hand, the room around him changed. Shadows took on different shapes, the contours of the walls pulsed like rippling water. It was not an illusion: it was as if part of the dungeon was revealing itself.
Concentrating, Eryon felt the stone vibrate stronger. Before him, what looked like a smooth wall "opened" in his perception, revealing a hidden corridor beyond the rock. It wasn't a real opening—it was like seeing with two overlapping senses, as if the stone allowed him to observe the world's hidden structure.
A power of perception, but enigmatic in nature. It didn't show everything. Only what he needed to see in that moment.
Eryon remained motionless for several moments, observing how the corridor bent, narrowed, and opened into another room that, without the stone, he would never have imagined existed. Every detail appeared in his mind like a reflection projected directly into his thoughts.
It was then that he heard a small noise.
The digging animal.
It had reappeared in the corner of the room, its iridescent feathers shimmering in the light of the crystals. The creature emitted a faint, almost encouraging sound, and began to move towards the passage that the Tired Stone was revealing.
Eryon followed it, aware that the stone was guiding him.
Perhaps the animal was just a curious creature.
Or perhaps it was reacting to something he could not yet comprehend. The hidden corridor led to a small circular chamber. The walls were covered with ancient inscriptions, some pulsating slightly in response to the stone's light. Others seemed to observe. Eryon felt every symbol vibrate as if connected to a network of underground energy that ran through the entire dungeon.
He sat on a boulder, the Tired Stone in his hands. The pouch rested on his hip, silent.
He did not attempt to extract anything more.
He did not feel it was the moment.
He looked at the stone once more, focusing on its subtle heartbeat. And in that moment, he understood the first truth of the Inventory:
every object had its own character, its own power, its own rhythm.
It was not a gift to be used lightly.
He would only discover it step by step.
When he stood up to return to the chamber's entrance, the sunset was now filtering through the upper crevices of the dungeon, tinging the circular room with orange and red. The walls seemed to breathe with him, and every corridor whispered promises.
His journey as the custodian of the Inventory of a Thousand Reflections had just begun.