In the dreamscape of her slumber, Samara found herself on the edge of a vast lake, its waters shimmering under the sunlight. Looking down, she saw the reflection of her younger self, a child of about eight years, with wide, curious eyes gazing back at her from beneath the water’s surface.
Confusion clouded her mind. What is this? Why am I a child again?
Her thoughts were abruptly interrupted as a figure darted past her, splashing water onto her. “Hey, watch it!” she heard her younger self exclaim, her voice a blend of annoyance and surprise. The response was a cascade of laughter from the water emanating from a figure whose face remained frustratingly obscured, bathed in a halo of sunlight reflecting off the lake.
“Come on, you said you wanted to learn how to swim,” the figure called out. Samara’s heart skipped a beat as she recognized the voice - the same young boy had invaded her waking thoughts.
That’s him! But who is he?
“I do, but I’m scared. And the water is cold,” her younger self protested, timid yet intrigued.
“Don’t be such a child; come on in!” the boy encouraged with a playful yell.
As a child, Samara hesitantly waded further into the lake, feeling the chill of the water encroach upon her skin. She felt a profound disconnect - this was her memory, yet she couldn’t remember it from her waking life.
Where is this place? Who is this boy?
Her view was locked onto the rippling water, now lapping higher against her young form. “You’re being too slow,” the boy teased, splashing water toward her.
“Stop it! That’s not nice,” she protested, but her words only fueled his joy, leading to more enthusiastic splashes.
Frustrated and soaked, her younger self turned to leave, yelling, “I don’t want you to teach me anymore. You’re not being nice.” As she returned to the shore, two adult figures lounged nearby, engrossed in their books.
Are they my parents?
“Don’t go, I was just playing around,” the boy pleaded from behind.
Ignoring him, she continued towards the shore until she felt a tug on her left arm. “Come on, Sammy.”
Sammy? Who calls me that?
As his hand gripped her arm, a sharp, searing pain shot through her elbow, snapping Samara awake from the enigmatic memory, her heart pounding and a myriad of questions swirling in her mind.
Samara jolted awake with a sharp cry, clutching at her left arm where an inexplicable pain had surged and then faded, leaving behind an unsettling warmth. Confusion clouded her thoughts as she lay in the dimly lit room, the sun now a distant memory in the western sky. Her stomach rumbled, echoing the house's emptiness, but her mind was preoccupied, replaying the strange memory that had interrupted her slumber.
Why can't I remember going to a lake with my parents? And who was that boy?
The memory was vivid yet alien, a fragment of a past she couldn't claim as her own. The sound of the front door creaking open broke her trance, and the soft chatter of Cyril and Adelia soon filled the quiet space. Their silhouettes appeared in the doorway, their eyes sparkling with relief and excitement at seeing her awake.
The children's energy was infectious, their warm embrace enveloping Samara, grounding her in reality.
*
Mikhail abruptly rose from his armchair, scattering papers and inkwells in a clatter. Mikhail's heart pounded in his chest, his mind reeling from a long-forgotten memory.
Why am I remembering this now?
Pulling his left sleeve up, he inspected his arm but found no mark or blemish to explain the sudden sharp pain that had awoken him. A sense of unease gnawed at him as he covered his arm again.
Determined for answers, Mikhail approached a bookshelf beside his desk and deftly pulled a blue-bound book. The shelf clicked and slid aside, revealing a hidden passageway bathed in shadows. As he stepped into the passage, Theo followed him, concern etched on his face.
“Your Grace is something—?” Theo began, but Mikhail, consumed by his quest for answers, marched forward without a word, Theo trailing behind.
With a snap of his fingers, Mikhail summoned orbs of blue flame that danced in the air, casting an eerie light on the ancient stone walls as they descended deeper into the mansion's secrets.
Reaching the dungeon, a sense of foreboding enveloped Mikhail. The convergence spell rune, etched into the floor's heart, emitted a faint blue glow—an anomaly that defied explanation. His steps quickened, drawn to the mysterious luminescence.
Theo lingered at the threshold, his eyes wide with disbelief. Never in his years had he seen the runes activate without a spoken incantation. The scene unfolding before him was unprecedented.
Mikhail knelt by the glowing rune, his expression a mix of curiosity and concern. As he gently touched it, the light flickered, struggling against an unseen force before extinguishing completely under his touch.
Theo gracefully joined his hands and chanted a sweet-sounding incantation. Between his palms, a sphere of light began to manifest, growing from a mere spark to a luminous orb of verdant green. With a subtle upward gesture, he sent the orb aloft, its eerie radiance spilling into the dungeon's every nook and cranny. Shadows danced along the ancient stone walls, creating a tableau of light and darkness that added a haunting beauty to the room.
Hesitantly, Theo stepped toward Mikhail, still kneeling beside the dormant rune.
"Your Grace?" His voice, laced with unspoken concerns, resonated in the cold, damp air of the dungeon.
Mikhail lost in his thoughts, barely registered Theo's presence. His eyes were fixated on the rune, now lifeless and unremarkable, a stark contrast to the mysterious light it had emitted moments ago. A crease of frustration formed on his brow, a silent testament to the questions swirling in his mind.
“I need Aldric to return to the mansion at once,” Mikhail commanded, his voice unwavering yet tinged with a cold urgency that echoed off the dungeon walls.
Theo, ever logical, reminded him, “Your Grace, he is needed in Aeloria to assist Belmont and the others with their mission.” His words were firm, a subtle nudge to ground Mikhail in the present realities.
Mikhail’s thoughts momentarily shifted from the rune to the pressing matters. “Right,” he muttered, barely audible in the cavernous room.
A silence, heavy and contemplative, settled between them. The dungeon absorbed their conversation with its high, vaulted ceilings and rough-hewn stone floors. The green light from Theo's orb cast an eerie glow, painting their faces ghoulish shadows.
“The items have been sent to Aeloria, and everything is set for the High Priest’s visit tomorrow,” Theo reported, breaking the contemplative quiet.
Mikhail nodded, acknowledging Theo's words, but his mind was adrift, caught in the tides of uncertainty stirred by the memory and the rune. The previous convergence spells had never manifested such phenomena; this deviation from the norm was baffling and unsettling.
Theo, sensing Mikhail’s distraction, pressed on with practical matters. “Should I tell them to prepare it, Your Grace?”
Mikhail’s response was almost an afterthought, his trust in Theo's judgment evident despite his tumultuous thoughts. “Yes, have them prepare it.”
A look of understanding flashed across his face as Theo pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He had long since learned to read the Duke's silences and his words. “I will have the maids deliver the tea and lunch to your study, then,” he offered a final gesture of normalcy in an otherwise extraordinary situation.
Mikhail, now consumed by his thoughts, barely acknowledged Theo’s departure. He made his way to a large, archaic wooden desk near the base of the dungeon stairs. Its surface was littered with parchments scrawled with arcane symbols and ancient scripts that could only be read by those loyal to the Ducal bloodline. He began sifting through them, each document a potential key to unraveling the enigma that plagued him.
Lost in contemplation, Mikhail's eyes scanned the parchments before him, each word and symbol, hopeful for a clue to the questions plaguing him. Mikhail's frustration simmered beneath the surface, a turbulent undercurrent that threatened to breach his stoic exterior.
His mind echoed with a singular thought: I need Aldric’s insight. The realization that answers were beyond his immediate reach only stoked the flames of his vexation. In a rare moment of unrestrained emotion, Mikhail grasped an empty inkwell. Blue light, pulsating and vibrant, enveloped his hand, causing the glass to warp under the intensity of his power. With a flicker of anger, he hurled it against the wall, watching as it shattered into countless pieces, each a mirror to his fragmented thoughts.
Resolutely, he forced himself to set aside the enigma, redirecting his focus to the impending visit with the High Priest. Lost in his troubled musings, he didn't notice the fleeting glimmer of light that danced within the rune, a spectral flicker that vanished as swiftly as it had appeared as he ascended the stairs.
Upon entering his study, the familiar scent of lavender wafted toward him, a subtle reminder of the world beyond his inner turmoil. He noticed Pascal, ever attentive, pouring tea with practiced ease.
Mikhail sank into the nearest couch, the fabric’s soft embrace a welcome contrast to the dungeon’s cold stone. He accepted the cup of tea, its warmth seeping into his hands, a small but potent gesture of comfort. With each sip, the heady aroma of lavender enveloped him, weaving a tapestry of calm that slowly unraveled the knots of tension within him.
For a brief moment, Mikhail allowed himself to drift away from the labyrinth of his worries. In the stillness of his study, with the lingering essence of lavender as his companion, he found a fleeting respite from the storm of questions that besieged him.
Mikhail's thoughts drifted to childhood memories as the tea worked its magic. His mind wandered to the gardens of the Ducal mansion, the scent of roses in the air and the vibrant colors of the petals dancing in the breeze. He remembered running through the halls with Belmont, the two laughing and playing with the servant's children.
But even those fond memories were tinged with a sense of melancholy. Mikhail's childhood had been cut short by the weight of responsibility that came with his birthright. He had been groomed from a young age to become the Duke of the Northern Territories. The weight of that responsibility had only grown heavier with time, and now, in the face of the unanswered questions that plagued him, it felt almost unbearable.
He set the teacup on the table and leaned back against the couch, closing his eyes. He focused on breathing, allowing himself to sink deeper into the cocoon of calm the tea had created around him. Slowly, the thoughts and worries that had plagued him began to fade, replaced by a sense of stillness and peace.
He looked to Pascal, who had been waiting patiently for him to finish his tea. "Prepare my horse," he said, his voice steady and unwavering. "I'm going to pay a visit to Zandel Forest. I need to see what is out there and figure out what drew the church into that area."
Pascal nodded, his expression serious. "Very well, Your Grace. I'll have everything prepared."
Mikhail made his way to his chambers to change into his riding gear. As he dressed, he remembered the stories he had heard about Zandel Forest, stories of ancient magic and monsters that resided within its borders. Knights were often sent to patrol the forest's edge but never ventured into it, as the land had always lain empty. No one dared to build on the land due to the rumors that it was home to monsters and that it was cursed. He couldn't remember how those tales came to be but had always thought of them as nothing more than tales to scare children, but now he couldn't be so sure.
Once dressed, he made his way to the stables, where Pascal was waiting with his horse, along with three knights. The animal was a sleek black mare, solid and sure-footed. It was a gift from his father, and Mikhail had spent countless hours training it himself. He stroked her silky mane, feeling a sense of affection and pride for the animal.
"Are we truly riding to Zandel Forest, Your Grace?" A young Knight with shaggy brown hair and hazel eyes asked him.
"Yes, Ivan. Is there a problem?"
The young Knight hesitantly shook his head, clearly uneasy about the journey.
"What troubles you, Ivan? Speak."
"The stories about monsters and ghosts inside the forest..." Ivan began to say before being cut off by another Knight.
"Please excuse Ivan, Your Grace. He is still young and believes those stories."
"I cannot say what we will and will not find within Zandel, but if the Holy Knights managed to enter, I can't imagine it is such a frightful place," Mikhail added, his comment eliciting a soft chuckle from the three Knights, easing some of their tension.
He then mounted his horse and nudged her forward, feeling her muscles tensing beneath him. He urged her into a gallop with a deep breath, his thoughts racing alongside him.
What will we find in there?
They rode at full speed, and soon, the woods appeared ahead of them; the trees were tall and thick, their branches reaching out like skeletal fingers toward the sky. He turned to look at his Knights,
He had expected to be filled with dread as they entered, but instead, he was surprised to find that the woods weren't as scary as the stories he had heard. Instead of the dark decay he had imagined, the forest was lush and green, and the gentle breeze that stirred the leaves produced a tranquil melody.
But despite its beauty, there was something wrong here. Once the wind settled down, an eerie quietness settled over the forest. No birds chirped in the trees, or animals rustled through the underbrush. It felt almost like a wave of silence had swept over it like a blanket, enclosing it in an unnatural stillness.
They rode for another hour before finally reaching the heart of Zandel Forest, where they paused momentarily to take in their surroundings. The sun filtered through the canopy of trees above them, casting dappled shadows on the ground below that appeared so deep and fundamental that one would believe you would fall through the earth if you stepped into them. Still, no living creature made noise here - apart from themselves - yet Mikhail could feel something stirring hidden away among the ancient trees, some presence more potent than anything he had ever encountered.
He dismounted his horse and unsheathed his sword. The three knights behind him quickly followed suit, flanking him with their swords drawn. Mikhail glanced around them, feeling as though they were being watched. Something deep within him urged him forward toward whatever it was that was tracking them.
Comments (1)
See all