The opening behind the sarcophagus revealed a spiral staircase descending deep into the bowels of the palace, each stone step worn by centuries of furtive footsteps. The air grew heavier, filled with the scent of damp earth and ancient suffering. Idril led the way with a familiarity that spoke of countless journeys through these secret passages, her lantern casting dancing shadows on the rough stone walls.
"Valthor believes he controls everything under his dominion," Idril said, her voice a hoarse whisper blending with the sound of her steps. "But even the most vigilant tyrants have blind spots. These tunnels are ours."
Lysarion stayed close to Elyria, his senses alert for any danger. "And why would a royal archivist risk her life against the king she serves?"
Idril paused for a moment, her face illuminated by the lantern taking on a somber expression. "I do not serve Valthor. I serve the memory of what Vyrnathar once was, and the hope of what it still can become. And as for risks..." She rolled up the sleeve of her robe, revealing marks of magical burns that twisted along her arm like poisonous vines. "Some of us paid the price for our resistance long before today."
They emerged into a narrow corridor with iron doors on both sides. Through those that were open, dusty archives and artifacts covered in cobwebs could be seen. "The Forgotten Archives," Idril explained. "Where Valthor keeps the truths he does not want anyone to remember."
Aelinor ran her fingers along the spine of an ancient book, her face lighting up with recognition. "These are the journals of the first guardians of Nyxara. I thought they had all been destroyed."
"Valthor destroys only the copies," Idril replied. "He keeps the originals here, where he can study them in secret. Knowledge is power, and he is addicted to both."
As they spoke, a metallic sound echoed through the corridor — the distinct noise of armor moving in unison. Idril quickly extinguished her lantern, plunging everyone into darkness. "The royal guards," she whispered. "They make regular rounds here. Valthor doesn't fully trust even his 'Perfected'."
They squeezed into a dark niche between the shelves, holding their breath as the heavy footsteps approached. Through a crack between the shelves, Elyria could see four guards in ornate armor, each carrying spears that glowed with magical energy. Their movements were too precise, too mechanical to be entirely human.
"More of Valthor's creations," Kaelith whispered in her mind. "Men whose souls are gradually replaced by magic. They do not tire, they do not doubt, they do not disobey."
When the guards passed, Idril led them out of the hiding spot. "We need to split up here," she announced, pointing toward two different corridors. "Caelan and Lysarion with Elyria to the dungeons. Aelinor and Sarynne with me to Valthor's chambers."
Aelinor seemed about to protest, but Idril cut her off. "The third key is in a chamber that requires pure Nyxara blood to access. You are the only one here who can open it. And the priestess," she added, looking at Sarynne, "your ability to sense magical energies will be crucial to avoid Valthor's traps."
Elyria felt a chill run down her spine at the thought of separating from her mother in this dangerous place, but she knew Idril was right. "We meet in the throne hall in two hours," she said, her gaze meeting Aelinor's. "If either of our teams fails..."
"Then the other completes the mission alone," Aelinor finished, her voice carrying a rare honesty. "Revenge is no longer about our family, daughter. It's about saving Vyrnathar from itself."
The group separated in silence, each member carrying the weight of what needed to be done. As Elyria followed Caelan and Lysarion down the corridor leading to the dungeons, she felt Kaelith stir in her mind with growing unease.
"There is a darkness in these walls even I do not recognize," the entity whispered. "Something ancient and hungry that Valthor has awakened from its slumber."
The corridor opened into a large circular chamber with several iron doors radiating from the center. In the middle of the room, a black stone fountain gushed a silver liquid that emitted a soft glow. Caelan stopped, his pale face tense.
"This wasn't here the last time I came," he whispered. "This room used to be a guard checkpoint."
Lysarion approached the fountain cautiously, his daggers ready. "The liquid… it looks alive."
As they watched, the silver surface of the water began to bubble and form images—scenes of the Varnholt massacre, but from angles Elyria had never seen. She saw Aelinor not as a victim, but as an active participant, directing Valthor's guards with precise gestures while holding a small child—Elyria—by the hand.
"What kind of sorcery is this?" Elyria whispered, feeling the ground give way beneath her emotional feet.
"Memory Water," Kaelith replied, his voice heavy with a mix of fascination and fear. "It does not show what happened, but the truth behind what happened. Valthor must have created it to revisit his own crimes."
The images in the water shifted, showing Valthor and Aelinor arguing heatedly the night before the massacre. "You promised she would be unharmed!" Aelinor screamed in the images. "She is my daughter, Valthor!"
"And she will be," Valthor responded, his voice distorted by the magical water. "As long as you do your part. The sacrifice must appear real, Aelinor, or no one will believe it."
Lysarion pulled Elyria away from the fountain. "Don't look at it. It may just be another of Valthor's traps to weaken you emotionally."
But the images had already planted seeds of doubt in Elyria's mind. She remembered fragments of that night—her mother taking her to a secret hiding place, not out of fear, but with fierce determination. She recalled hearing the screams not with the terror of a child, but with the resignation of someone who knew it was necessary.
"Memories have always been your weakness, Elyria," Kaelith whispered, his voice strangely soft. "Now you must decide whether the truth will be your salvation or your destruction."
Caelan pointed to one of the doors. "This leads to the dungeons where Rhaevan is held. But after what we've seen…" He hesitated, his gaze full of compassion. "Perhaps you need a moment."
Elyria straightened her shoulders, feeling the weight of her revelations, but also a newfound clarity. "No. Rhaevan needs us. We can deal with the past after securing the future."
As Caelan worked on the complex lock of the door, Lysarion stood beside Elyria. "No matter what that water showed," he said softly. "You are who you choose to be, not who others molded you to be."
The door creaked open, revealing a staircase descending into the darkness of the dungeons. The smell of blood and despair rose to meet them, a silent testament to the suffering that unfolded in these depths.
Elyria took a deep breath, feeling the shadows around her stir in response to her renewed determination. The past could wait. For now, there was Rhaevan to save and a tyrant to stop.
To be continued...