The sun over Aethelgard hangs low and blood-red today, casting long, distorted shadows that seem to reach for my ankles with grasping fingers. It is the fifteenth of June, in the year of our Lord 2026, though time feels irrelevant here in the Shattered Expanse. I have been walking for three days, ever since I left the relative safety of the trade outpost at Oakhaven. My supplies are dwindling—hard tack and dried apples do little to lift the spirit—but my resolve remains ironclad. I am Hermes, known to some as the Wandering Quill and to others as a thorn in the side of the Magisterium, and I am here to uncover the truth behind the legends of the Weeping Citadel.
The air is thick with the scent of wet moss and ozone, a telltale sign that powerful ley lines are converging nearby. My boots, reinforced with wyvern hide, sink slightly into the mulch with every step, silencing my approach. I need that silence. The Expanse is not empty. It is a sprawling graveyard of civilizations that dared to wield magic they could not control. I adjusted the strap of my satchel, ensuring my inkwell and parchment are secure. If I find the Citadel’s central archive, I will need to record everything. No one would believe a simple verbal account of the wonders—and horrors—that lie within these ruins.
The Descent into Shadow
As I crested the final ridge before the valley, the structure finally came into view. It is not merely a castle; it is a wound in the landscape. The Weeping Citadel earns its name from the constant cascade of water that flows down its black obsidian walls, weeping from the fractured masonry like tears from a grieving giant. The architecture is defiant, spires twisting upward like jagged bones piercing the sky. It is a testament to the arrogance of the Old Kings.
I paused to catch my breath, leaning against a gnarled ironwood tree. My hand drifted to the hilt of my dagger, a simple blade engraved with runes of minor protection. It wouldn’t stop a drake-wyrms, but it offers comfort against the creeping shadows. From this vantage point, I could see the main gate, or what remained of it. It was a gaping maw, inviting and terrifying all at once. I noted the lack of vegetation near the entrance. The ground was scorched, barren earth—a clear indication of a residual warding spell. This place is not asleep; it is merely waiting.
I checked my compass, but the needle was spinning lazily, useless in the presence of such concentrated magical interference. I would have to navigate by instinct and the stars tonight. The wind picked up, carrying with it a sound that was almost like voices. A low, melodic chanting that sent a shiver down my spine. I tightened my cloak. It was just the wind whistling through the broken arches… I hope.
The Sentient Fog
Making my way down the slope was treacherous. Loose gravel threatened to send me tumbling into the ravine below. Halfway down, the temperature plummeted. A thick, unnatural fog rolled in from the Citadel, swallowing the valley floor in a heartbeat. This wasn’t ordinary weather; it was a manifestation. The Aethelgard grimoires speak of the ‘Breath of the Keepers,’ a defensive mechanism designed to disorient intruders.
I pulled a piece of sunstone from my pouch, channeling a trickle of my own mana into it. It glowed with a warm, amber light, pushing back the grey gloom by a few feet. The fog reacted. It swirled aggressively, coalescing into shapes that mimicked human faces—twisted, screaming visages that lunged at me before dissolving into mist. I kept my eyes forward, focusing on the rhythm of my breathing. To engage with the manifestations is to give them power. They feed on fear, on hesitation.
I recited the Litany of Focus under my breath, an old adventurer’s trick to ground the mind. The faces lost their sharpness, becoming mere shapes in the smoke. I pressed on, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. The sunstone flickered warningly. My mana reserves were lower than I thought. The teleportation circle I used to bypass the outer patrols must have taken more out of me than I realized. I would need to be careful. If I ran into a construct or a guardian beast, I would have to rely on steel rather than spells.
The Guardian of the Gate
I reached the base of the walls just as the red sun dipped below the horizon. The twilight here is not peaceful; it is a bruised purple color, ugly and bruised. The massive wooden gates, once reinforced with adamantine bands, were rotted and hanging off their hinges. However, the space between them was not unguarded.
A construct stood in the center of the archway. It was a hulking mass of bronze and stone, standing at least nine feet tall. It was dormant, its head bowed, but the faint blue glow of a runic core could be seen in its chest cavity. A ‘Colossus of the Dawn,’ a rare type of golem designed to protect the royal lineage. I froze. If it activated, I was done for. I am no warrior-knight; I am a scout, a scribe.
I looked for a bypass. The walls were too smooth to climb, and the magic radiating from them felt slick and oily. That left the gate. I examined the construct closely. It was old, very old. Vines had wrapped around its legs, and moss grew in the joints of its armor. There was a small maintenance hatch on the side, near the knee joint. It was rusted shut. I debated risking a spell to loosen the mechanism, but the magical feedback might wake the thing up.
Instead, I chose the path of the rogue. I moved silently, stepping on the roots of the ironwood trees that had encroached upon the plaza. I moved inch by inch, holding my breath until my lungs burned. I slipped past the giant, my shoulder brushing against the cold metal of its shin. I waited for the grinding of gears, the flash of blue light. Nothing. The slumber of the ancients is deep. I was inside the outer perimeter.
The Inner Courtyard
Once inside, the fog dissipated, replaced by a heavy, suffocating silence. The courtyard was overgrown, but not with weeds. The plants here were strange—flowers with petals like razors, vines that pulsed with a faint violet rhythm. This was a druid’s garden, corrupted by the dark sorcery that felled the Citadel. I had to watch my step. One wrong move could trigger a thorn-vine trap or summon a spore-beast.
In the center of the courtyard stood a dry fountain, the statue in the middle broken. It depicted a figure holding a book, but the head was missing. Water still trickled from the base, collecting in a pool that reflected the starless sky. I approached it, drawn by an inscription on the base. It was in High Archaic, a dialect I have spent years studying.
“To he who seeks the truth, know that knowledge is a burden heavier than stone. Drink only if you wish to see the past as it was, not as you wish it to be.”
Warning inscriptions are standard in Aethelgardian ruins, usually meant to scare off tomb robbers. But I am not here for gold. I dipped my finger into the water. It was ice cold. I touched it to my tongue. Immediately, my vision swam. The courtyard faded, replaced by images of fire and screaming. I saw the Citadel in its prime, then I saw the sky tear open. I saw the King, his face twisted in madness, drawing power from the Void. It was overwhelming, a rush of psychic trauma that nearly brought me to my knees. I pulled back, gasping, wiping the water from my lips.
The vision confirmed the rumors. The Citadel wasn’t destroyed by invaders; it was destroyed from within by a king who tried to rewrite reality. My hands shook as I pulled out my journal. I scribbled notes by the light of my sunstone, my handwriting hasty and jagged. This changes everything. The Magisterium claims the destruction was a result of a barbarian siege. They are lying. They are hiding the fact that the forbidden magic the King used is the same magic they are currently experimenting with in the deep vaults of the capital.
The Archive Entrance
I needed to get to the lower levels. The vision had shown me a spiral staircase behind the throne room dais, leading down to the Scriptorium. That is where the royal journals would be kept. I navigated the garden, avoiding the pulsing violet flowers. I found the entrance to the main keep. The doors were gone, likely blown out during the cataclysm.
The interior was a cavernous hall of black stone. The roof had partially collapsed, allowing moonlight to filter through in ghostly beams. Dust motes danced in the light. I moved toward the dais at the far end. The throne was a massive chair of iron, now rusted. Behind it, I found the mechanism. A hidden lever disguised as a gargoyle’s tongue.
It required strength to move. I braced my shoulder against the stone and pushed. With a grinding screech that echoed deafeningly through the hall, the mechanism gave way. A section of the floor behind the throne slid away, revealing a dark, spiral staircase descending into the bowels of the earth. A cold draft wafted up, smelling of stale paper and decay.
This is it. The moment of truth. I looked back at the courtyard one last time. The Colossus outside remained still. The night was quiet. I lit my lantern, the flame sputtering to life. I am tired, and my mana is depleted, but I cannot stop now. If the records below confirm what the vision showed me, I will have to leave Aethelgard. I will have to take this knowledge to the Free Cities, where the Magisterium cannot reach me.
I took the first step down into the dark. The stone steps were slick with moisture. My journey is far from over; in many ways, it is only just beginning. I am Hermes, and tonight, I walk into the belly of the beast to read the last words of a dead king.
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