The following afternoon, I set out once more in search of the silver lotus, because nothing says "civic duty" quite like braving thorns, marsh gnats, and the occasional spiritual guardian just to save a woman I barely knew.
This time, I took the eastern trail along the mountain slope. "Trail" was generous. It was more a vague suggestion of direction woven through nettles, ferns, and roots that clearly had it out for my boots. The further I went, the quieter it became. Not the peaceful sort of quiet. No. The tense, listening kind, like the trees were leaning in to hear me trip.
The air smelled of damp earth and moss, tinged with a faint sweetness. Wildflowers, or possibly decay. I couldn't tell anymore.
The silver lotus was rare, even endangered. Some said it bloomed once a year, hidden in the marshes past the Eindhari forest, guarded by spirits or worse. According to one particularly dramatic old book, it only revealed itself to the worthy. According to Hawthorne, it could make an excellent tincture and fetch a scandalous price if sold to perfumers.
I preferred my version. It made me feel more heroic.
"It's just a flower," I muttered as a bramble caught the hem of my skirt like an insult. "A very pretty, slightly magical flower. With, hopefully, no opinion on trespassers."
Not a true lotus, despite the name. Just a fragile, pale blossom with one hundred and eight slender petals. I only remembered that because I once spent ten minutes counting them in a textbook to avoid actual studying. The memory surfaced now, as I scoured the undergrowth like a determined forager or, more accurately, a desperate woman with a stubborn employer and even more stubborn curiosity.
Nearly half an hour in, I spotted a flicker of silver under an ancient oak's roots, just a shimmer, like a drop of moonlight fallen and forgotten.
I crouched, brushing away wet leaves with reverence and a little impatience. There it was.
The silver lotus.
Even knowing what I was looking for, it still didn't feel real. The petals were almost translucent, catching the sunlight in their folds like a veil of frost. It seemed to hum with quiet energy, a stillness so deep it pulled me closer.
"You're beautiful," I whispered before I could stop myself.
It didn't reply, of course, which was a relief. I didn't need a talking flower on top of everything else this week.
But for a moment, I thought I heard something shift behind me.
I froze. Then I shook my head. No birds. No wind. The forest had just gone silent again. Probably judging me for talking to plants.
Still, I glanced around once more before returning my focus to the blossom. My hands moved carefully as I took out the glass vial I'd brought, fingers steady as I plucked the flower's stem near the base gently, as if stealing from a sleeping god.
But as I straightened, a chill unfurled beneath my skin.
I wasn't alone.
The air had shifted, thicker now, heavy with something unseen. A slow prickle crawled down my spine. I turned, scanning the brush behind me. Trees loomed quietly, their trunks tall and watching, but the hush pressing against my ears was unnatural.
Then, just as I moved to leave, something caught the edge of my vision. Not silver or flower or root, something... shaped. Too geometric to belong to the forest.
Frowning, I stepped toward it. Thick ivy hung like a curtain over a sloping hillock, but beneath the veil, the outline of something manmade waited, half-swallowed by moss and time.
A door.
Its surface was dark with age, veined in lichen and damp. Symbols had been carved deep into the wood, spirals, angular runes, and mirrored glyphs. Not decorative. Not quite beautiful. Alive. They seemed to shift slightly when I wasn't looking directly at them, like they preferred to be watched only in the periphery.
I hesitated.
Whispers I'd heard from the people rose in my mind. Stories of forgotten tunnels beneath the mountain, relics of ancient invaders long gone. Some claimed treasure had been buried in those winding halls, sealed off when the ground turned sour. Others spoke of curses laid by persecuted witches. Traps and blood-wards meant to punish the world that cast them out.
A flicker of unease danced with something far more dangerous: curiosity.
I pressed a hand to my satchel, fingers brushing the cool metal of my amulet. The protection of my ancestors pulsed faintly against my chest. It had guarded me through worse. If there were lingering shadows here, old and bitter, then perhaps I wasn't walking in unarmed.
Gently, I tucked the silver lotus into the cloth-wrapped bundle at the bottom of my bag, then turned to the door once more.
The vines clung stubbornly to the surface as I peeled them back. Beneath them, the handle emerged. It was iron or bronze, worn smooth by centuries of weather and perhaps other hands. It was cold under my fingers.
I drew a deep breath. And pulled.
A groan echoed out as the door cracked open, its hinges shrieking in protest. Cold, stale air rushed out to greet me, thick with the scent of ancient stone and something older still. Earth that hadn't breathed sunlight in centuries.
Before me stretched a narrow passage, steep and black, carved directly into the mountainside.
No torches. No carvings. No light.
My heart thudded hard. The forest behind me felt farther away now, quieter still, as if even the birds dared not witness what came next.
There was no turning back now.
The sour scent deepened, metallic, earthy, tinged with something sickly sweet. My steps grew cautious, heels barely lifting from the ground, as if the stone beneath me might complain too loudly.
A bend in the tunnel loomed ahead, cloaked in shadow. I pressed closer to the wall, edging along it, hand outstretched like a blind woman. As I rounded the corner, the source of the stench became clear.
A figure.
At first, I thought it was a bundle of cloth, mildewed and discarded. But the light from my palm caught the edge of a boot. A body, slumped against the wall, half-covered in vines and cobwebs.
Lifeless. Long enough for the smell to settle in.
I froze.
He wore what might have once been the fine coat of a gentleman, though the rot had chewed away any dignity. His head lolled to one side, exposing the pale curve of a throat marked by time, or claws.
No coins. No jewels. Not even a pack or a knife. Just his body, abandoned and forgotten like a torn page from a book no one finished.
I swallowed hard, pressing a hand to my mouth. The gesture did little to block out the smell, or the questions blooming in my thoughts.
What had he come looking for?
I backed away slowly, careful not to disturb him. Some part of me wanted to run, to return to the sunlight and birdsong and the blessed normalcy of bramble-snagged skirts.
But the tunnel stretched on. Just a little farther, I told myself. Then I'll leave.
I walked forward. The stone beneath my boots changed. It felt smoother, almost polished. Someone had carved these walls long ago, not randomly but with purpose. Runes curled across the surface in faded lines, half-swallowed by damp and age. I paused, brushing my fingertips over one. It pulsed faintly beneath my skin, like a forgotten melody.
A sigil for concealment. Clever. Ancient. Cracked through the center.
I took another step. Then another.
A faint breeze brushed against my cheek. That shouldn't have been possible in a sealed tunnel. It was cold. Intentional. It passed me like invisible fingers running through my hair.
I held my breath. The glowroot shimmered weakly, casting twitching shadows across the walls that didn't quite match my movements.
The air seemed to shift.
And just ahead, in the gloom, something moved. Or was it just my imagination? I paused for a while to feel any possible presence, but none came.
So I took a few steps more, and the tunnel widened into a larger chamber. Then, a small scream escaped my lips.
Bones littered the stone floor, yellowed with age. Some skeletons slumped against the walls, others lay in twisted heaps, their remains fractured and broken. Many bore signs of violence: splintered ribs, cracked skulls, limbs bent at unnatural angles.
A cold unease settled in my stomach. This was no ordinary burial site. Whatever had happened here was brutal, deliberate.
My gaze drifted to the edges of the chamber, half-expecting something to stir in the shadows. But nothing moved, as expected. The silence pressed in, heavier than the darkness itself.
I forced myself to think.
If these bodies had been left here, someone had used this place for something unspeakable. Or perhaps something had lived here-something that killed. Was it still lurking, or had it faded into the past?
Beyond the scattered remains, a door stood at the far end of the chamber. It was old, its surface worn and scarred, the wood darkened by age. Any markings had long been erased. Yet somehow, its presence felt...wrong. Or maybe just forgotten.
Still, if there was anything worth finding, it would be beyond that door. A passage, perhaps, to another part of the mountain where rare herbs or lost relics might be found.
I hesitated, fingers tightening around the strap of my satchel. It was a risk.
But maybe a worthwhile one.
"Just five more minutes," I murmured under my breath.
I touched my amulet, waiting for the familiar pulse of warmth that warned me of danger. Nothing. It remained cool and quiet.
Taking a slow breath, I stepped forward, grip firm around my bag. A hum rose in my throat-not for comfort, this time, but focus.
Whatever lay beyond that door, I intended to find out.
A strange glow filled the chamber, flickering like candlelight despite the lack of any visible flame. It pulsed gently, breathing life into the stale air and casting wavering shadows across the damp stone walls. Dust hung suspended like pollen in water, catching the light in soft glimmers, as if the whole room had paused mid-inhale, unsure whether to welcome me or devour me.
At the center of it all, resting atop a raised stone platform, was the most breathtaking statue I had ever seen.
I'd expected bones. Maybe a chest of forbidden scrolls. Even a cursed blade sticking out of a skull would have made sense. But this?
This was art.
The statue was of a man, dressed in dark, regal attire. Though time had clearly gnawed at the edges of the cloth, the richness of the embroidery and the heaviness of the folds still whispered of nobility, and perhaps a tailor with far too much time on his hands. The cut of the garment was unlike anything I'd seen: layered, ornate, probably the sort of thing one only wore when trying to seduce someone or declare war.
But it wasn't the outfit that held me in place. It was his face.
Striking. Unnervingly lifelike. His features held that impossible balance of refinement and danger, like someone who could write poetry and kill you in the same afternoon, probably while wearing gloves. His lips were parted slightly, as though caught mid-sentence, and there was something about the way his lashes rested against his cheeks that made me feel oddly rude for staring.
It didn't feel like I was looking at a statue.
It felt like I was being watched by someone who had chosen, quite theatrically, not to open their eyes.
His long, wavy hair cascaded down past his shoulders, every strand carved with painstaking detail. Under the flickering light, they shimmered faintly, giving the eerie impression that they might actually move if I looked away.
I swallowed.
"Well," I whispered to the dust and silence, "you're either the world's loneliest aristocrat or I've just found the most extra corpse in history."
The silence, naturally, did not reply.
A strange thought needled at the edge of my mind: what was such an impossibly exquisite work doing here? Hidden away in some forgotten chamber beneath the mountain, where only moss, mold, and the occasional reckless apothecary assistant might stumble upon it?
Had it been stolen, smuggled here and sealed away to protect it? Was this a shrine? Or worse, a prison?
My fingers curled instinctively around the strap of my satchel. My amulet rested cold against my chest, silent and still.
I took a careful step forward, boots brushing against loose stones. If this statue was cursed, enchanted, or some unfortunate nobleman turned to stone by a scorned witch, I was about three paces too close already.
Naturally, I leaned in.
Of course I did. Because I was curious, mildly unhinged, and apparently had a deep, personal vendetta against my own safety.
I took a shaky breath and stepped back.
This wasn't just a statue. Not really.
The more I stared, the more I noticed little things, too many little things. The angle of his head wasn't rigid, like carved figures usually were, but slightly tilted, as if listening. His chest, while still, gave the illusion of breath caught in stillness. His hands rested across his torso in a way that was almost... patient.
"I am officially losing my mind," I whispered.
I half-expected the silence to answer.
The air shifted. Not violently, not even enough to stir my hair, but something changed. Something deep, subtle, like the air around a storm right before it breaks.
I backed away instinctively, one step, then another. The glow from the chamber dimmed slightly, pulsing softer, like a breath exhaled.
No. Not pulsing. Syncing. With my own heartbeat.
I glanced down at the faint light still flickering on my palm from the glowroot essence. It shimmered, then dimmed, as if reacting not just to me, but to something else in the room. Or someone.
My gaze flicked back to the statue.
Still motionless.
Still breathtaking.
Still-wrong.
It occurred to me, rather late in the process, that this might be a very good time to leave. I'd found the silver lotus, survived a suspicious door in a cursed tunnel, and I hadn't passed away of curiosity yet. There was no reason to push my luck.
And yet... I didn't move.
Something about him held me there, like a thread wrapped around my ribs. A presence. Not hostile, not exactly, but old. Dark. Heavy. Familiar in a way that didn't make sense.
"Alright," I said softly, clutching my satchel close to my side. "You're beautiful, unsettling, and possibly cursed. But I have herbs to process and soup to make, so if you're planning on springing to life and devouring me, now's the time."
No response.
Naturally.
The chamber remained still, watching. Waiting.
I took one final look at the strange man, burned his image into my mind, and turned toward the exit.
The moment my back faced him, a low sound brushed the edge of my hearing, so faint I might've imagined it.
A breath? No. Impossible!
I forced myself to look away, dragging my eyes across the rest of the chamber. Near the far wall, an old wooden table stood partially collapsed, its legs crooked and bowed under the weight of time. Glass flasks, metal instruments, and ceramic bowls lay scattered across its surface, some cracked, others fused with dust. Most of the contents had long dried up, reduced to crusted stains and brittle residue. A few bottles, however, remained sealed. Their murky liquids clung sluggishly to the glass, thickened with age like blood turned to syrup.
A laboratory.
The word rooted itself uneasily in my mind.
This wasn't a shrine. This wasn't a noble tomb. This was a workshop, a forgotten chamber of some alchemist's obsession. I'd heard stories, whispered half in jest, of those who sought to defy the natural order. Magicians who tried to achieve immortality and trap souls in flesh made by hand. False men born not of womb but of ritual.
My gaze slid, unwilling, back to the figure on the platform.
Perhaps the alchemist or whoever used this place fled. Or killed. Maybe the chamber collapsed, and the rest of the complex was buried somewhere deeper. Still, something felt unfinished
He hadn't moved.
Still as marble, lips slightly parted. Still beautiful. Still terrifying.
I swallowed hard. My throat was dry, and my thoughts were louder than they should've been.
No matter how I tried to reason with myself-how many excuses I made-some part of me refused to believe he was a statue. Something primal and quiet, buried deep, kept whispering the same thing.
This is not art.
This is not abandoned.
This is not over.
I took one final step back. Just one.
I didn't turn away, not completely. But my hand found my satchel strap and held it tight, and my body remembered what it meant to flee. My fingers brushed against my amulet again, waiting for it to warm, to hum, to scream.
It didn't.
And that terrified me more than if it had.
I looked at him once more, this beautiful stranger lying still as stone. Somewhere in the marrow of my bones, I knew.
This was no statue.
And most importantly...
No herbs. No glittering coins. Only shadows and shattered glass. My feet ached for nothing!