The polished flagstones of the Lord's manor gleamed under the sliver of moonlight filtering through the high arched windows. Each step Velthra took was deliberate, her posture a testament to inviolable authority, her silhouette a dark command against the pale stone. Elais followed, a shadow in her wake, his fingers idly tracing the hilt of his unstrung lute case, a silent promise of melodies yet to be played. Guards, their armour burnished to a dull gleam, offered only deferential glances as the she swept past, her presence an ancient law no one dared question.
He caught a faint scent, something akin to burnt roses and cold iron, clinging to Velthra like a second skin. It was exotic, alluring, and just a touch unsettling. Elais, ever the connoisseur of beauty, found it exquisitely captivating.
Velthra's private chambers were an opulent tapestry woven from velvet, glass, and shadows. Crimson drapes spilled from towering windows, pooling on a floor of dark, polished wood. Crystal chandeliers, unlit, hung like frozen tears, catching the faint moonlight and scattering it into fractured starlight on the walls. In the corners of the room, barely perceptible, arcane glyphs pulsed with a faint, internal light, like slow heartbeats in the quiet air. The burnt rose scent intensified here, mingling with something muskier, more intimate.
Behind a heavy velvet curtain, just beside a tall, ornate window, a soft, ethereal glow dimmed. Olaf.
Velthra turned, her eyes, dark as blood, fixing on Elais. A slow smile, like rising mist, unfurled on her lips. "Make yourself comfortable, Elais." Her voice was a low purr, a silken promise.
Elais offered a flourishing bow, his charm as effortless as breathing. "Lady Velthra, in your presence, comfort is a given. Though I suspect 'comfort' is but a prelude to something far more…stimulating." He moved closer, his gaze lingering on the elegant line of her neck, the intricate gold embroidery on her velvet robe.
She took a step back, a subtle challenge in her eyes, and began to undress. It was a performance, deliberate and controlling, each movement weighted with intent. The heavy velvet robe slipped from her shoulders, revealing skin as pale and smooth as polished moonstone. A chemise of fine, almost transparent silk followed, clinging to her curves before whispering to the floor. She watched him, a slow, predatory confidence in her gaze, as if daring him to look away, yet knowing he couldn't.
Elais allowed his own gaze to roam, appreciating the artistry of her form, the subtle flexing of muscle beneath delicate skin. He met her stare with an easy, knowing smile, his own eyes alight with a hunger she clearly recognized. "Such a vision," he murmured, his voice a low, resonant hum, like the first note of a perfect chord. "One could spend an eternity simply observing, and still find new wonders."
He moved closer, his steps as fluid as a river's flow, and reached for the silver clasp of her corset. His fingers, long and nimble, brushed against her skin, sending a subtle shiver through her. He trailed them lightly, as if mapping a melody on an instrument, from her collarbone down to her waist, whispering flirtatious lines, each one a perfectly placed note designed to flatter, to entice, to disarm. "They say beauty is fleeting, my Lady, but yours feels…eternal. A force of nature, perhaps?"
Velthra's breath hitched slightly, a small victory for Elais. She leaned into his touch, her eyes half-lidded, the controlled façade fracturing by degrees. The scent of burnt roses grew stronger, mingling with the natural musk of her skin. The air around them seemed to thicken, charged with an invisible current, the faint pulse of the glyphs in the corner subtly quickening.
The night unfolded in a symphony of touch and whispered words, a delicate dance of desire and control. Elais, with his silver tongue and golden voice, knew how to orchestrate pleasure. He played her body like his finest instrument, coaxing sighs and gasps, finding every hidden chord, every forgotten harmony. He reveled in the subtle tremor of her skin beneath his fingertips, the way her breath hitched when he kissed a certain spot, the rising tide of her arousal. He was a maestro of sensation, pouring himself into the act, not merely for his own gratification, but for the sheer artistry of it, for the fleeting beauty of shared ecstasy.
Velthra, for all her controlled demeanor, was a fierce, passionate lover. As their bodies intertwined, as the pleasure swelled to an unbearable crescendo, Elais felt a sudden, profound shift in the air. A surge of raw, untamed power erupted from her. Her eyes, open and focused on him in that moment of ultimate vulnerability, flickered, just for an instant, to an obsidian black, devoid of pupils, reflecting nothing but shadow. Her pale skin seemed to ripple, a faint, almost imperceptible shift, as if the very fabric of her being was momentarily unspooled and rewoven. It was a flash, gone as quickly as it appeared, but Elais saw it. He felt it—a cold, ancient power that spoke of things beyond mere humanity.
He didn't falter, didn't flinch. Instead, he deepened the kiss, allowing his own passion to meet hers, to absorb the shock of the revelation. When the climax broke, a wave of profound pleasure washing over them both, Velthra cried out, a sound simultaneously primal and ethereal.
Afterward, as they lay tangled in silk sheets, her head resting on his chest, Elias chuckled, his voice a low, throaty rumble. "My Lady," he whispered, trailing a finger along her arm, "you are dangerously enchanting." The words were light, flirtatious, hiding the sudden prickle of unease that had snaked its way down his spine. The fleeting glimpse of something inhuman had been startling, but Elais had faced worse. Besides, true beauty, especially the forgotten or broken kind, often had sharp edges.
Velthra's breathing slowed as sleep claimed her, a serene expression smoothing the edges of her formidable visage. Her arm, flung across his chest, revealed intricate tattoos—faintly glowing lines that pulsed with a dormant, deep-seated magic, like ley lines etched upon her very flesh. Elais watched the rise and fall of her chest, the gentle flutter of her eyelids. He let out a slow, controlled breath, the scent of burnt roses still heavy in the air.
He waited, listening to the soft, rhythmic cadence of her slumber. When he was certain she was deeply asleep, he slipped from the bed, moving with the practiced stealth of a shadow in the moonlight. His movements were fluid, silent, each footfall placed with the precision of a dancer. Olaf, from his hiding spot, gave a brief, almost imperceptible flicker of light – a silent acknowledgement, a watchful eye.
Elais padded across the luxurious chamber, his gaze sweeping over the opulent furnishings, searching. He knew what he sought, and he had a keen intuition for hidden things, for the secrets woven into the very fabric of a place. His eyes settled on a marble stand, gleaming faintly in the moonlight, positioned in a quiet alcove near the farthest wall. It was surrounded by a constellation of crystal rings, each one humming with a faint, almost inaudible energy—arcane security, precisely what he expected.
He approached the stand, his heart beating a steady, controlled rhythm. On its surface lay an ancient, fragile page, seemingly innocuous. But Elais knew better. It was the information, not the page itself, that held true power.
He reached into his lute case, drawing forth a transparent, ethereal blue form that shimmered like captured starlight—a spirit-instrument, a harp. It hummed softly as he held it, vibrating in harmony with his own innate connection to music. He held the spirit-harp aloft, his fingers hovering over its unseen strings. He began to hum, a low, captivating tune, a melody spun from pure intention and ancient understanding of resonance. It was a counter-chime, designed to unravel the wards, to sing them into temporary slumber. The crystal rings around the page flickered, their hum deepening, then slowly, hesitantly, fading. The air shimmered, and the subtle pressure of the wards lifted.
Carefully, Elais lifted the page. It was brittle, parchment yellowed with age, covered in twisting, intricate runes and faded, unsettling imagery. His fingers traced the delicate lines, his mind already working to interpret the ancient script.
At the center was a chilling, beautiful depiction: a winged creature, its form indistinct but undeniably powerful, depicted sleeping in a cradle of ice, beneath a symbol that resembled a gnarled, ancient tree, its branches reaching like skeletal fingers. The art was crude yet evocative, hinting at immense power dormant.
Below it, a series of runes, which Elais's mind, attuned to the echoes of primal magic and forgotten tongues, roughly translated into words that sent a shiver down his spine: "The relic heart lies within frost. Guarded by hollow worship. Awake it, and time forgets your name."
Frost. It pointed north. He knew the Vultarian Mountains, famed for their perpetual snowcaps and forgotten valleys, lay directly north of the city. Their domain was wild, untamed, and rumored to hold secrets as old as the world itself. The "hollow worship" hinted at a forgotten cult, perhaps a corrupted religion, protecting it. And "time forgets your name"… that was a warning of profound existential obliteration. This was no ordinary treasure hunt.
From Velthra's vanity table, he retrieved a slim charcoal stick and a fresh, clean sheet of parchment from his own travelling pack. He sat on the floor, cross-legged, the ancient page propped carefully on his knees. With swift, precise strokes, he began to sketch, replicating the runes and imagery with an almost obsessive detail. His fingers moved with a dancer's grace, translating the arcane symbols onto his own paper, committed to memory and seeking revelation.
As he finished the last intricate swirl of the tree-symbol, Olaf gave a soft, urgent pulse of light, brighter than before, a distinct warning.
Elais's head snapped up. A low hum, deeper and more insistent than the sleeping wards, echoed from the ceiling. He looked up, and his blood ran cold. The black warding glyph, directly above the bed where Velthra lay, had reactivated. It pulsed with a dull, malevolent glow.
Before he could react, Velthra stirred. Her voice, thick with sleep, murmured, "You're still awake…?"
Elais moved with the speed of a startled adder. The ancient page was back on its stand, the crystal rings already beginning to pulse softly, resealing the arcane security. The charcoal stick was tucked away, the sketched parchment rolled up and slipped beneath his pillow – all in the blink of an eye. He slid back under the silk sheets, wrapping an arm around Velthra, feigning a profound, contented sleep, his breathing deep and even.
Her eyes blinked open, slowly, deliberately. They still held a trace of sleep, but beneath it, a nascent awareness, and something else—a faint, ethereal glow, like embers deep within their depths. The black glyph overhead pulsed a dull crimson, a visual alarm, a silent testament to its reawakening. Velthra's suspicion was piqued, and Elais felt it, a cold tendril of awareness reaching out from her.
He whispered, his voice still thick with feigned drowsiness, "Just admiring the moonlight on your skin, my love. It makes you glow."
Velthra's lips curved into a faint, enigmatic smile, but beneath the sheets, Elais felt her fingers twitch. Not a lover's caress, but subtle, precise movements—arcane gestures, weaving unseen threads in the air, testing, sensing, confirming.
Elias closed his eyes, pretending to dream, as danger curled up beside him—warm, beautiful, and possibly ready to kill.