Present Chronicle (Monastery, Year 0)
I awaken with a start, the echo of ancient drums still thrumming in my mind. No such drums exist here; only the slow drip of condensation and the distant murmur of wind over the dunes. My candle wavers—once, twice—then steadies, as though answering some unspoken question. On the desk lies a sealed parchment bearing only a single rune I do not recognize: a circular spiral fractured by a lightning bolt.
I break the seal. Inside, a few lines scrawled in my own hand, though I have no memory of writing them:
"Beneath the crust of history lies a vault of bones, where kings sleep with their regrets."
The words feel both foreign and intimately mine. The Inner Echoes murmur in agreement:
"You dreamed this." "Or the vault called you."
I rise, draw on my cloak, and step into the corridor. No novice follows—she has learned to wait at the library's threshold, reluctant to disturb the summons in my eyes. I carry only my staff and a small lantern whose flame refuses to be extinguished.
Tonight, I will descend.
Retrospective Scene (Circa –95 Years, Vault of Forgotten Kings beneath Mirast's Ruins)
Below the grand plaza of Mirast lay a labyrinth older than any record. Its entrance was hidden beneath cracked marble slabs, marked by a mosaic depicting a crown shattered into seven pieces. Rumor held that the vault was sealed by the first coronation of the Korona Krwistego Orła, entombing within it the bodies—and the lingering memories—of seven tyrant kings who had ruled with terror and ambition.
My mission, ordered by the Rada Dziesięciu, was to retrieve one of the Fragmented Crowns: a piece said to contain the distilled regret and power of a fallen monarch. Only by mastering such a shard could we hope to protect Va'rakan from the encroaching ambitions of Mirast's blooded houses. I led a covert team: two shadow-mages from Orisylwia trained in silent passage, an eter-forger from Drak'Ur, and a scout who had once served the Korona.
We gathered at midnight beneath the Silver Arch, where the moonlight split through a half-collapsed dome of glass. I bent low and pressed my staff's rune to the mosaic; the stones sighed and shifted, revealing a spiral stair. The air that emerged was stale with dust and old incense. I extinguished my lantern; the Orisylwian mages murmured a binding spell that veiled our passage from detection.
Descending, the stairs wound deeper than mortal hearts dared remember. Each step trembled with the weight of centuries. At intervals, niches held statues of the seven kings, each carved with exquisite detail: a bejeweled crown, fallen mask, and eyes that seemed to follow intruders. The scout carried oil to reveal hidden runes; he traced patterns that lit with phosphorescent blue—warding runes to deter the unworthy.
After an hour we reached the Vault Chamber: a vast hall carved from black obsidian, its pillars etched with scenes of conquest and lament. In its center, atop a marble dais, rested the Fragmented Crown: a single gilded circlet cracked into three uneven segments, each engraved with faded glyphs. Around it lay skeletal remains in ceremonial garb, hands outstretched as though pleading.
Eager, the eter-forger advanced, murmuring prayers to pry the crown loose. But I raised my hand. "Patience." My voice echoed unnaturally in the cavern. I had seen in visions—born of that dream last night—the king who wore this circlet: a tyrant who slaughtered his brothers in cold blood, only to weep at the cost of his throne. His regret hung heavy in these stones.
I approached the dais barehanded. The air turned frigid, breath crystallizing on my staff. The mages formed a circle around me, weaving wards to contain whatever force lay dormant. I touched the crown. A flash of pale gold blinded me, and I heard a voice, hollow and remorseful:
"Do you bear the weight of rule, or do you flee from regret?"
I staggered. I had not spoken that question aloud. My mind reeled as memories flooded me: fields dyed crimson with the tyrant's battles; orphans wailing at palace gates; the hollow throne room where the king knelt alone. Pain throbbed at my temples. I forced myself to steady my breath, to distinguish my own thoughts from those of a corpse-king.
Behind me, the scout whispered, "Master, the wards falter." I nodded. The obsidian pillars began to glow with red veins, as though the chamber itself pulsed with anger. The king's memory stirred, a vengeful tide. I closed my eyes and whispered a sealing rune, drawing the regret into my staff's Memory Stone. Pain tore through my arm as the force resisted. The eter-forger chanted, weaving raw ether into the ward.
With a final keening cry, the pavilion of regret collapsed back into silence. I clutched the Fragmented Crown to my chest, already feeling its weight. It was colder than any steel, heavier than any gold. The glyphs glowed once, then dimmed.
We gathered the crown piece and prepared to leave. But the scout did not move. I turned. His eyes were wide with horror. "The bones…" he whispered. "They rise."
From the floor cracks erupted black roots of obsidian, twisting around skeletal wrists and ankles. The remains sat upright, glowing with flickers of red energy. Seven specters, each wearing part of a shattered crown, stepped toward us, swords drawn from bone.
The mages hurled spells of binding; the eter-forger unleashed a stream of molten ether that carved lines across the cavern floor. I raised my staff, channeling the Memory Stone's sealing power. Bright azure light clashed with the specters' red aura. The walls trembled.
I realized then that the vault was alive—its purpose to test intruders by animating the past's regrets. Each specter embodied a facet of tyranny: betrayal, cruelty, paranoia. We were trapped in a crucible of memory and magic.
I shouted to the team: "Focus on the crown! Tear it free and we leave!" The eter-forger advanced through the phalanx of ghosts, slashing at their ephemeral forms. The mages wove protective barriers around me. I pressed the Fragmented Crown against the dais; it clung like cold flesh.
With a final surge of will, I invoked the sealing rune a second time. Light exploded outward, fracturing the specters into motes that scattered against the walls. The roots collapsed. Silence fell.
We fled up the spiral staircase as if chased by a thousand regrets. Outside, the shattered dome spilled moonlight onto our figures. We mounted horses and rode through silent streets, the crown piece strapped to my chest.
In the desert night, I dared not breathe until we reached Va'rakan's borders. There, at dawn, I delivered the fragment to the Rada Dziesięciu, swearing I had faced its guardians and lived. Only I knew the truth: that a part of that tyrant king's remorse now pulsed within me, a constant reminder that power and regret are entwined like twin serpents.
Present Chronicle (Monastery, Year 0) — Conclusion
I return from memory's depths with trembling hand. The Fragmented Crown rests upon my desk, its crack silent yet insistent. I have sealed its power within my Memory Stone—but at what cost? My dreams are haunted by that hollow voice, and my thoughts recoil at the weight of borrowed regret.
I close the chapter:
"In the vault of forgotten kings, I found no glory—only the chains of memory."
The candle gutter dies. Outside, the wind silences the dunes. I am left with this truth: some crowns must remain undisturbed.