The winds above Vireloch howled like old gods whispering warnings. But beneath the southern hills, silence reigned.
Zareena stood at the edge of the descent, lantern held high. Doren beside her, muttering spells to keep the flame alive. Behind them, three trusted guards and a newly arrived novice mage named Ilyan—barely older than sixteen, but with eyes that glowed faintly when near magic.
It had taken a week to clear the entrance. The miners had thought they found an ore-vein. They had, in part. But behind the metallic shimmer of rare stone, they'd unearthed a sealed archway—smooth black rock, unscarred by time, untouched by tool.
Doren had called it "starforged."
Now, it opened with a breath of ancient air and a pulse of cold.
They descended.
The stone tunnel sloped downward, deeper than expected. The walls were covered in veins of ore—but also in faint carvings. Symbols no one could read. Some looked like runes. Others, like warnings.
After an hour's descent, they entered a chamber.
Massive. Silent. Circular.
In the center stood a pedestal, pulsing with a dull crimson glow. Above it, a crystal the size of a heart floated—beating slowly, rhythmically. Around the room were what looked like stone coffins—or sarcophagi—each etched with that same spiral symbol: a rose, thorns curling inward.
Zareena whispered, "It's… alive."
Doren trembled. "It's a bloodstone. Not from this realm. And that's not all—these tombs… they're not empty."
He approached the pedestal.
The pulse quickened. So did Ilyan's breath.
"I can hear it," the boy murmured. "It's whispering."
The chamber dimmed. For a heartbeat, Zareena felt something see her. Not with eyes, but with memory. A presence. Ancient. Hungry. Curious.
She took Ilyan by the shoulder. "We're not ready for this."
And just as they turned to leave, one of the sarcophagus lids shifted—just slightly.
Stone against stone.
Something, someone, was waking up
They hurriedly close the door and come back to town