I follow the whisper down the hall.
With every step, it grows clearer—more insistent—like it wants me to find it.
ᛈᛚᛂᚨᛊᛂ ᛊᛏᛟᛈ.
I freeze.
The sound comes from the wall itself.
"What on earth…?" I whisper.
As I lean closer, I notice something beneath the stone—symbols scratched so small they're almost invisible, easy to miss unless you're looking for them.
ᚷᛟᛞᛊ ᛗᚢᛊᛏ ᛂᚨᛏ ᛊᛟ ᛏᚺᛂ ᛈᚨᚾᛏᚱᚤ ᛗᚢᛊᛏ ᛒᛂ ᛊᛏᛟᚲᚴᛂᛞ ᚨᛏ ᚨᛚᛚ ᛏᛁᛗᛂᛊ.
What the hell is this?
As my fingers brush the markings, a loud crack echoes through the hall.
I jump back just as the stone wall begins to shift—groaning, grinding—before pulling itself apart. The wall vanishes entirely, replaced by a heavy door carved from solid stone.
My heart pounds.
ᚷᛟ ᛒᚨᚲᚴ ᚾᛟᚹ.
The whisper is louder now—urgent.
Every instinct screams that I shouldn't be here. And yet… something pulls at me, deeper than fear.
"I can't turn back now," I whisper.
I push the door open.
It screams in protest, the sound sharp and ancient, like it hasn't been opened in years. Cold air rushes past me, and as it does, torches along the walls ignite one by one—burning with a deep, unnatural purple.
The light is bright. Unnaturally bright.
The room beyond looks like a bedroom.
A mattress sits against the far wall, untouched by dust, though the wood beneath it is rotting. When I brush the sheets, the fabric disintegrates beneath my fingers.
This place has been sealed away… but not abandoned.
A spotless desk stands nearby
I open the drawers.
The first holds glass vials, their contents long since changed by age.
The second contains writing tools unlike any I've seen.
The third holds a journal.
The title on its cover is written in the same strange symbols.
ᛂᛪᛈᛂᚱᛁᛗᛂᚾᛏᛊ
I flip through the pages. Every word is written in that same language.
I can't understand any of it.
And somehow, that makes it worse.
"What is this place…?"
ᚱᚢᚾ ᚾᛟᚹ.
The whisper is no longer distant. It's right beside me now—a woman's voice, ethereal and panicked.
I turn toward a stone bookshelf lining the far wall. Deep scratches mark the floor beneath it, as if it's been moved before.
Without thinking, I grab it and pull.
The shelf tips.
"Shit!"
I dive out of the way as it crashes to the floor, missing me by inches.
Behind it is a perfectly framed doorway.
No door.
Beyond it lies something I can't name.
Glass tubing. Vials. Strange instruments. A structure framed in purple light beneath thick glass, as if something inside needs to be contained—or heated.
I circle it slowly, my skin crawling.
Then I see it.
A massive black mirror with purple hues standing upright, its surface swallowed by darkness. Purple symbols are carved across its frame.
ᛏᚺᛂ ᛈᚨᚾᛏᚱᚤ.
My breathing quickens.
This room is wrong.
I reach out and brush the black substance coating the mirror.
It vanishes at my touch.
The surface clears.
But I don't see my reflection.
ᚾᛟᛟᛟᛟᛟ — ᚷᛟ ᚨᚹᚨᚡ — ᚱᚢᚾ — ᚱᚢᚾ — ᚨᚾᛞ ᚾᛂᚡᛂᚱ ᛚᛟᛟᚴ ᛒᚨᚲᚴ.
The voice nearly screams.
And then I see them.
Humanoid figures—glowing purple—hanging from massive hooks like slaughtered animals. They would be human if not for how translucent they are… how their light flickers.
Some struggle.
Some hang limp.
Some have mouths open in silent screams, tears streaming down glowing faces.
I feel sick.
A door opens in the distance.
ᛞᛟᚾᛏ ᛚᛟᛟᚴ.
Light spills across the room beyond the mirror, revealing tables lined with sharp tools—knives, hooks, instruments meant for carving.
A towering figure enters.
It's enormous, draped in a stained apron, its form translucent like the others—but its eyes burn blue.
It walks among the hanging figures, inspecting them.
Choosing.
It grabs one—a woman. She struggles, kicks, fights—but she's strapped down on a table in moments.
The figure lifts a butcher's knife.
The blade rises and then comes down.
The table shakes as her arm is severed.
I can't hear her scream.
I want to vomit. I want to run. I can't move.
The butcher speaks, its voice deep and calm.
"ᛩᚢᛁᛂᛏ ᛞᛟᚹᚾ. ᚤᛟᚢ ᚨᚱᛂ ᛏᛟ ᛒᛂ ᚨ ᚠᛂᚨᛊᛏ ᚠᛟᚱ ᚨ ᚴᛁᚾᚷ. ᚨᛏ ᛚᛂᚨᛊᛏ ᚺᚨᚡᛂ ᛊᛟᛗᛂ ᛞᛂᚲᛟᚱᚢᛗ."
This is wrong.
This can't be real.
Suddenly, the figure turns.
It looks directly at me.
I stumble backward, panic overtaking me, tripping over shattered glass. I hit the floor hard, my head slamming against the table.
Pain flashes white.
"Nyra?"
Footsteps rush toward me.
"Roland?" I gasp. "Thank god—you're here."
I fall into his arms.
I pant. "That mirror—"
I turn.
The mirror is black again.
"Nyra, you hit your head," Roland says quickly. "Are you okay? Are you seeing things?"
My breathing slows. My heart steadies.
"I'm… I'm fine," I whisper.
It couldn't have been real. It can't be real.
"Can we please leave?" I ask.
He nods, helping me to my feet.
"I don't know why you wandered off like that," he says gently. "Come on."
As we walk through the halls, he hands me the water I left behind earlier. I drink greedily.
"Remember, Nyra," he says, "I'm going to help you. No matter what."
We reach the room again.
Relief washes over me.
Then—
"Roland," I whisper. "I feel sick."
My legs give out.
Then my arms.
Then everything.
I collapse in the center of the room, unable to move.
"Nyra?" He shakes me. "Nyra, stop this. Get up."
Footsteps echo behind us.
"Well done, peasant," a voice says coldly. "Almost flawlessly executed."
I don't need to look.
Only one person sounds like that.
Lord Caol.