"Follow me," one of the robed men said curtly as he brushed past Narvel without so much as a glance. His voice held no room for argument. As he descended a flight of narrow stone stairs behind the library's outer wall, Narvel stood motionless for a moment, staring blankly at the man's back as though trying to burn a hole through him with his eyes.
He didn't understand how it kept happening—how he was constantly being shoved into situations not of his choosing. Once again, he was being dragged into something far larger than himself, with no chance to protest or prepare.
'I still haven't gotten my reward too.'
"Put your legs to use, or I'll make them useless for you," the robed figure snapped without looking back, his words echoing slightly as they descended into his ears.
Narvel's jaw clenched. His face portrayed a blend of quiet rage and reluctant obedience.
At that moment, the only thing he wanted more than freedom was to find the mysterious stranger who had forced the cube into his hands and repay him with pain for all the chaos that followed.
'It's because I'm weak…' The thought sat bitterly in his chest, and with a begrudging sigh, he finally moved, trailing behind the robed man.
They walked for what felt like too long, sometimes circling some parts of a district until their path winded through stone passages and stairwells. The geometry of the route became difficult to track—corners seemed to repeat, and the air grew heavier, and denser with every step.
Then, without any transition, the scenery around them shifted. The stone corridors gave way to a rocky plain that sprawled beneath the twilight sky. There were no buildings, just jagged outcroppings and a barren stretch of earth ahead.
Before them, at the base of a looming hill, stood a cave with two flickering torches flanking its dark entrance. The torches burned with a faint blue flame, casting eerie shadows that danced unnaturally, as though reacting to an unseen rhythm.
"That's the entrance to the catacombs," the robed figure announced, pointing with the end of his staff.
"Are you going in with me?" Narvel asked, more out of cautious hope than expectation.
"It's your funeral, not mine," the man replied flatly, already turning to leave.
'Then I can probably run off once you leave…' the idea took root instantly.
But as if the robed figure could pluck thoughts right out of his skull, he said without turning around; "Thinking of running won't do you any good. The Master's mark is already on you. Either you complete the task or you die. With that mark, monsters and beasts will follow your scent. You'll never make it back. Not that you even know the way."
Narvel's breath caught in his throat.
He instinctively turned around—and sure enough, there was nothing but rocky terrain behind him. The once grand, imposing libraries that had surrounded the district were gone. Completely erased. No path. No road. It was as if the world had shifted the moment he stepped outside.
His heart pounded as uncertainty weighed down on him.
The robed man began walking back the way they had come—or what Narvel assumed to be that direction—but within seconds, his form blurred like smoke in the wind and vanished entirely.
Panic gripped Narvel. He dashed forward instinctively, trying to chase after the man's form, but found his feet still grounded in the same barren plain. Unlike the robed figure, his body couldn't pass through whatever barrier or illusion had been cast.
Now he was alone. Completely.
His eyes darted between the gaping cave entrance ahead and the vast, lifeless plain behind.
What was more dangerous? Remaining here and risking the attention of monsters drawn to his marked scent? Or heading into the unknown depths of a cave that could very well be crawling with those same beasts—or worse?
He considered backtracking, searching for some hidden way out. After all, he'd survived the Hollow Forest. That place was many times more terrifying than this barren landscape… right?
But doubt crept into his thoughts.
Something about this rocky plain felt wrong. The Hollow Forest was wild, eerie, and alive, chaotic in its own way, but this place… this was like standing in the eye of something watching.
Narvel took a long breath, his grip tightening around the crumpled map he'd been handed. 'The catacombs it would be—at least they offered direction, even if that direction led straight into darkness. Besides, I don't have to be alone.'
The moment the thought crossed his mind, he summoned Voidscale.
With a sudden ripple through the air, a small, angry beast snapped into existence in front of him, its body flickering with dark iridescence. It hovered just above the ground, its slit-pupil eyes narrowed and locked onto Narvel, baring its teeth like it was a heartbeat away from disfiguring his face with razor-sharp claws.
"What?" Narvel asked, sighing.
Voidscale's expression said it all—it was certain Narvel had once again intentionally forgotten about it, and it wasn't going to forgive him that easily.
"I didn't forget about you this time… things were just a bit too dangerous to let you out," Narvel explained, though he knew full well Voidscale wouldn't be pacified so easily.
The creature responded with a low growl, It was already planning something petty in retaliation—a vendetta being stored for the perfect moment.
"Hey, I can feel what you're thinking. Don't even think about doing anything stupid like that. Alright, I'm sorry. You stole half of my fruit back in the Hollow Forest, and I locked you up for a while. Let's just call it a truce, yeah?"
Voidscale turned its face away, floating in place with its back to him like a sulking child.
"Well, we don't have much time," Narvel said, eyes flicking to the ominous hill ahead. "We need to go into that cave. I'll need your keen senses to avoid danger in there, so I'm counting on you."
Voidscale finally turned to look at the entrance of the cavern, and its posture stiffened immediately. Something about that place—it was unnatural. The air was thin and tasted stale, like the mouth of something ancient.
A pulse of eerie energy radiated from within, curling around the creature like invisible thorns, prickling its scales and sending a ripple of instinctive rejection through its body. It did not want to go in.
"Well, suit yourself," Narvel said without missing a step. "I'm heading in there. You can stay out here if you want. It's just as dangerous." His tone was firm, not without care, but grounded in urgency.
With that, Narvel pressed forward. Step after step carried him closer to the mouth of the cave, where twin torches burned with a soft, blue flame, casting flickering shadows across the ground.
The flames didn't sway with the wind, because there was no wind. Each breath Narvel took felt shallow, as though the oxygen had been filtered through a veil of old dust and death.
'I swear, when I get stronger, I'm going to plant that librarian's face in the filth and have him eat it.' Narvel clenched his fist, his body momentarily trembling—not from fear, but from the weight of his resolve.
He paused at the edge of the threshold, the faint glow from the torches bathing his skin in cold hues. A few seconds went by… He had no choice but to walk straight in.
Seeing that his owner had gone into the cave, Voidscale had no choice but to go after him…
A few steps in, and the light from the torches outside quickly proved itself useless. The shadows thickened unnaturally, curling inwards like they had a will of their own. Darkness swallowed the passage ahead, and Narvel slowed, one hand reaching out instinctively. He was just about to turn around, considering the idea of heading back to retrieve one of the torches when the air around him shuddered—and the darkness shifted.
In the blink of an eye, the black veil lifted, and a new world unfurled before him.
Flames of immense magnitude roared in the sky above, replacing any semblance of a sky with a seething inferno that stretched endlessly. The atmosphere was painted in shades of orange and ember-red, a furious hue that made the air feel like it was on fire. The ground below Narvel's feet cracked with the heat, revealing veins of glowing magma beneath the scorched stone.
All around him, the terrain was alive with volcanic fury. Rivers of lava twisted through jagged cliffs, crashing and slapping violently against the sides like ocean waves made of fire. Suspended above the ground were massive boulders, the size of floating islands, each tethered to one another by thick, glowing chains of molten iron. They groaned with weight and tension, some swaying ominously as if barely held together.
And right before Narvel stretched a bridge.
A single wooden bridge.
It spanned the great divide between the cliff he stood on and one of the floating landmasses, resting above the turbulent river of lava that churned with glowing waves. The bridge looked disturbingly out of place—aged wood, darkened by time, with ropes that creaked softly despite the roar of the magma below.
A flicker of despair danced across Narvel's face. The pressure of the place weighed down on him like a mountain, a force both physical and spiritual. It pressed on his bones, on his resolve. The same crushing insignificance he'd felt when facing the librarian returned—but now, it was worse. More primal.
Voidscale, perched silently on his shoulder, matched Narvel's unease. Its claws dug lightly into his cloth, its tail coiled tightly behind his neck, and its eyes reflected the rolling glow of the rivers below. For once, it had nothing to say.
Then, the map in his hand pulsed.
A warm light emanated from its surface, illuminating two small footprints—his own. A glowing line trailed forward from them, threading its way toward the bridge like a whispered command. It was clear—this was his path.
Narvel stared at the bridge again. Although it looked aged, even brittle, there was something about it that refused to bend beneath the chaos surrounding it. It stood unwavering, uncaring of the lava that splashed and hissed around.
He took a step forward.
The moment his foot touched the bridge, the tension in his shoulders spiked—but nothing gave way. No creak, no snap. The bridge was steady, unnaturally so, and each step he took felt more surreal than the last. As though the bridge itself existed in defiance of the laws of this place.
By the time he reached the other side, the landscape twisted once more.
The overwhelming heat lessened, fading into a cold, damp stillness. The world around him transformed again, this time into a true catacomb. The walls were far and wide, carved from ancient stone, lined with decayed markings and age-worn statues. The air here was filled with the heavy scent of dust.
Gravestones jutted out from the floor in clusters, like teeth in the mouth of a giant corpse. Skulls peeked out from corners. The ceiling was high, the atmosphere chilly, and the silence absolute.
Before Narvel could take in any more of the tomb-like stillness, a sudden pulse ran through him.
Ebonveil stirred within him.
Trembling, excited.
Whatever lay ahead… Ebonveil hungered for it.