Well, at least my aim is on the spot.
The room looks like some kind of music salon, with dust-covered instruments lying around. The violin’s strings are broken, and the keys of the clavichord are ripped off as if in great anger. The rage of whoever did this still simmers in the depths of the room. Grabbing a violin and holding it like a club, I sneak to the next one.
It is a lavish bedroom drowned in feminine colors and suffocating luxury. The silk sheets still bear the outline of a lithe body, as if the woman who lived here just left. A mother-of-pearl-incrusted hairbrush is tossed at the nightstand, long, dark hairs still stuck into it. The scent of perfume still lingers, and—is this a hallucination, or is that female voice humming a beautiful melody? I whip my head left and right. Silence. Probably, my tired mind is playing tricks.
Could it be that…Ornatus’s concubine is still here? He was still here! What if he had cast a similar spell on her?
Yet, there is nothing but darkness and memories around. And that faint whiff of perfume and dry roses. Moving deeper into the corridor, another sensation prickles my skin—old magic, rippling the air and buzzing with power. The artifact is close.
I search room after room—nothing. There are also no weapons or even heavy objects like candle holders. It looks as if someone has taken precautions and removed all dangerous objects. Only melancholy lingering in the corners, and extravagant objects witnessing a lonely, isolated life.
The light flickers, a reminder that my arcane powers will be soon depleted. Then I will be all alone in the dark, alone with that eerie melody. It is growing stronger now, louder than my thoughts.
The corridor ends abruptly in a pile of rocks and gravel.
Atos’s hairy armpits! How do I get past it without moving tons of stone?
Hope is fading just like the light above my head.
Maybe Gale is searching for me. The man is resourceful; he overpowered an armed warrior. He’ll probably find some clever way to open that trapdoor and get me out.
Still, there is one last door left. I raise the dusty violin and push the door open.
My feet sink in a crunchy carpet of dry leaves. The room is wider than the rest, and I crane my neck up to see the tall, arched vault. Tiny shimmering crystals are embedded into it, artfully arranged to mimic the stars in the night sky. They bathe the hall stretching before me in cool blueish light. Thank the Elders for the scarce light! Right on time because my meager spell dissipates with a pop. That was it. If something attacks me in this gilded dungeon, the best I can do is smack them with the violin.
Dead trees and dried flowers stretch into the hall; cages with songbirds—now only piles of dusty feathers and bones, hang among the branches.
This must’ve been Soraya’s secret garden. The humming gets louder, and I rub my temples. I can barely tell if it’s still in my head or if it resonates under the vaults.
And there, on a gilded lounger, covered with a blanket of dust, is Soraya. Ornatus’s beloved.
Death has shrunk her, but her long black hair sweeps the floor and still glistens like gossamer in the cool light of the false stars. A wreath of wilted flowers still hugs her brow and some distant light shimmers in the empty eye sockets.
My heart sinks at the tragic revelation. Trapped in her gilded cage while the Shadowfeeders devoured the rest of the city, while her lover clashed his magic with theirs and became a mindless abomination, still obsessed with the idea of keeping her locked, holding her in his possession. The scribbles on the walls above—how many centuries did he spend reminding himself of the only reason he was still alive, until the words that could lead him to her became a mindless ramble, and he became a monster?
Her dry, bony fingers press something to her heart, something that pulls all my senses in like an enchanted maelstrom. It shines through her palm with black iridescence—light that consumes all colors around.
The artifact.
I step closer and reach out. Scrunching my nose, I force the mummified fingers apart, the gray teeth and hollow eyes of Soraya’s skull just inches away from my face. Seconds later, the Flint lies on my palm—smooth and black, like polished onyx.
Something has changed. The humming is nearly deafening now. A smell of old dust and mold hits my nose, but there is also a trace of sweet, feminine perfume.
Quickly slipping the Flint into my pocket and closing the button, I take a step back.
A sound rolls down the corridor behind. It starts with pebbles rolling, then larger stones dragging over the floor.
Sweet Cymmetra, why does it have to be always so difficult?
Raising my violin, I prepare to turn around and face the intruder, their heavy steps already approaching, when—
I’m really born with the luck of a lamb among a horde of Tainted Ones.
The mummified remains of Soraya the Songstress slowly come back to life. Cool shimmer veils her, and her skeletal body rises, her magnificent hair dangling around her bony limbs, blown by an unnatural breeze. She’s floating two feet above the floor.
Elders! What blasphemous, tainted nightmare I’ve been dragged into? The humming melody is a roar now, echoing under the vaults. She faces me, her jaw hanging loose, and shrieks.
“Wraiths are dangerous when disturbed. They are bound to this world by some object they value highly. Their shrieks paralyze their victims, and they relish draining them of their life force. Often, their victims become wraiths too,” Friar Ben’s academic, matter-of-fact tone surfaces in my mind, shaking me out of my stupor.
