They led her to a side tower, a round chamber lined with endless shelves of dark books. A fire burned low in a carved hearth, giving off the smell of cedar and lavender.
The Wraiths guided her through the tower stair until she stepped into a round chamber lined with shelves taller than any tree. Books, scrolls, even etched runes on bone filled every corner, the air thick with the scent of ink and age.
A fire burned in a shallow hearth carved with strange animal shapes, its smoke smelling faintly of cedar.
At its side stood a tall man in charcoal robes, his long hair white as snowfall, eyes hidden behind a thin black cloth tied across the bridge of his nose. His face was all edges narrow, severe, but softened by the faintest flicker of kindness at the edges of his mouth.
“Sit, child,” he commanded, voice deep as a cracked bell.
Maris obeyed, heart still pounding from the yard.
“I am Aldwyn,” he continued, inclining his head just slightly, “Lorekeeper to the Kingdom of Nythra. You will show respect to the teachings or you will learn nothing.”
She swallowed.
Aldwyn folded his long arms before him, studying her essence with an unnervingly calm patience.
“You are new to our world of the nightbound. You will begin at the beginning.”
He spoke with a rough but melodic cadence, shaped by countless years of speaking truths no one wanted to hear.
“Achyron was divided by five gods,” he began, “and each blessed their chosen children. But when the nightbound were born, the gods saw it as an affront to their laws.”
His voice hardened.
“Yseron, the god of war, drove entire armies mad with a thirst for blood. Brothers butchered brothers in his name until the land itself drowned in their bones.”
Aldwyn moved closer to the fire, its light dancing along the cloth over his eyes.
“Syrathe, the moon goddess, wove nightmares so potent they walked alongside men in daylight, tearing open their minds until they could not tell dream from truth.”
Maris shivered.
“Thaleia, goddess of the rivers, turned every waterway to poison, black and rank. Fields withered, children died of thirst or plague carried in the black tide.”
The lorekeeper’s voice broke for an instant, but he continued.
“Vaerith, god of flame, scorched the harvests until the earth cracked like broken pottery, and the people starved or fled to foreign shores.”
Maris tried to breathe, but it felt like stone in her chest.
“And what of the fifth?” she asked, voice small.
Aldwyn was silent for a long moment, head bowed.
“Eiren,” he said at last, “goddess of dreams and mercy. When the curses began, she vanished from prayers and from the world. Some say her kin destroyed her, fearing her gentleness would unmake their vengeance, had she survived maybe she could have stopped the curse in its entirety.”
A strange shiver passed through Maris at those words.
Aldwyn seemed to sense her shift, though he could not see her eyes.
“Do not cling to hope too tightly,” he warned gently. “Hope is a fragile thing here.”
Maris nodded, throat raw.
Aldwyn, she thought, committing the name to memory. He was sharp as any blade, but something told her he had no taste for cruelty.
If there was anyone in this place she might trust, even a little, it could be him.
