Page 209 of A Reign of Chromes & Shadows

He tilted his head, scanning the room like a predator listening for prey. Every muscle tensed, his breath shallow as he strained to detect even the slightest disturbance. He listened for breath, for movement, for the subtle shift of weight on floorboards.

Nothing.

He inhaled deeply; dust, old paper, wood polish and then something else.

A stench.

Rot.

Decay.

Death.

It hit him like a physical blow.

He coughed, recoiling as the rancid smell clawed at his lungs. It was thick and sour, the unmistakable scent of a body long past saving. Heknew that smell too well from battlefields, the scent of fallen soldiers and the aftermath of violence. It was a scent that clung to memory like tar.

Only when he was certain he was alone did he move deeper into the shop, each step measured, silent, deliberate. His boots whispered across the worn floorboards as he rounded the oak counter, slipping through the narrow doorway that led into the back hall.

The corridor was dim, the air heavier here, as though the walls themselves were saturated with the lingering presence of magic. The staircase loomed ahead, steep and narrow, the wood creaking softly under his weight as he ascended. He took the steps two at a time, drawn by the pulsing magic above; a steady thrum that resonated through the floorboards and into his bones.

At the top, he entered a small bedroom.

The contrast was jarring.

Pastel blue walls, soft and gentle, wrapped the room in a quaint, almost childlike serenity. Delicate white flowers were painted across them; blooms Rain recognised instantly as the same kind that flourished throughout the palace gardens. A twin bed sat neatly in the centre of the room, dressed in lace drapes and a matching bedspread, the kind of setup meant for peaceful dreams and quiet mornings.

But the serenity was suffocated by the stench of death.

The sweetness of the painted flowers clashed violently with the sour rot in the air, creating a nauseating dissonance. The room felt wrong; like innocence had been invaded, corrupted, swallowed whole by something ancient and foul.

Rain swallowed hard, forcing himself to ignore the bile rising in his throat.

His gaze snapped to the corner.

A wooden crate sat with its lid pried open, the edges splintered as though someone had forced it apart in desperation. A soft purple glowspilled out from within, casting shifting, ethereal patterns across the pale blue walls. The light pulsed gently, like a heartbeat, illuminating the lace drapes in ghostly hues.

The magical current radiating from the crate was strong—ancient, irresistible—and it tugged at Rain with a force that felt almost sentient.

Rain’s breath caught.

Whatever was inside that crate…

It was calling to him.

Resisting the internal compulsion to rush toward the source, Rain moved with caution, making his way around the bed, his senses on high alert. Every step felt deliberately measured; the floorboards creaked softly beneath his boots, the air thick with the cloying scent of dust and something far more sinister. His skin prickled with the electric hum of magic, the kind that crawled beneath the surface of his flesh like static. As he drew closer, he suddenly stopped short, his heart jolting in his chest.

Though he had expected to stumble upon a body, the sight at the base of the open crate rooted him to the spot; a figure lay slumped, lifeless, mottled and distended, its presence a stark and chilling contrast to the otherwise peaceful setting. The corpse’s limbs were stiffened at odd angles, the skin stretched taut and discoloured, bloated in places where decay had begun to take hold. The face—or what remained of it—was sunken and waxy, the lips pulled back slightly as though frozen mid-gasp. The grotesque stillness of it made the delicate lace curtains and pastel walls feel like a cruel joke.

Bile rose up Rain’s throat as the sight and stench bound together into reality. The rancid odour—thick, sour, unmistakably death—clawed at his senses, coating the back of his tongue. He swallowed, burying his mouth and nose into the crook of his arm as he inched closer to the crate. His eyes watered from the intensity of the smell, but he forced himself forward, careful not to let his boots brush the corpse. Every instinct screamed athim to recoil, but curiosity and something deeper, something ancient, pulled him onward.

Careful to not touch the body he peered inside; astonishment distracted him from the overwhelming stench as the contents came into view. “Fuck me,” he said out loud, dropping his arm from his face as he glared in disbelief.

Inside the crate, protected by a shimmering, opaque energy sphere, lay a book unlike any Rain had ever seen. Its cover was dark and pearlescent, reflecting a glimmering array of colours; each hue reminiscent of the rainbow spectrum he recognised from the stone in his dream. The surface seemed to breathe, shifting subtly as though alive, the colours sliding over one another like oil on water. This was Rainbow Aetherchrome. Before him lay proof of its existence, the unnerving pull beneath his skin, further evidence of his connection to the stone.

As Rain stared at the pulsating dome, he noticed a brass plaque positioned beneath the sphere. The inscription was clear:

The Prism Codex,