Latebra Velora

Dear Diary,
 
We continued our trek toward Latebra Velora, leaving the Lorewood behind and trading its tangled shadows for endless, windswept grasslands. The sky hung low with thick clouds, offering only fleeting glimpses of sunlight. Brief showers drenched us to the bone, leaving our cloaks heavy and spirits damp. The open plains held no obvious danger, but misery clung to us like the mud caked on our boots.
 
On the final evening before reaching the city, we camped in the middle of the barren expanse. Gael and I took first watch. He seemed unusually tense, his eyes fixed on the southern horizon where he claimed to have spotted a large shadow. I saw nothing but rolling gray fog, though I quietly reinforced our camp’s magical defenses—lingering paranoia from the nightmare shadows still gnawing at me. The night passed without incident, and I collapsed into my bedroll, dreaming not of fey or flames, but of dry clothes and a warm hearth.
 
The next morning, we woke surprisingly rested, the damp chill of the plains momentarily forgotten in our eagerness to reach Latebra Velora. The weather remained bleak, but by noon, the grasslands gave way to the edge of a dense forest. The road twisted beneath its canopy, the packed earth a welcome respite from days of slogging through mud. My boots finally felt solid beneath me, though my thoughts drifted to Elsa—how she’d laugh at the state of my robes.
 
As we followed the forest road, we spotted signs of a camp ahead: a thin curl of smoke rising beyond a small bridge. Hope flickered—perhaps friendly travelers, or at least directions to a decent inn. But as we crossed the bridge, the scene soured. A black flag hung limp in the damp air, its pole strung with human skulls. Beside a sputtering fire sat an undead knight in black full plate, its visor revealing a bleached skull grinning beneath. It rose slowly, gauntleted hand resting on a rusted sword.
 
“Halt, travelers,” it rasped, voice like gravel dragged over stone. Its hollow gaze swept over us, lingering on our weapons. “You look… capable. Will one of you duel me to the death?” The sudden appearance of the undead left us stunned. Was this the legendary Black Knight?
 
Alistan stepped forward, jaw set, but shook his head. “We don’t dance with curses,” he said flatly. We knew that any duel with the Black Knight would be a lose-lose, either we would die by its hand or we would be cursed to die within a year. The knight tilted its skull, as if disappointed, then shrugged and slumped back onto a mossy log, its sword clanking against the earth.
 
Alistan and Liliana settled onto a damp log near the skeletal knight, their postures wary but curiosity piqued. When Alistan remarked that the knight seemed far from his keep, the creature let out a rattling laugh. “I am no Black Knight—only his retainer. I test those who seek him. Few survive.”
 
Liliana leaned forward, her voice sharp. “And why here?”
 
The knight’s skull tilted, as if savoring the question. “The Black Knight rides these woods. Challenge me, and earn the right to face him. Or flee if you wish to live.”
 
Alistan’s hand tightened on his sword. The name Black Knight hung between them like a blade. This was the creature who had slain his brother. Without a word, he stood, armor clinking. “I’ll duel you,” he said, voice steady. No curse, no grand oath—just cold resolve.
 
The knight nodded and rose, sword scraping against stone.
 
They faced off by the creek, the water murmuring as if bearing witness. Alistan struck first, a feint that knocked the knight’s rusted blade into the mud. The retainer retrieved it slowly, movements labored—a ruse. His next strike was a viper’s lunge, slicing through Alistan’s armor. Blood seeped into the cloth beneath, but Alistan gritted his teeth, rallying with a flurry of blows. Shield raised, he slammed the knight to the ground, pinning him with a boot to the chest.
 
“Your name,” Alistan demanded.
 
“Baron Perenolde,” the knight rasped, voice fading.
 
Alistan’s blade fell. Bones clattered, armor collapsing into a hollow shell. The skull rolled toward the creek, its grin finally still.
 
Alistan stood breathing hard, victory bitter on his tongue. No cheers followed—only the weight of what lay ahead. The real Black Knight waited, and this duel had been but a whisper of the storm to come.
 
Gael’s voice cut through the grim silence. “Baron Perenolde… I’ve heard that name. A Knight of Keralon, vanished fifty years ago after challenging the Black Knight.” His words hung in the air like fog. I knelt beside the skeletal remains, probing for clues, but found nothing—no sigils, no curses, just old bones. Death had stripped the baron of his legacy, leaving only a cautionary tale.
 
The knight’s tent yielded stranger truths. Inside lay standard traveler’s fare: bedrolls, rations, a rusted kettle. Odd, for an undead who needed none of it. Had he clung to mortal habits, or was this a macabre performance? The skulls on the flag offered darker answers—human and dragonborn, polished smooth, their hollow eyes staring. Near the creek, we found the rest of their remains, scattered and forgotten. Liliana, Hayley, and Gael set to burying them, their hands steady but faces tight. Alistan, meanwhile, tore down the black flag and cast it into the fire. The skulls hissed as flames consumed them, as if whispering final curses.
 
We pressed onward, the forest closing around us like a fist. Fifteen minutes in, the woods fell silent—no birds, no crickets, just the creak of branches. Gael nocked an arrow, his voice low. “Something’s wrong.” Hayley sent Fiachna ahead, the raven’s wings slicing the stillness. We crept forward, tension coiled in our muscles… until life rushed back—birdsong, rustling leaves—as if the forest had merely held its breath. We backtracked, but the silence didn’t return. A fey trick? A warning? Whatever it was, we had no choice but to march into its teeth.
 
As we walked, Gael broke the quiet. “What’s the plan if we find the Black Knight?” Alistan and Liliana exchanged glances. “Assess him,” Liliana said. “Learn his weakness.” But the lie was thin. We all knew the truth: if there was a way to break the curse, they’d strike. Revenge simmered beneath Alistan’s stoicism, and Liliana’s grip on her sword betrayed her hunger for justice—or vengeance.
 
We pressed deeper into the woods, the air thickening with the scent of decay. Soon, the muffled sounds of a camp reached us—laughter, clattering cookware, the crackle of fires. Peering through the trees, we saw tents lit by torches, weapon racks standing orderly, undead milling about as if alive. Skeletons polished blades, wights stirred pots over flames, and ghouls lounged on bedrolls. But the land around them was blighted: grass withered to ash, trees stripped bare, their branches clawing at the sky like skeletal hands. Life itself recoiled from that place.
 
I opened my magical senses and immediately spotted the owl—perched high in a dead oak, its feathers shimmering with a transmutation aura. A scout, no doubt. Before I could warn the others, the undead noticed us. A gaunt, unarmored wight approached, its flesh sagging like melted wax. “Visitors,” it croaked, voice like wind through a crypt. “Which of you bested Perenolde?”
 
Alistan stepped forward, jaw set. “I did. But we’re not here to challenge your master. We seek only to speak with him.”
 
The wight’s lipless mouth twitched into a mockery of a smile. “The Black Knight does not speak. Return to your Silver City. Dust your books if you aspire to answers.”
 
Liliana’s hand drifted to her sword, but Alistan shook his head. “Another time,” he said coldly, and we withdrew. As we retreated, I glanced back—the owl was gone.
 
Once safely distant, Hayley frowned. “I heard whispers of ‘the Final Tournament’ in that thing’s thoughts. The King of Keralon’s design, apparently.” None of us recognized it, not even Alistan, whose family lineage is woven into the city’s history. Suspicion gnawed at me. What tournament? And how was it related to the Knights of Keralon?
 
Alistan pulled out Galienne’s sending stone, his voice clipped as he relayed the question. No reply came. The silence felt heavier than the forest’s curse.
 
As we trudged onward, I couldn’t shake the image of that camp—undead mimicking life, the land itself rotting beneath their feet.
 
We set up our own camp under a bruised sky, the debate over the Black Knight lingering like a bad spell. No one wanted to say it aloud, but fear had coiled around my friends’ resolve. The curse—whispers of lives snuffed mid-swordstroke, souls bound to eternal duel—had turned their courage to ash. Even Alistan sat silent, sharpening his blade with a vacant stare. Rachnar sent us here to resolve this, I thought bitterly. Not to cower in the shadows of stories.
 
As dusk deepened, we ate in an uneasy quiet. The fire spat embers into the wind, and I caught Liliana glancing over her shoulder, as if the trees themselves might bear the Black Knight’s sigil. Gael muttered something about “strategic retreat,” but strategy without action is just delusion. Hayley, usually the first to jest, poked listlessly at the flames. I wanted to shake them, to remind them of the skulls on Perenolde’s flag, of the sacrifices that we might be making by taking on this mission as foretold by the hag. But duty, like fire, cannot be forced to burn.
 
Then came the hoofbeats—slow, rhythmic, inevitable. Another undead knight emerged from the gloom, its armor blackened and pitted, horse skeletal beneath it. It passed our camp without a glance, as if we were ghosts beneath notice. The sight clawed at me. Here was our quarry’s servant, daring us to act, and we… let it go.
 
I clenched my staff until my knuckles ached. This is why we came. Weeks of muddy roads, nightmares, and hollow victories—all to falter at the edge of the storm? The Black Knight’s camp festered barely a league away, and we’d turned tail. For what? Fear of a curse? Since when did knights of Keralon quail at folktales? Even if it was real, we would have a year to find a way to stop it.
 
But my friends slept fitfully, as I took the first watch, the weight of silence heavier than any blade. Maybe soon, reason would return. Maybe the dawn would remind them—and me—that some risks carve the path to honor.
 
The road to Latebra Velora offered no respite from its grim tapestry. This morning, we stumbled upon the remains of the undead knight and his horse—shredded like parchment, scattered in a gruesome mosaic. Gael crouched to inspect the carnage, tracing claw marks wider than a shield. “Something big did this,” he murmured, though the forest gave up no further secrets. No tracks, no roars—just the eerie silence of a predator long gone. We pressed on, the weight of unanswered questions gnawing at me.
 
By midday, the forest peeled back to reveal Latebra Velora. The city rose from a crater, its ancient ruins reborn under a veil of vines and blossoms. At its heart loomed a tree unlike any I’d seen—its trunk gnarled and silver-barked, leaves shimmering like emerald scales. Dragonborn and kobolds moved through the streets, their voices a low, resonant hum. At the gates, draconic guards eyed us with measured suspicion until Hayley presented Rachnar’s letter. The wait that followed was taut with anticipation, but when Surina Mystan arrived, her presence dissolved the tension like sugar in tea.
 
She was elegance incarnate: a green dragonborn draped in robes of jade silk, her scales catching the light like polished malachite. Her voice, smooth as aged wine, bid us follow. The carriage ride through the city was a blur of verdant arches and murmuring fountains, but the inn she led us to was a sanctuary. Cooled wine, fresh fruit, baths steeped in lavender—luxuries I’d nearly forgotten. I scrubbed the road’s grime from my skin and donned my finest robes, the silver thread catching firelight like stardust.
 
Surina awaited us in the common room, her demeanor poised yet approachable. When I inquired about etiquette for meeting Lady Morathin, she waved a clawed hand. “The Lady values candor over ceremony,” she said, revealing her role as Rachnar’s superior—a diplomat weaving alliances thicker than dragonhide. That she greeted us personally spoke volumes. Rachnar’s letter had painted us as saviors, it seemed. Flattering, though I wondered what debts we’d unknowingly incurred. Soon after, my friends joined us in the common room and we were led towards the lair of the great dragon herself.
 
The cavern was a cathedral of shadows and gold. Lady Morathin’s lair swallowed us whole—her emerald scales glinting like cursed treasure, claws longer than a man’s reach curled into the stone. The air reeked of damp moss and ancient power, the kind that prickled my skin like static before a storm. When she spoke, her voice didn’t come from her maw but from the walls themselves, deep and resonant, as if the mountain had learned to whisper secrets.
 
“You are the first humans to enter my domain in peace,” she said, each word a rumble that vibrated in my ribs. “Perhaps the first to leave alive.” Alistan bowed low, his knightly decorum unshaken, and we followed his example, stunned at the sight of the large dragon. Here was a creature older than kingdoms, wiser than libraries.
 
She thanked us for aiding her kin in Keralon, though her gratitude felt like a blade balanced on its edge. When we mentioned the Black Knight, her slit-pupiled eyes narrowed. “A curse from your lands that has come to my doorstep,” she hissed, disdain curling through the air like smoke. “As it came from your kind, you are best equipped to resolve it.” Permission to act was granted, but her indifference stung. Even dragons, it seems, have no patience for human follies.
 
Alistan dared ask about libraries. Her laugh nearly toppled me—a thunderclap of amusement that sent ripples across the pool beneath her. “Dragons do not forget,” she replied, as if the question were a child’s prattle. The dismissal was crisp, final. We were dismissed with a flick of her tail, the water sloshing as she submerged herself again, leaving us drenched in the weight of our insignificance.
 
Back at the inn, Surina had arranged a feast: roasted meats glazed in honey and firepepper, bread so soft it melted like cloudstuff. Hayley devoured a skewer of spiced lizard-kebab, declaring it “better than Keralon’s soggy pies,” while Gael traded wary glances with a kobold server. I picked at my plate, my mind still echoing with the dragon’s voice.
 
Afterward, we wandered the city—a labyrinth of roots and stone. Buildings burrowed into the earth, draped in vines that glowed faintly, as if fed by starlight. The dragonborn watched us pass, their stares sharp but curious. Hayley vanished into a market stall, emerging with a set of scaled leather armor that shimmered like serpent skin. “Practical and pretty,” she declared, striking a mock-heroic pose.
 
I slipped into a scribe’s den, lured by the scent of ink and parchment. The shopkeeper, a wizened half-dragon with spectacles perched on his snout, sold me a vial of ink distilled from midnight blooms and several scrolls etched in Draconic runes.
 
Now, as I write this by lamplight, the city’s hum seeps through the inn’s walls—a low, rhythmic growl, like a beast dreaming. Tomorrow, we return to the forest, to the Knight and his curse. Lady Morathin’s ambivalence gnaws at me. Are we heroes or pawns? Fools or fate-touched?