Entry 60: Talebra Velora and the lady Morenthene

Dear diary,
 
Not long after we broke camp and set out toward Talebra Velora, we passed the place where Alistan had faced Baron Perenolde. We expected to find the new champion of the Black Knight—perhaps already practicing for his next duel or preparing his strange, undead camp.
 
What we found instead stopped us cold.
 
The clearing was a ruin. The tent was nothing more than shredded fabric tangled in the underbrush. The skeletal knight who had passed us by the night before lay in pieces, torn limb from limb. His rusted armor had been ripped open like paper, bones scattered and cracked. Even his horse was dead, its broken body crumpled by the riverside.
 
The air was heavy with the scent of blood and something worse… something primal.
 
Gael stepped forward and pointed to a series of deep gouges in the earth—claw marks, long and jagged, each one big enough to swallow a hand.
 
“Ambush,” he said grimly. “Whatever hit him… it came fast. He didn’t even have time to draw his blade.”
 
I stared at the devastation, a chill crawling up my spine. This wasn’t just an attack. It was a message. But from whom? And why now? Why this knight and not Baron Perenolde, who had camped in the same spot for weeks without disturbance?
I turned these questions over and over in my mind as we continued on. This was the territory of the Fenhunter, and rumors whispered of draconic beasts that roamed the deeper wilds. Could it have been one of them? A territorial strike? A warning?
 
Maybe, but that didn’t explain the timing.
 
The questions haunting me vanished the moment we crested the ridge and laid eyes on Talebra Velora.
 
It was breathtaking.
 
The ruins of what must once have been a colossal city unfurled beneath us, swallowed partly by time and almost wholly embraced by nature. Crumbling stone walls still stood tall in places, their cracks filled with ivy and moss, while towering trees wove themselves through shattered towers and fallen homes, as if the forest had decided to cradle the bones of the city in a slow, green embrace.
 
It wasn’t just decay. It was transformation.
 
The city hadn’t been abandoned—it had become something else. Something wild and sacred.
 
Towers spiraled into the sky, their foundations stone, their upper floors made of woven wood and leaves. Houses stood half-collapsed, their roofs now replaced by thick branches and flowering canopies. The old cobblestone streets had softened into paths of moss and root, where the quiet hush of footsteps sounded more like whispers than travel.
 
But all of it paled compared to what waited at the heart of Talebra Velora.
 
A single tree, unimaginably vast, grew from the depths of a wide crater, its roots carving through stone like rivers of ancient power. The trunk alone could’ve held a castle within its hollow, and from its bark spread massive limbs that stretched across the city like protective arms. Its leaves shimmered faintly in the dappled light, casting a living shadow that blanketed the ruins below.
 
This was no ordinary tree. This was the throne of the Fenhunter.
 
The gateway into the city—still flanked by half-standing walls, part ancient stone and part living bark—was guarded by two dragonborn. Their eyes narrowed as we approached, and their hands rested casually on their weapons. Not aggressive, but alert. I couldn’t blame them. The tension between our peoples ran deep, and I doubted many humans had crossed this threshold in decades.
 
One of the guards stepped forward, stopping us with a silent raise of his hand. I matched his movement and reached into my cloak, withdrawing the letter I’d wisely asked Rachnar to write for us—an official missive from the ambassador of Keralon. He took it, eyes scanning the familiar seal, and his expression shifted. The wary tension in his shoulders eased, and with a nod to his companion, he gestured for us to wait. A kobold messenger was dispatched almost instantly, disappearing into the verdant maze of the city’s edge.
 
We didn’t wait long. From behind the gate emerged a figure swathed in flowing green robes, her scales a polished emerald hue that shimmered in the afternoon light. Jewelry glinted at her neck and wrists—subtle, tasteful, expensive. She walked with a grace that spoke of both confidence and courtly training.
 
When she reached us, she offered a small bow, her eyes sharp but not unkind.
 
“I am Surina Mystan,” she said, her voice smooth and clear. “Trustee of Lady Morenthene and your liaison during your stay in Talebra Velora.”
 
Surina welcomed us with a warmth that felt genuine—gracious, even regal. With a soft smile and a sweep of her clawed hand, she suggested taking us somewhere to rest and wash away the weariness of the road before we were brought before her mistress. We accepted, of course. Gratefully.
 
At her signal, a carriage rolled forward from the shadows beneath the trees, and my breath caught.
 
I’d seen elegance before—Keralon had its fair share of ornate carriages, decked out in gold trim and crystal lanterns—but this was something else entirely. It hadn’t been built in the traditional sense. It had been grown.
 
The lines of the wood curved like vines caught mid-bloom, polished to a gleaming finish that shimmered like fresh morning dew. Swirls of bark and leaf created natural filigree that no artisan’s hand could ever hope to mimic. It was beauty woven from magic and nature, not craftsmanship.
 
Two drakes stood harnessed to the front, their scales dark as riverstone and eyes glowing with a low, patient intelligence. They shifted slightly as we climbed aboard, but didn’t so much as huff.
 
The ride was short but dreamlike, winding through the root-veined streets of Talebra Velora until we came to a cluster of half-standing ruins. At first glance, it looked like an inn long lost to time, barely a skeleton of its former self with only a few upper walls still standing, overgrown with ivy and time. But then I saw the stairs.
 
They spiraled down.
 
What remained of the old structure was a mask—because the true inn lay below the earth.
 
We descended into a hollowed world where tree roots twisted gently into arched ceilings and thick stems formed walls with glowing moss nestled in corners like lanterns. It was warm, rich with the scent of damp earth and blooming flowers, and every room seemed to pulse softly with life. Whatever destruction had claimed the surface, down here felt untouched, preserved. Alive.
 
Cozy didn’t begin to cover it.
 
Surina exchanged a few hushed words with the innkeeper—a broad-shouldered dragonborn named Harran, who eyed us with polite curiosity—before leading us down a hallway formed from braided roots. She showed us to a floor all our own, six rooms in total, each one tucked into a root-hewn chamber that felt more like a personal sanctuary than a traveler’s room.
 
“If you need anything,” Surina said, her voice smooth as river stone, “Harran will see to it.” She paused, a knowing glint in her eye. “I shall return in an hour. Meet me in the common room—refreshed and ready.”
 
In other words: look presentable.
 
I washed up in the basin of gently trickling spring water and pulled on a fresh black robe. Not fancy—never fancy—but clean. When the court at Keralon had called, I hadn’t dressed up for them either. Why start now?
 
The others, however, had clearly packed with social maneuvering in mind. Embroidered vests, polished boots, even a touch of perfume. When we all reassembled in the common room, Surina gave us a slow nod, her eyes catching on each of us in turn.
“You clean up well,” she said, and for a moment I thought she might be impressed. Or maybe just relieved. Either way, I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.
 
With no further delay, we followed her out of the inn and into the heart of Talebra Velora. The main street stretched before us, a living corridor of moss and stone, guiding us toward the tree—the tree. The great trunk loomed ahead like a mountain of wood and bark, its roots plunging into the earth like the fingers of a god.
 
And at its base, the mouth of the cavern yawned wide.
 
A doorway for titans. Or monsters. Or queens.
 
And so we walked toward it, one step closer to the heart of the Fenhunter’s domain.
 
Behind the gaping mouth of the cavern, a tunnel beckoned—wide, dark, and alive. It wasn’t carved by hand or chisel, but formed by the very roots of the colossal tree above, twisting together to create a passage that spiraled downward like a great, coiled serpent.
 
The air grew cooler as we descended, thick with the scent of damp wood and old magic. The walls pulsed faintly with green light, veins of bioluminescent moss trailing like starlight through the bark. The spiral seemed endless, until at last the tunnel unfurled into a vast underground chamber—bigger than any hall I’d ever seen. It stretched so far that even sound hesitated to echo back too quickly.
 
At its heart, a wide pool of water shimmered like a mirror, utterly still, and so clear it felt deeper than it likely was. And around it… treasure.
 
Mountains of it.
 
Piles of gold, heaps of jewels, and strange artifacts whose names had probably long since been forgotten by all but the one who watched over them. And at the center of it all, coiled like a god on her throne, was her.
 
Lady Morenthene.
 
The Fenhunter.
 
An ancient green wyrm, her scales dull with age yet gleaming with power. She stirred as we entered, her massive head rising just slightly—but even that motion made her tower above us like a living mountain. Her golden eyes, slit like a serpent’s, scanned each of us in turn. Not with suspicion. With interest.
 
Then a sound rumbled deep in her chest—like distant thunder rolling through stone.
 
“Welcome,” she said, her voice a whisper that shattered the silence like a storm. It echoed through the chamber, rattling the gold and sending ripples across the pool. “You are the first knights of Keralon to come here in peace.” A pause, then something like amusement curled at the edge of her words. “Perhaps you’ll be the first to leave here alive.”
 
I think she laughed. Hard to tell, when the laugh of a creature that ancient sounds like tectonic plates grinding together.
 
None of us spoke. Not yet. Before we could find our voices, she continued.
 
“I thank you,” she said, “for preventing a war between my people and Keralon. Rachnar speaks highly of you.”
 
A smile tugged at my lips. Rachnar. I hadn’t expected her to bring him up, but hearing his name—hearing that he thought well of us—meant more than I was willing to admit out loud. He was… different from me. Steady where I was sharp, diplomatic where I was blunt. And yet, somehow, a friend.
 
Lady Voratim’s gaze turned fully to Alistan, and he stepped forward without flinching.
 
“We’ve come to speak with the Black Knight,” he said, voice firm and clear. “To convince him to return to his keep. But first, we came here—to Talebra Velora—to learn what he’s doing in your domain. Why he is here at all.”
 
If dragons could shrug, I think she would have. Instead, she shifted slightly, the roots creaking under her like ancient bones.
 
“I do not know,” she admitted. “Only that there is a curse that binds him. And it is why I have not intervened. His presence is… complicated.”
 
I gave a small nod. Wise, really. A creature of her power might survive the curse—but if there was even a chance it could claim her? Did we really want to find out what a cursed dragon was capable of?
 
“Probably for the best,” I murmured.
 
When we asked if there was a library where we might conduct some research, Lady Morenthene threw her head back and laughed.
 
Not a polite laugh. Not a human laugh. This was something deeper—a seismic tremor that rolled through the chamber like distant thunder. The piles of gold trembled in her wake.
 
“I am the library,” she said at last, her great eyes gleaming with amusement. “What use have I for brittle scrolls or fading ink when my memory stretches further than your kingdom’s entire history?”
 
It made sense. For a creature as old as she, knowledge wasn’t stored—it was remembered. Still, she added that any texts within the city would likely be of little help to us. Their records on Keralon were sparse, distant echoes of a culture long foreign to these lands.
 
With a lazy flick of one claw—a gesture so casual yet so commanding—it was clear the audience had ended.
 
We bowed low in thanks and respect, then turned to follow Lady Mystan, who waited patiently at the edge of the chamber, back up the root-formed tunnel to the surface.
 
As we walked, Liliana broke the silence, her voice sharper than usual.
 
“We should go back,” she said. “To the Black Knight’s camp. Stop playing his game and make it very clear he’s not welcome here.”
 
There was a glint of fire in her eyes that I couldn’t help but admire. I nodded slowly.
 
“She’s right,” I said. “These duels, the riddles and rituals—they’re just distractions. He’s twisting the old ways into a performance.”
 
“But what about the curse?” Gael interjected, ever the careful one. “We should return to Keralon and do more research.”
 
“We’ll face it either way,” I said. “Waiting doesn’t free us from it.”
 
At last, we emerged back into the fading daylight. The air above felt strange after the deep, thrumming magic of the cavern. Lighter, somehow.
 
Lady Mystan turned to us, her emerald scales glinting under the canopy of leaves above. “Do you know your next steps?” she asked.
 
“We’ll leave at first light,” I answered. “We’ll deal with the Black Knight—and return to report what happens. If there’s anything you want sent to Keralon, we’ll carry it with us.”
 
Her eyes softened slightly at that. “You honor us.” She dipped her head. “Then rest well. May the night be kind to you.”
 
With that, she vanished back into the roots and shadows, leaving us beneath the twilight-dappled branches of Talebra Velora.
 
The rest of the evening I allowed myself a rare indulgence. I wandered the city’s winding root-lanes and moss-paved streets, sampling what local fare I could find—sweet fermented fruits, roasted riverfish wrapped in giant leaves, and a peculiar spiced bread that warmed my chest like firewine. The craftsmanship here extended even to food.
 
At one stall, I found leather armor—sturdy, flexible. I purchased a set for myself, admiring the way it moved like skin yet bore the strength of bark. My final stop took me to a small shop nestled between the roots of a massive elm. Jewelry crafted from silvered vines and carved gemstones lined the walls, glowing faintly in the light of hanging lantern-moss.
 
I chose something simple: a silver raven perched mid-flight, strung on a fine chain. A gift for Liliana. Just a quiet gesture—a reminder that someone appreciated her fierce loyalty, even if she often wore it like armor.
 
By the time I returned to our inn, the sun had vanished behind the branches.
 
Luke met me just inside the doorway, his expression unreadable.
 
“Lady Mystan came by,” he said. “Shortly after you left.”
 
“Oh?”
 
“She said a copper dragon’s been spotted near the city. Since we arrived.”
 
The words sank into me like cold water.
 
A copper dragon.
 
The pieces fell together with a grim click. Of course. The one whose lair we had visited. The one whose hoard we’d disturbed. The one whose dragonelles we’d freed.
 
She had followed us.
 
And she had almost certainly been the one who tore the Black Knight’s new champion limb from limb.
 
But the question that chilled me wasn't how she'd found us.
 
It was why.
 
Did she come to reclaim what we hadn’t returned?
 
Or… had she come because we had saved her children?