Entry 42: Myrdin and Anaya

Dear Diary,
 
Of course, my instincts had been spot on. Not long after we’d settled into uneasy sleep, Liliana and Dadroz’s cries shattered the night. The hobgoblins were on the move, slipping into position with the deadly precision of trained soldiers. But for all their discipline, they hadn’t prepared to face the likes of my brother.
 
Luke, ever ready, summoned a roaring fireball that exploded among their ranks. The sudden blaze lit up the ruins and sent hobgoblins scattering, reducing their numbers in an instant. What had begun as an ambush quickly turned into a scramble for survival—for them, not us.
 
It seemed the fight would be over quickly, the few surviving hobgoblins either fleeing into the shadows or falling under the weight of our blades. That was when he appeared.
 
Cornu emerged as if from the very darkness itself, his transformation complete. No longer the cold, calculating elf we’d faced before, he now loomed as a deathwolf, a monstrous hybrid of predator and revenant. His form radiated malice, his glowing eyes piercing through the chaos. Waves of dread rippled through the battlefield, freezing some of my allies in their tracks.
 
But I wasn’t about to let fear win. With a practiced focus, I dispelled the terror that had gripped my companions, rallying them against this unholy foe. Cornu’s monstrous snarls echoed off the ruined stone walls, but even his newfound strength wasn’t enough to overcome us. Together, with steel and spell, we cut him down. With an agonized howl, his deathwolf form dissolved into nothingness, leaving only a faint chill in the air as he was banished once more.
 
The battle was over, but our work wasn’t done. We tied up the lone surviving hobgoblin, leaving him to stew in unconsciousness while we turned our attention to the ruins. The place, long abandoned, bore scars of time and tragedy. Amid the rubble, one thing stood out—a gravestone nestled beneath the collapsed roof of what had once been the cabin.
 
“Here rests Vincent,
born under a different name. Hero to the people who hate him. May his soul finally find the rest denied to him in life.
Your loving wife, Reeva, and forever loyal shadow, Sylvesse”
 
By the time our investigation of the ruins was complete, our prisoner had stirred, groaning his way back to consciousness. He seemed eager—desperate, even—to strike a deal. In exchange for his freedom, he spilled everything he knew.
 
Their group, he explained, was one of many dispatched by High King Ulther himself, stationed across the land with the singular task of waiting, watching, and killing anyone who arrived with a particular item. Once slain, they were to confiscate whatever it was that person carried. While he couldn’t pinpoint exactly what—or whom—they were hunting, the description of their mission sounded uncomfortably like our journey with Gael and his silver box.
 
Armed with this revelation, we turned to Gael, who, predictably, was hesitant. Even with the clarity of Sylvesse’s guidance, the dagger key in his possession, and the lengths we’d gone to reach this very spot, doubt still clouded his face. His caution, once a strength, was beginning to buckle under the weight of indecision. It worried me, this reluctance in my friend. Every step forward seemed like a battle against his own fears. But for all his hesitation, we weren’t about to let the mystery remain locked away.
 
Through a mix of encouragement, persuasion, and maybe a little exasperation, we finally convinced him to act. With a deep breath, Gael slid the key into the silver box, its mechanisms clicking softly as a hidden hatch revealed itself. Elven runes shimmered faintly, etched into the side. The inscription read: Revanche.
 
The name hung in the air like a whisper of forgotten pain. "Revenge," I muttered under my breath, the weight of the word settling over us. My fingers brushed the cool metal, tracing the ancient characters. It didn’t take long to piece together the puzzle. The runes were buttons, and the name wasn’t just a label—it was a key.
 
“Reeva,” I said aloud, the name of Vincent’s wife echoing in my mind. I pressed the runes in the order they spelled her name. The box shuddered faintly before opening with a soft hiss.
 
Inside lay something unexpected and haunting: the right half of an intricately crafted mask. It was elegant, ancient, and unmistakably elven in design. The jagged edges spoke of a violent break, as though the mask had been torn in two. I turned it over in my hands, marveling at the craftsmanship while my thoughts swirled with questions.
 
Why had Sylvesse ensured this half of the mask made its way to Gael? What was its connection to Reeva, to Vincent, to this place? And most importantly, where was the other half?
 
The answers, it seemed, were as fractured as the mask itself. But one thing was certain: this was no ordinary artifact. Its secrets—and its purpose—were bound to shape the path ahead, whether we were ready for it or not.
 
For someone so typically cautious, Gael surprised us all by deciding, without much hesitation, to put the mask on. The moment it touched his face, the mask seemed to liquefy, melting into his skin and disappearing entirely. But that wasn’t the most shocking part—where an elf had once stood now stood a human version of Gael. His sharp elven features softened into something more rounded and mortal, his pointed ears gone, his golden eyes dimmed to hazel. For a breathless moment, I wondered if the change was permanent, but with a simple effort of will, he removed the mask. It slid off as easily as a second layer of skin, returning him to his usual elven form.
 
Curiosity and fascination buzzed in the air. Alistan, ever the brave or reckless one, decided to test it next. When he donned the mask, the transformation was just as astonishing, but this time in reverse. Where there had been a human bard now stood an elven version of Alistan. His features sharpened, his ears lengthened, and his entire presence seemed to hum with a strange, ancient energy.
 
It was then that the puzzle pieces began to click together. Someone else had once worn a mask like this—Darius the Leper. The infamous leader of the revolt in Keralon all those years ago. A figure shrouded in mystery, he had rallied the oppressed, struck fear into the powerful, and then vanished without a trace. But what if his disappearance hadn’t been an escape, but a transformation? Could Darius have been Vincent all along, using this very mask to conceal his elven nature?
 
The idea sent a shiver down my spine. If true, it meant this mask carried more weight than any of us could have imagined. It wasn’t just a disguise—it was a tool, a weapon, a legacy.
 
With those heavy thoughts clouding our minds, we tried to rest for what was left of the night. Sleep didn’t come easily, not with the knowledge of what—or who—might still be hunting us.
 
At first light, we packed up and began the trek back to Wolf’s Rest. The urgency to leave was palpable. We were being hunted, and not just by the hobgoblins we’d left behind. Whoever else King Ulther had sent wouldn’t be far behind. But as we pressed deeper into the Lorewood, focused on losing our pursuers, we somehow managed to lose our way instead.
 
The forest, already unsettling with its strange, whispering trees, now felt almost alive, conspiring to keep us wandering in circles. The paths twisted, the landmarks blurred, and even the sun seemed to shift unnaturally in the sky. With every step, the weight of our discovery—and the danger that followed it—pressed heavier on our shoulders.
 
After what felt like hours of wandering through the tangled underbrush and gnarled trees, Liliana and I both caught sight of something unusual. A strange, shimmering residue clung to the plants and the ground around us, faintly glowing like captured moonlight. I crouched to inspect it, brushing my fingers just above its surface without touching it directly. Residium. The very essence of magic, crystallized and given form. Normally, residium doesn’t just show up in nature—it’s a byproduct of incredibly powerful magic. Dangerous, rare, and immensely valuable.
 
Liliana leaned closer, her brows furrowed in thought. "This much magic," she murmured, "it’s not natural. Something big happened here."
 
I nodded in agreement. Residium could be used to forge powerful magical items, but it was notoriously difficult to handle. Without the proper containers, it would evaporate quickly, leaving nothing but a faint magical imprint behind. Unfortunately, we didn’t have the equipment needed to collect it. With a mix of frustration and unease, we decided to leave it be and press on.
 
Not much farther down the path, we stumbled upon something even stranger—a battered backpack and a wizard’s staff leaning against the base of a tree, both dusted with the same faint glow of residium. The staff looked old, its wood cracked and worn from use, while the backpack bulged with supplies that suggested its owner had been an arcane practitioner. Liliana rummaged through the bag carefully, pulling out spell components, notes, and a few personal trinkets. Nothing about it seemed recent—the items and the faint tracks around the tree suggested they had been abandoned for quite some time.
 
Gael stepped forward, his expression grim. He knelt and pressed his palm to the ground, calling on his connection with the creatures of the forest. A few moments later, a sleek red fox trotted cautiously into view, its sharp eyes darting between us. Gael murmured something in its language, and the fox cocked its head, considering. After a moment, it began to speak—or at least, Gael began to interpret for us.
 
“The residium has been here for over a year,” Gael explained, his voice quiet but steady. “But the backpack and staff? Those are newer. Months old, maybe.”
 
Liliana and I exchanged a glance. Months old meant someone had been here recently, someone with enough magic or recklessness to leave their things behind in such a charged place. Gael pressed the fox further, asking if it had seen where the wizard had gone. The fox hesitated, then nodded, gesturing with its snout toward the depths of the forest.
 
We followed the fox’s lead, weaving deeper into the woods. The air grew colder, heavier, and soon, we were swallowed by a thick fog. It clung to us like wet wool, eerily familiar. Memories of the cursed mist we’d encountered five years ago sent chills up my spine, but this fog didn’t carry the same malevolent energy. It felt natural, though no less disorienting.
 
Step by cautious step, we pushed through the mist until it finally began to thin, revealing a small, hidden valley nestled in the heart of the forest. The air was still, almost unnervingly so, and the faint shimmer of residium seemed to cling to the grass like dew. Whatever had happened here, it was powerful enough to leave a scar, even after all this time.
 
The valley stretched out before us, eerie and still, save for the faint hum of magic in the air. At the heart of it stood a towering menhir, its surface worn by time, though still steeped in ancient power. In front of it, the ground had been disturbed, revealing a magical circle etched with sylvan runes. But the once-formidable imprisonment spell was broken, its jagged lines suggesting something—or someone—had shattered its hold.
 
Behind the menhir, the entrance to a cave loomed dark and silent, its entrance scarred by scorch marks that hinted at some long-forgotten clash. It was clear that whatever had happened here had left its mark, both in the land and in the air itself.
Alistan, ever curious, climbed atop the rock near the menhir to get a better view, but the moment his boots hit the peak, the ground trembled beneath us. A roar, deep and guttural, echoed through the woods. We barely had time to react before the first of the massive trees stirred, its roots cracking the earth as it uprooted itself and lumbered toward us with terrifying force.
 
From the opposite side of the rock, another threat emerged—a dryad, her eyes burning with unnatural fury, her arms raised in a violent, ethereal assault on Alistan. The magic in the air was thick, and her movements were quick, too quick for Alistan to dodge. Before any of us could intervene, Alistan was covered in deep, bleeding wounds.
 
The fight erupted in an instant.
 
Luke’s fireball exploded in the air, incinerating one of the trees into ash and cinder, while Dadroz charged forward, his massive sword cleaving through the other tree’s trunk with a single, brutal swing. The trees fell with an earth-shaking thud, but the dryad was far more elusive. Her movements were fluid, almost inhuman, as she danced around our strikes, her body melding with the forest in a way that made her almost impossible to track.
 
But Liliana, with her unshakable resolve, finally cut through the dryad’s defenses, her blade striking with precision and force. The dryad’s screams echoed in the air before her body crumpled to the ground, her twisted form collapsing into the dirt.
 
We took a moment to catch our breath, the battle's adrenaline still coursing through our veins. But as we approached the fallen dryad, something was off. Her body was covered in residium, clinging to her skin like a toxic mist. It wasn’t just the magic that had corrupted her—it was the very essence of the magic that had mutated her. This was no longer a dryad in any true sense of the word. She had been twisted, her form warped by the powerful residium, a victim of a magic far darker than any of us had expected.
 
The realization hit us all at once: whatever had happened here, whatever had caused the corruption of this valley, was far more dangerous than we’d anticipated. And we were standing in the middle of it.
 
After a brief rest, we gathered our resolve and stepped toward the cave, its gaping entrance beckoning us into the unknown. The air grew cooler as we ventured deeper, the walls smooth and deliberate, suggesting some unseen hand had shaped this place. Two statues stood like sentinels at the mouth of a chamber, their stone faces stoic and unyielding, while the faint glow of magic hung in the air, lending an unnatural atmosphere to the cave.
 
Liliana's voice cut through the tension, her whisper filled with unease. "There are undead here," she murmured. "Two of them. One... one of them is coming from one of the statues."
 
My heart quickened. Something was very wrong in this place.
 
Alistan, ever the bold one, strode forward, his voice loud and demanding. "Show yourselves!" he called, hoping to provoke a response. To our surprise, the statue nearest to him began to move, its massive stone form creaking as it shifted, stepping forward as though obeying some silent command.
 
The voice that echoed from the stone was cold, hollow, and unyielding. "This passage is forbidden by Myrdin, the archdruid."
 
We all froze, the weight of the name sinking in. Myrdin. The archdruid. The one whose name carried such reverence among those who knew the old ways of magic. This was no ordinary place.
 
Before anyone could react, Luke, ever the calm one, stepped forward. His armor creaked as he took a firm stance. "I am a knight," he said, his tone unwavering. "An emissary of Myrdin's order. We come in peace."
 
There was a long pause, the air thick with uncertainty. Then, from the shadows, a slithering hiss echoed. A dark shape emerged, its serpentine body coiling around the rocks. An undead Naga, its translucent eyes glowing with an eerie light, slithered into view, its movements slow and deliberate.
 
"We are not welcome here," it said, its voice like the rasp of a thousand dry leaves. But unlike the statue, it made no move to strike. Instead, it circled us with a predatory grace, its gaze cold and calculating.
 
Liliana's hand rested on the hilt of her sword, but we all knew this was not a battle we could afford to start. The Naga’s presence was menacing, but it was clear it was not here to fight—not yet, at least.
 
After a long, tense silence, the Naga spoke again. "The residium outside," it said, "is the aftermath of a powerful spell cast here five years ago. It was not just some random event. No, it was part of a greater design. Five years ago, a prisoner, Anaya, escaped this place. Alone. She had no help. No one on the outside assisted her."
 
The revelation hit like a hammer. Anaya. The name seemed familiar, yet I couldn’t place it. But her escape, and the power she had used, sent a chill down my spine. Whatever magic had been wielded here—whatever dark forces had stirred—it had been tied to her in some way. And now, we were standing in the remnants of that power, uncovering secrets best left forgotten.
 
I glanced at my companions, each of us realizing that this cave—this forgotten place—was far more than a simple shelter. It was a monument to something ancient, and something dangerous. We were deep in something we hadn’t yet fully understood, and the further we went, the more certain I became that the answers we sought would be far more perilous than we ever imagined.
 
The names of Myrdin and Anaya are etched deep into the annals of legend, like the ink of a forgotten time. Myrdin, a powerful archdruid whose name commands the winds and the trees, and Anaya, a sorceress of terrifying power, whose heart was said to be as dark as the magic she wielded. Together, they had once been imprisoned—Myrdin, the one who had sealed the evil away, and Anaya, the one whose ambition had sought to tear the world apart. They had been locked away in a prison of magic, bound by forces none could fathom. But somehow, it all felt too familiar.
 
I couldn’t shake the uneasy thought that this ancient story—these two powerful figures—reminded me of my brother Luke and myself. Two beings, connected by magic, their fates intertwined by forces greater than themselves. My brother, the calm, disciplined knight, and me, a wild, unpredictable force in my own right. Could this story be warning us of something? Were we on the brink of a fate much like Myrdin and Anaya’s?
 
As the Naga's hissed voice lingered in the air, we understood that the escape of the prisoner—Anaya, no doubt—had changed the balance of this place, and likely, the world. We asked the creature if we could investigate the cave further, to learn more, to understand just what lay hidden within the depths of these ancient walls. But the Naga shook its head, a sound like gravel scraping against stone.
 
"No," it said, its voice low and filled with centuries of sorrow. "The cave is not for you to explore. It is a tomb, a prison for secrets long buried."
 
Instead, the Naga offered us a more unusual gift: the chance to set up camp at the entrance. After all this time of guarding the cave alone, it seemed the undead creature had longed for some company—someone to speak with, someone to share its knowledge and its misery.
 
Reluctantly, we agreed, setting up our camp as the Naga slithered to a dark corner, seemingly content to have visitors for the first time in ages. And in exchange for our willingness to listen, the Naga began its tale.
 
"It was centuries ago," it hissed, its voice filled with the weight of centuries, "that Myrdin and Anaya were imprisoned here. My master, Myrdin, locked both himself and Anaya away, fearing the destruction she would unleash if left free. They were bound by ancient magic—one could not escape without the other."
 
The Naga’s eyes gleamed in the dim light. "But Anaya, she was a sorceress of unimaginable power. And in time, she broke free. Through sheer force, she shattered the magical bonds that held her."
 
The Naga paused, its gaze distant. "The mist that covered all of Lorewood five years ago—it was Myrdin’s last attempt to keep her locked away, a contingency spell, a final effort to contain Anaya’s power. But it failed. She escaped."
 
The story was enough to make the air feel colder, the shadows deeper. Anaya was free, and she had been for five years. But what had she been doing since then? What had she been planning? Was she out there, somewhere, waiting for the right moment to strike?
 
As the Naga fell silent, I felt the weight of the tale settle on my shoulders. Whatever power Anaya had wielded all those years ago, it was still out there, still threatening the world in ways we couldn’t yet comprehend. And somewhere, deep within this cave, there were answers—answers that could either stop her or let her continue her dark work. But would we be able to handle what we uncovered in the process? Or were we too late to stop the inevitable?