Interlude Four - A Pact of Shadows
General Summary
The library swallowed light, its air dense with dust and a sharp tang of magic, metallic and faintly sour. Shadows pooled like spilled ink, crowding the corners and stretching between the towering shelves. The books themselves, cracked and sagging with age, seemed to hum with the weight of old secrets. In the middle of it all, the Faceless One sat motionless in his high-backed chair, an ominous statue carved from time and malice.
His finger glided over the brittle page of a tome, savoring each word as if he were unearthing truths too dangerous for anyone else to touch. The battered armor beneath his robes gleamed faintly, dented from years of wear but sturdy as the steel mask that concealed his face. Through narrow slits, his eyes glinted, cold and unyielding.
The door groaned open, a sound that cleaved the silence like a blade. Vaelin Sunshadow entered, his boots striking the stone with deliberate precision. His presence filled the room, a storm barely held in check. Crimson eyes burned beneath silver hair, and his features—sharp, proud—spoke of a man unbowed by anyone’s will.
He stopped before the Faceless One, his arms crossed. He said nothing. The quiet between them thickened.
The Faceless One raised a single gloved finger without looking up. A command. Absolute.
Vaelin’s jaw tightened, his lips a thin line. His hand hovered near the hilt of his scimitar, but he didn’t draw. Instead, he let the silence stretch, his pride refusing to crack.
Finally, the Faceless One closed the tome with a deliberate thud. The sound echoed. He set the book aside, his gaze lifting. “Why,” he said, his voice low and surgical, “are the Ruinlords still alive?”
Vaelin allowed himself a slight smirk, a flicker of arrogance. “The Ruinlords are pawns in a game they don’t understand,” he said, his tone casual, almost mocking. “They’re scattered, running scared. I’ve laid the groundwork. Soon, I’ll draw them out—force them into a position they can’t recover from. The Obsidian Lantern will be their tomb.”
The Faceless One tilted his head, slow and precise. “And the bastard?”
Vaelin’s expression hardened, the smirk evaporating. “I’ll kill him too,” he said, his voice steady as steel. “My family deserves peace. He stands between me and my sister. She is all I have left now.”
The Faceless One’s eyes narrowed, a glint of something unreadable flickering in their depths. He leaned forward slightly. “We’ll see if your devotion is enough.”
Vaelin reached into his cloak and drew a small object—a disk the size of a dinner plate. Its edge gleamed gold, etched with intricate filigree that seemed to shimmer in the dim light. The center was pure black, not just dark but void-like, an absence of light so complete it seemed to draw the eye and hold it captive.
“This,” Vaelin said, holding it out, “is the Dragonsoul Crucible. A relic from my bloodline. Ardura Tor’lyn’s legacy.”
The Faceless One rose from his chair, his movements as fluid as they were deliberate. He took the disk, his gloved fingers brushing its edge, his gaze lingering on the abyss at its center. For a moment, silence hung between them, heavy and charged.
Then he turned, walking to a nearby shelf. His hand skimmed the spines of ancient books until he stopped and pulled one free. A faint click echoed, and a panel in the floor slid open. From the hidden compartment, he retrieved a small glass jar. Inside, six green worms writhed sluggishly, their movements unnatural, as if pulsing to an invisible rhythm.
“These will take care of the serpentfolk,” the Faceless One said, holding the jar up. The worms glowed faintly, their sickly green light casting eerie shadows across his mask.
Vaelin frowned, the corners of his mouth tightening. “You’re sure these will do the job?” His tone was skeptical, edged with disdain.
“They’ll do,” the Faceless One replied, his voice calm, almost dismissive. “The question is, will you?”
Vaelin hesitated only for a moment before taking the jar. The worms twisted against the glass as if sensing his touch. He turned without another word, his steps echoing as he left. The door groaned shut behind him, sealing him from view.
The Faceless One stood still, his gloved fingers brushing the edge of the Dragonsoul Crucible. He returned to his chair and set the disk carefully on the table beside him. Slowly, deliberately, he reopened the tome he had been reading and leaned into its pages.
A sound slipped from him, soft and low—a chuckle, dry as the dust in the air. It lingered, faint and unsettling, before the silence reclaimed its hold.
Report Date
25 Nov 2024
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