The sun had risen.
Praise be it.
Sikir made short work coming back from the Fungal Forest as shadows do when they stretch on endlessly over the horizon. For no length of time she will spare in search of her king. Her sunlight to the shadow that she is.
The Dyr detached her wings, the feathers, skin and bone, withered away as soon as it did. To dust it returned before being swept away by the wind. The kingdom of Faudwick was in sight. The town beneath the castle was still developing over the course of five years. The wooden beams, the burly men lifting and hammering to keep it all together.
It was because this castle once belonged to the Demon Lord. Dark and infested with creatures not meant to be alive. Chained and shackled by primal features as if they were wedged and sewn together to be nothing short of monsters. Most were slain in mercy of their souls if they even had one.
The assassin carefully wandered around the outskirts. There were many labyrinths sitting beneath the earth within Faudwick, like the roots that one will never see unless they dig for themselves. One of the many entrances was inside a boulder near a running river, a hatch to open and enter to the inner sanctums of the old Demon Lord's domain.
Every kingdom was not without its secrets. None were exempted.
Sikir walked past the candle on the table around the entrance to the long narrow corridor, the candle wax had dried from its previous use just hours ago. Sikir had no need for such a thing. Through the five years she's guarded the king, she's come to memorize every nook and cranny in the hollow maze.
To the now abandoned prison cells with still rotting bodies yet to be thrown out, the odd rooms where the unsettling feeling of being warped inside out lurked, and the endless staircases going up and down. It was enchanted, surely. She was unsure of what sorcery the Demon Lord casted to the underground labyrinths, but it was still alive.
Wading through darkness, the shadow leaped. Every moment spent, it was simply to run as quickly as she could. Her main priority was finding a possible passage to follow the imposter and return the king to his rightful place, but the other was so that whatever that was breathing down her neck would not catch up to her.
The jarring hallways cease after several minutes, that wooden cellar door sitting above the stairway. Without a second thought, she pushed it open. Every time she would exit the underground labyrinth, she swore she could always hear something hissing behind her back. Only stone cold walls with unusable torches looked at her back when she turned.
Sikir knew every nook and cranny, running through death far too many times. She never fully understood the layout, but she understood what was putting her own life on the line for such little things. For efficiency, for preciseness, for her king. Nothing was beyond the question.
The cellar door led out to another hidden compartment in the castle. A quiet room, home to nothing but dust and rubble, not even to a single spider. A single door leading to an exit right in front of her where the royal carpet shall greet the woman in rags.
The rooms she'd pop out from would always be like this. Old, abandoned, forgotten, never to be seen again. But the door leading out would always be somewhere else in the castle. Were there multiple rooms like this scattered around the grand castle? No, surely not. Witchcraft, illusion of placement, a subspace in the world.
It's been five years since the Demon Lord had perished, since his blood had long since washed away from the walls of this very place but his machinations still live on to serve its function. That was not to say that one cannot learn how to utilize it for themselves.
The door leading out will always be somewhere else in the castle, as it listens to where you wish to go most within it.
Sikir places her hand on the doorknob, staring at the apparent dark wood with a lingering scent of nostalgia to it before pushing it.
The light of the sun through the stained glass window brushed her dark skin, glistening her silvery eyes and black hair draped over by her hood. If she were to look behind her, she'd only find herself staring at a hallway. Perhaps a maid or two who had seen her just appear out of thin air.
The Grand Archives or a more common word, the castle's library. As it used to belong to the Demon Lord, some of the books and tomes were rather hazardous. They not only bend the energy around them to cast whatever rite or runes written inside, they can even pollute nature if not disposed properly. Tales of cursed grimoires turning a luscious forest into a murky swamp were rather common.
They were this world's radioactive waste. Five years was not enough to remove all of them appropriately. Some of them were even thrown into the labyrinth below, never to be touched, never to be seen. It was best for it to be that way.
Sikir wandered around the library and its fairly expansive halls. The bookshelves were tall, shelving up to six stories high. Some were chained with arcane, some were moving gently as if they were breathing but most remained still as they should be. Magic was common yet it was also a dangerous thing as well, what with some of the books can try to bite your face off if one is not careful.
A few mages were still trying to clear out the dangerous few through the stacks of books they had all accumulated in one section of the library. Their familiars were as busy as well, carrying new ones and sorting everything back to their designated place.
Among them, Sikir eyed down a specific one. Ruffled curly orange hair with his face deep in another book. The man with the most amount of familiars darting all over the place for anything worthwhile for his time. The snob arrogant fool who can only satisfy his ego by seeking the truth of the world, or that's what Sikir thinks of him.
"Edfallas."
"Sikir." The mage didn't even need to lower the thick book from his face to know who it was. "Did His Majesty send you here to retrieve something?"
"I seek knowledge." The assassin merely said.
"And thou haven't read all literature pertaining to mutilating monsters and humans alike in here? Quite shocked I am." Edfallas flipped to another page, his nose too buried in the writings.
Mages were just knowledge junkies, addicted to the insight cursed grimoires can bring. Most people with political power would have extensive knowledge over spells and philosophy because magic was the gate to unlocking the secrets of the world. Sikir found most of them to be just as pretentious and stuck-up.
"I'm searching for a rite of sorts that we may have found." The Dyr stated. "A rite to bring and send heroes from the world beyond."
Edfallas' hand stops mid-way from turning another page.
"..And why seek such a thing?" He asked.
Sikir lowered herself, whispering the delicate words needed to be known.
"His Majesty has been usurped."
And Edfallas, finally placed the tome down.
His face was fairly scrunched up from confusion, his yellow eyes trying to process the information that he had been given. Eyes that were staring right at the shadow of the king. He knew that she wasn't the one to lie about such a thing, her sense of humour was as dry as the deserts from the middle east
"...Pray tell." Words finally came out of the mage's mouth. "How does thou knoweth for sure?"
"Best not be told here. When it is appropriate, then I will--"
There was a presence in the air. A presence known all too well. The other people in the room greeted him with respect, the patrolling guards saluted and bowed. It was warm, but Sikir felt her skin crawling from it, her arm was instinctively trying to grab the handle of her weapon around her hip.
Did she even want to turn around?
Edfallas stood up from his chair, screeching and shuffling against the stone floor. He held back his squint.
"Good morning, Your Majesty."
The stretching shadow felt herself shorten with each step of the person behind her up until she was nothing but a dwarf to it. She composed herself before turning around.
"Good morning, Your Majesty." And the shadow bowed to the sun, its creator.
"Ah, good morning. I pray you two are well?" The golden hero, the one who Sikir thought had been murdered quietly, was now standing in front of her. In his royal garb, his pleasant smile and welcoming aura. Verily, Azra Faudwick, the Hero of Hope.
The sun had risen.
Praise be it.