The path to Redstone Castle was short but sheeted with dark trees silver light barely piercing the thick mist that had begun to coil around Myhra as she approached the imminent structure. The castle stood like a somber giant on the outskirts of town, its dark red stone walls towering into the night, as if challenging the very stars. The ivy crawling up the sides appeared alive, twisting and writhing against the ancient stones as though trying to consume the castle entirely.
As she neared the outer wall of the castle grounds, Myhra paused. Her sharp eyes scanned the perimeter. The gates, usually sealed tight with ancient magic, were slightly ajar, their heavy iron hinges creaking softly in the wind.
Someone's been here. Or something.
Suddenly, a faint sound echoed from deeper within the castle—a soft, almost imperceptible whisper, like wind brushing against stone. Myhra froze, her fingers instinctively flexing to bring forth her blending sword. She strained to listen, her senses heightened, but the whisper faded as quickly as it had come.
A heavy sense of dread clung to the air, thicker than the mist pooling at her feet. Myhra felt the weight of it, pressing down on her chest with each step she took closer to the foreboding entrance. The spires of the castle clawed at the night sky, and stone gargoyles lined the battlements, their twisted faces seeming to leer down at her, mocking her for daring to enter.
Myhra's heart pounded as she crept closer, every instinct in her body on high alert. She carefully pushed the gate open just enough to slip through, the old iron groaning in protest. Once inside, the courtyard stretched before her, bathed in the faint silver light of the moon. Shadows clung to every corner, making the space feel even more desolate.
Stepping into the overgrown courtyard, her boots crunched on weeds that had overtaken the stone paths, reclaiming the ground long abandoned. The air smelled of damp earth and decaying plant life, and every breath Myhra took was filled with the musty scent of a place.
Her eyes fixed on the castle's main door—a hulking slab of iron-bound wood that stood taller than she had expected. Tendrils of mist oozed out from beneath the frame, slithering across the ground like living shadows. Myhra's heart began to pound, her instincts screaming that something unnatural lay beyond those doors. She focused her gaze, her eyes narrowing as they shifted, the whites turning a deep black while her irises glowed blood red.
With her heightened vision, Myhra could see the smallest movements in the mist—creatures skittering along the edges of her sight. Dragonflies, insects, and serpents crawled and hissed in distance, but beyond the door, a thick fog obscured everything. She couldn't pierce the strange magic clouding the entrance. "Which order of Mist magic is it? Doesn't look greater than fourth order..." she muttered, recognizing the slow yet deliberate spread of the mist from the doorframe. It was no ordinary fog; it was oozing out with purpose, covering the ground like a creeping threat.
When summoned, the mist moves with a life of its own to choke the enemies—thick, swirling tendrils of vapor that creep silently across the ground, enveloping everything in its path. Depending on the order of mist magic its nature changes, the order more than 4 are the mist which is cool to the touch, almost chilling, and it carries a strange, otherworldly scent—a reminder of its supernatural origins. It blurs vision, turning once familiar surroundings into an indistinct, ghostly landscape where shadows and shapes shift in and out of focus.
The magic is not just for concealment but also manipulation. The mist can bend light, creating illusions and hiding truths as it takes time to show its full power. It mainly attacks to distort the senses, muffling sound and distorting sight, making it nearly impossible to tell friend from foe. Those caught within it often feel disoriented, as if reality itself is slipping away. Time feels slower in the mist, movements drag as if wading through water.
For those skilled in mist magic of higher order above three, it can be used to paralyze enemies, make entire areas impassable, or even transport the caster across short distances, their form dissolving into vapor and reforming elsewhere. However, mist magic is unpredictable. If not controlled properly, it can turn on its user, causing them to lose their way in their own fog.
In its most potent form, mist magic can summon forth illusions of the past, projecting memories or forgotten fears within its swirling clouds, trapping the mind in its vaporous clutches.
But this Mist magic seem a little too differnt as there nothing potent of attacking but more like to conceal. There's something more with it. For a moment, she stood there, transfixed by the faint, almost inaudible whispers that emanated along. Desperate chanting, like the voice of someone trapped, echoed faintly, carried by the mist toward her ears. Her pulse quickened, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. Something was calling her, drawing her closer with a sinister pull.
Without hesitation, Myhra moved forward, her hand reaching for the handle of the massive door. As her fingers brushed the cold iron, a surge of energy jolted through her, the ancient magic sealing the entrance resisting her attempt to enter. She closed her eyes, summoning her own power. The blood-red glow in her eyes intensified as she whispered an incantation, her fingers forming complex gestures in the air. She could feel the seal weakening as her energy flowed into the lock, unraveling the barrier like a knot coming undone.
The door creaked open slowly, almost reluctantly, revealing a grand but desolate entrance hall bathed in shadow. The air inside was thick, heavy with the stench of decay and the weight of centuries of silence. Dust clung to every surface, stirred into the air by her movement, catching the faint light filtering through the tall, stained-glass windows. The fragmented colors reflected on the cold stone floor gave the room a ghostly, dreamlike quality.
Myhra stepped inside, the door sealing behind her with a heavy thud, sealing her off with the mist and shadow. The oppressive atmosphere pressed in the castle's long-forgotten history whispering in her ears through the creaking walls. The grand staircase at the far end of the hall beckoned her, its banisters carved with twisting dragons and mythical beasts, their eyes seemingly alive as they followed her every move.
Her sharp instincts told her she wasn't alone. The shadows shifted subtly, and though her vision could penetrate the gloom, the mist magic continued to obscure certain areas, particularly around the door to the main hall. Something was protecting that space—guarding it from curious eyes. Myhra could sense it, the unseen presence watching her, the whispers growing louder, more insistent.
As she approached the staircase, the sense of being watched grew unbearable. She reached the top and paused, her gaze falling on a corridor lined with closed doors. Each door seemed to hum with ancient history, as though behind them lay secrets too dangerous to uncover. Myhra moved cautiously, checking the doors, but each one was sealed and she didn't had the energy to break into each one of them. Her frustration mounted until she reached the last one at the end of the hall—a door darker than the rest, its brass handle polished smooth from use.
This time, the door slide open. Myhra pushed it, her heart racing as she stepped into a study. The air inside was thick with the scent of old parchment and dust. Shelves lined the walls, filled with books and scrolls, while a large desk sat in the center, abandoned but still holding the remnants of someone's work. Papers and quills lay scattered across the surface, as though someone had left in a hurry.
As she examined an old map, a sudden noise from behind made her spin around. She saw a shadow move behind the rack of books, darting out of sight as quickly as it had appeared. But before she could reach behind, another flicker of movement in her peripheral vision made her stop dead in her tracks.
There, on the far side of the corner desk, a figure stood. Cloaked in shadow, it was difficult to make out any details, but the figure was unmistakably watching her. "You came...you came...." it chanted a few times in a whispers.
Myhra's breath caught in her throat. Her instincts screamed at her to draw her weapon, to prepare for whatever threat might come, but something about the figure gave her pause. It didn't move, didn't make any hostile gesture, just stood there, as if waiting.
"Who are you?" Myhra called out, her voice steady despite the tension coursing through her.
No answer came. The figure remained motionless for a long, eerie moment before it finally turned and vanished into the darkness, slipping between the shadows like smoke.
Myhra's pulse raced as she hurried after it, spotted the faintest flicker of movement—the shadow gliding along the far wall, nearly imperceptible in the dim light. Her instincts ignited, and without hesitation, she gave chase. Each step she took was careful and deliberate, her boots barely brushing the cold stone floor as she followed the elusive figure through the maze of corridors. Her senses heightened, her heartbeat quickening.
The shadow moved effortlessly, almost as if it was part of the castle itself, its steps fluid and soundless but there was a certain sound of joyous laughter in the silence. Myhra narrowed her eyes, refusing to let it slip away. She quickened her pace, her breath steady but filled with urgency. The passage twisted and turned, disorienting her as the figure weaved through the labyrinth-like halls. But she remained focused, her gaze locked on the dark form ahead.
The chase led her to a spiral staircase that coiled upward like a serpent into the tower. The cold, damp air clung to her skin as she ascended, her hand sliding over the worn, rough surface of the stone banister. The higher she climbed, the heavier the air became, dense with the weight of the ancient magic that pulsed through the castle's very bones. The walls seemed to press in closer, their oppressive presence almost suffocating.
At the top of the staircase, she came to a halt before a heavy, weathered wooden door. The shadow had slipped through it effortlessly, and Myhra hesitated for only a second, her fingers brushing the cool wood before she pushed it open.
The door creaked as it swung inward, revealing a vast chamber bathed in starlight. Ancient painting, depicting battles and long-dead rulers, hung from the walls, their faded images stirring in the faint breeze. Dust clung to every surface, coating the rows of shelves filled with relics and tomes that whispered of the castle's long, mysterious past. The moment Myhra stepped inside, her eyes glowed in red as she sense multiple strong presence in the room.