Nyx stood silently in the shadow of the wyvern's presence before turning his attention to the decrepit tower. His boots echoing faintly against the cracked stone floor as he entered Mijard Tower.
The interior of the structure mirrored its exterior—a place left to the mercy of time. The air was stale, carrying a faint musk of mildew and decay. Sunlight filtered through fractured windows, painting streaks of muted gold across walls blanketed in creeping vines. The fragile state of the tower was evident; even a careless push might threaten its precarious stability.
Green tendrils of ivy wove themselves into the stone, climbing like the hands of a long-forgotten past seeking to reclaim its dominion. Nyx's gaze scanned the immediate vicinity, his steps slow
Ahead, a spiral staircase curved upward, its iron railing rusted and flaking. As Nyx ascended, his hand brushed along the cool, uneven surface of the railing, his fingers feeling the grit of centuries-old neglect. Each step groaned under his weight, the sound reverberating faintly through the otherwise quiet tower.
Reaching the second floor, Nyx paused, his gaze drawn to the remnants of what once might have been a library. Two small bookcases stood at opposite ends of the room. One was consumed by cobwebs so dense they looked like silken curtains. The other leaned precariously, its wooden beams splintered and broken. Books lay scattered haphazardly on the floor, their spines cracked, pages browned with age, and edges curling.
Nyx approached slowly, his footsteps muffled by the thick layer of dust carpeting the floor. "Viscount," he called out, his voice cutting through the still air. "Are you aware of what kind of information was kept in this tower?"
Viscount Wellian stood at the base of the stairs, his expression bored. "Why would I? It was all unfinished work—nothing worth the effort."
Nyx's hand hovered over one of the webbed bookcases, his fingers lightly brushing the cobwebs before drawing his blade. "Abandoned knowledge is still knowledge," he remarked as the blade glinted briefly, slicing through the thick webbing.
Clearing a path, he reached for a book whose cover was almost obscured by grime. As he wiped it clean with deliberate care, faint golden lettering emerged: Basic Knowledge for Chimera Creation.
Nyx's brow furrowed slightly. He turned his gaze toward Grall. "Grall, were the people who occupied Mijard Tower practitioners of dark magic?"
"No, my lord," Grall replied promptly, his tone firm.
"Then, were there ever any reports of chimeras in the area?" Nyx pressed further.
Grall hesitated before speaking. "Chimeras were known as mythical creatures of terrifying power—akin to dragons, manticores, and others of legend. But ever since this tower was abandoned over a century ago, there have been no sightings or whispers of such creatures."
He paused, glancing uneasily toward the looming wyvern outside. "However, considering the Wyvern's presence, those legends might not be that Far off."
The room grew heavy with tension. The other knights, still on edge from the earlier encounter, shifted uncomfortably, beads of sweat rolling down their temples.
Time passed as Nyx ascended to the fourth and final floor of the tower. Standing before a wooden door, he lingered.
The door itself seemed ancient, its surface weathered and warped. Splinters jutted out at odd angles, and faint carvings—perhaps remnants of a forgotten language—decorated its edges. Nyx placed his hand against it, feeling the cold, worn grain beneath his palm.
'There wasn't much of interest after the books on the second floor,' he mused, his mind recalling each title he had sifted through.
His eyes flickered back briefly to the Viscount, who stood just behind him. 'One of the reasons this story was never finished is behind this door,' Nyx thought. His gaze sharpened. 'And the other reason is standing right behind me.'
The door groaned loudly as it swung open.
Nyx was greeted not by the dust and forgotten artifacts he expected but by movement—a flash of silver streaking toward his throat. A dagger, jagged and well-worn, hurtled through the air.
Nyx reacted with precision, catching the blade between his fingers mere inches from his neck, His expression remained unchanged.
Before him stood a woman, her blond hair catching the faint light streaming through a cracked window. The strands billowed in the breeze, though her expression was anything but soft. Her eyes burned with defiance, her grip on the dagger firm despite its failed strike.
"How mean," Nyx said, his tone calm, almost mocking. His gaze bore into hers, unfazed. "Is this how you greet someone who came all this way for you?"
The woman's glare faltered, her confusion evident as she looked at the dagger—her weapon—now clutched between Nyx's fingers.