The once-magnificent Crystaine estate loomed in the distance, a shadow of its former glory. Aveline Crystaine stood at the edge of the ruined grounds, the biting wind tugging at her cloak. The sight before her was a cruel reminder of the life she had lost. What had once been a sprawling manor of pristine marble and glittering stained glass was now a crumbling husk. Vines crept along shattered walls, and the grand gates, once a symbol of her family's unmatched power, hung crookedly on their hinges.
She shouldn't have come back here.
But she couldn't stay away. From the place she used to call home.
Aveline's boots crunched over broken stone as she stepped through what was left of the family courtyard. The fountain at its center, which once sparkled with enchanted water, was now just dry and cracked. She remembered running around it as a child, her laughter echoing off the walls as her mother watched with a warm smile. Only silence greeted her now.
Her hand brushed against the faint mark on her wrist, a sigil that pulsed faintly alongside her heartbeat. The mark was a curse as much as it was a reminder. A chain to the bloodline relic of House Crystaine. The only thing that had saved her from sharing her family's fate.
Aveline clenched her jaw, steeling herself against the wave of emotion threatening to break through.
"Dwelling on the past won't bring them back," she muttered under her breath, though the words felt hollow.
The wind suddenly carried a faint whisper, so soft she almost didn't hear it.
Aveline.
She froze. The voice was faint, ethereal, and unmistakable. She turned sharply, her hand instinctively reaching for the dagger concealed beneath her black cloak.
"Who's there?" she demanded, her voice cutting through the stillness.
No answer. Only the sound of the wind weaving through the ruins.
Aveline exhaled, shaking her head. She was being foolish. It was probably from the mark on her wrist. Which often played tricks on her, conjuring whispers and shadows that weren't there. It was just another cruel side effect of the relic's bond, a constant reminder that she was never truly alone.
She pressed on, her steps carrying her toward the estate's remains.
Her destination was clear: the Crystaine crypts. The answers she sought lay buried there, in the cold, dark depths where generations of her ancestors rested.
As she reached the grand entrance to the manor, the air grew heavier, colder. The doorway, once framed by fancy carvings of magical runes, now stood as an open wound, the runes fractured and lifeless. Parts and pieces of the doorframe broken. Aveline hesitated, her heart pounding at the front steps. She had not been back here since that night. The night her family was destroyed, and suddenly everything she knew was ripped away.
After taking a deep breath, she stepped inside.
The interior was just as she remembered it: hauntingly beautiful and achingly empty. The grand hall stretched before her, its high ceilings shrouded in shadows. Dust coated the once polished floors, and the chandelier above hung dangerously, its crystals dulled by time and lack of care.
Aveline's footsteps echoed as she walked down the hall, past portraits of her ancestors that somehow remained intact. Their painted eyes followed her, judging her, as if they blamed her for what had happened.
"I didn't fail you," she whispered, though the words felt like a lie. She wasn't sure who she was trying to convince with her statement. Whether she was trying to reassure them or herself. "I'm still here."
Her hand brushed against a nearby table, where a shattered vase lay in pieces. She remembered the day it had been knocked over. By her, as a child, during one of her magical experiments. Her father had scolded her, but her mother had laughed; saying it was a small price to pay for Aveline's potential.
The memory was like a dagger to her heart.
Reaching the grand staircase, Aveline descended into the crypts. The air growing colder with each step, the dim light fading until she was forced to summon a faint glow from her mark. The sigil pulsed weakly, illuminating the narrow staircase and the damp stone walls.
The crypt doors stood before her, sealed with heavy iron and engraved with ancient runes. Aveline traced her fingers over the markings, her touch activating a faint hum of power. The door resisted, as if it knew what she was after.
"I'm the last Crystaine," she murmured, her voice soft and steady. "You will open for me."
The mark on her wrist flared, and the runes on the door glowed in response. With a deep groan, the iron doors swung open, revealing the darkness beyond.
The crypt was silent, save for the faint dripping of water somewhere in the distance. Rows of caskets lined the walls, each individually carved with a name and crest for each Crystaine ancestor.
At the far end of the room stood a pedestal, and atop it rested a small, ran down chest.
Aveline approached the chest cautiously, her heart pounding. This was it. The last known remnant of her family's relics. She placed her hands on the lid, her breath catching as she prepared herself to open it.
"Careful, girl."
The voice startled her as she whirled around, dagger in hand. A figure stepped out of the shadows, masked within the surrounding darkness. Their face was obscured, but their presence was undeniable: commanding and dangerous.
"How did you get in here?" Aveline demanded, her voice sharp.
The figure chuckled, a low, chilling sound. "The better question is: how far are you willing to go to find out, Aveline Crystaine?"
Her grip tightened on the dagger. "Who are you?"
The figure stepped closer, and though their face still remained hidden, she could feel their gaze piercing through her. "An ally, perhaps. Or just a reminder of the dangers you face. The relic you seek may hold answers, but it will also bring ruin if you're not careful."
"I'll decide that," she snapped.
"Will you?" The figure tilted their head. "Then open it, girl. See what fate awaits the last heir of the fallen house."
Aveline hesitated, her gaze shifting between the chest and the stranger. The air crackled with tension, and she knew: whatever lay inside the chest would change everything.
With trembling hands, she lifted the lid.
And the darkness surged.