After the group had had their fill of berries and thoroughly explored the limits of the barrier keeping the curse at bay, Raviel finally spoke, his tone laced with both hesitation and resolve. "I suppose it is time enough to enter this tower. The more I ponder it, the less certain I am…" His voice trailed off briefly, before he gestured towards the structure. "The entrance lies yonder—elevated about a metre above the ground."
Before he could take another step forward, Thyric's gravelly voice broke the stillness. "Why's the door… elevated?" He drew out the unfamiliar word, his brow furrowed as he tried to recall it properly. "Is this a trap?"
"Fret not, Thyric," Raviel replied, his words firm and steady. "The elevation is but a remnant of what this place once was—a path raised when the fortress still stood whole. A trap? No. It's merely the scars of time and ruin." With a faint nod, he added, "Regardless, let us proceed. This tower may hold answers... perhaps even salvation."
With that, the group moved forward, their footsteps cautious yet deliberate. When they reached the door, Raviel motioned to Thyric. "You first," he said plainly, knowing the brute's strength would be necessary. Thyric grunted in acknowledgment, his massive hands gripping the door's edge before wrenching it open with a guttural growl. The old wood splintered, yielding to his might, and the three stepped inside, their breaths catching as they took in the sight.
Avelyn's sharp intake of air was the first to break the silence. Her eyes, wide with disbelief, fell upon a painting hung on the nearest wall. She hurried over to it, her movements almost childlike in their urgency. "It's… b-beautiful," she stammered, her voice trembling with emotion.
The painting was indeed a marvel—a depiction of sunlight piercing through a dense forest canopy, its rays illuminating a humble log cabin nestled among the trees. The brushwork was exquisite, the technique unmistakably that of a master artist. The soft, pointillistic strokes brought the image to life in a way that seemed almost otherworldly, a stark contrast to the bleakness they had known for so long.
Avelyn reached out a trembling hand, stopping just short of the canvas as though afraid her touch might shatter the illusion. Tears welled in her eyes, though she did not let them fall. "I… I haven't seen art in years," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Not like this… not anything like this."
Raviel stepped closer, his gaze scanning the room. The tower's interior was pristine, untouched by time or decay, as if it existed beyond the cursed land outside. The walls were lined with similar paintings, each one a masterful rendering of scenes that felt both achingly familiar and impossibly distant—fields of golden wheat swaying in the wind, children laughing beneath a summer sky, and oceans that seemed to stretch endlessly.
"This place…" Raviel murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "It is untouched… untainted." He glanced at Avelyn and Thyric, a flicker of hope crossing his otherwise stoic face. "Perhaps... perhaps this is more than a refuge. Perhaps it is a beginning."
The group exchanged glances, their wearied faces reflecting the same cautious hope. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, they were not surrounded by despair, but by something fragile and precious—a reminder of what had been, and perhaps, what could be again.
The interior of the tower was truly magnificent, it was lined with pure gold and the stairs was as elegant as any palace the trio could ever imagine. Despite the dark exterior, the inside was painted a pleasant cream colour which complemented the gold. The outside was always dark even whilst the sun reached its brightest it was still a twilight experience in which it was a somber hue of orange and blue that painted the sky. Yet, despite all this, the inside was bright, it appeared to be illuminated by a strange rock that was protruding from the walls at even intervals.
"After observing the tower in silence for a while, Raviel finally broke the stillness, his voice carrying a note of reverence. "I can scarcely imagine not only this tower but the castle in its entirety during its prime. This must have been a land of unparalleled grandeur," he mused, his eyes lingering on the structure's enduring majesty despite the ruin surrounding it. There was awe in his tone, though the days he spoke of were far removed from any they had known.
Avelyn's voice suddenly chimed in, drawing their attention. She stood before a painting, larger and more elaborate than the rest, positioned grandly at the base of the spiraling staircase. "This painting," she began, tilting her head as though the angle might grant her better understanding. "What is the artist trying to depict? It looks to be..." Her brow furrowed as she groped for the memory of her lessons long since buried under the weight of survival.
"A dragon," Raviel interrupted, his voice quiet but filled with awe as he stepped closer. His gaze traced the scene, captivated. "Only ever spoken of in legends. But here... here it is slain. A single man, imbued with impossible strength, tearing its head from its neck." His words faltered as he took in the sight, disbelief mingling with wonder. "Such power... it cannot be real."
The painting was monumental in size and scale, demanding attention from all who beheld it. It depicted a dragon of colossal proportions, its height alone towering above forty men, with scales of inky black that gleamed as though still wet with blood. The beast stood amidst a shattered citadel, its massive form coiled in anguish. Atop its neck stood a lone figure, his hands locked around the base of the dragon's head. The sheer violence of the act was palpable-muscles strained, veins bulged, and the raw, primal force depicted seemed almost too vivid to be contained within the canvas.
Avelyn sighed softly, breaking the spell of the painting. "I wouldn't lose sleep over it, Raviel. It's likely just a tale, a fabrication of an age that reveled in such myths for the sake of entertainment." She turned her gaze away, her tone light but carrying a trace of doubt. As she moved toward another corner of the room, her voice dropped to a mumble. "Still... a dragon. What a fascinating creature. I wonder if they'd have been allies to humanity... or tyrannical beasts, as selfish as the lords of men."
Raviel lingered a moment longer, his thoughts still ensnared by the painting. His hand grazed the frame as though to ground himself, but no answers came. Thyric, who had remained silent through the exchange, finally grunted, his deep voice breaking through. "Dunno 'bout dragons or men with godlike power, but somethin' 'bout this place don't feel right. The tower's too... whole. Like it don't belong here."
Raviel nodded faintly, not breaking his gaze from the dragon's severed head. "Perhaps. Or perhaps it belongs here more than we do." His voice dropped to a murmur, as if the weight of his words were meant for no one but himself.
The trio lingered for another hour, absorbed in the haunting allure of the paintings before finally ascending the next staircase. At its summit, a miniature sculpture stood upon a pedestal, waiting as though it had been placed there to test the reverence of those who reached it.
Though the statue stood at a mere three feet, its presence was monumental, exuding an aura of sacred craftsmanship. Carved from flawless white marble, its surface gleamed beneath the golden-orange glow emitted by the crystalline rocks embedded in the tower's walls. The shifting light played upon the figure's form, casting fleeting shadows across the intricately chiseled folds of a veil that draped the figure's body. The veil appeared impossibly delicate, as though it might ripple in a phantom breeze, the warm hues making it seem as if the stone itself radiated life.
The headdress—a crown of unparalleled opulence—captured the golden light, each inlaid filigree blazing like captured sunbeams. Its spirals and curves refracted the glow, creating an almost divine halo around the figure. The singular obsidian eye, inset with a delicate gold ring, stared outward with an unyielding, haunting intensity, its dark surface drinking in the ambient light and reflecting none, like a void carved into the figure's visage.
The figure's wrists bore golden bracelets etched with cryptic symbols. The carvings shimmered faintly, as if whispering secrets in response to the light that bathed them. The outstretched hands, imbued with a quiet yet undeniable authority, seemed poised to bestow wisdom or judgment. Each marble finger was carved with such precision that they seemed alive, their lifelike detail made even more striking by the warm illumination.
Behind the figure, a golden disc ascended like a celestial halo, its etched radial lines and ancient runes capturing the light and amplifying its brilliance. The interplay of gold and marble painted the figure in an ethereal glow, as though it were a messenger from another realm, carried forth from the ruins of a forgotten civilization to this desolate tower.
"What is that woman meant to be...?" Thyric asked, his voice tinged with an unfamiliar reverence as he stared at the statue, unaccustomed to the enigmatic artistry before him.
Raviel was the first to respond, his tone laced with curiosity. "Not once in my entire life have I seen a woman like that. Everything about her confounds me—the golden disc, the dark stone eye, even her posture… so composed, so alien." His voice trailed off as his gaze lingered on the celestial form.
Avelyn, her brow furrowed in contemplation, spoke up. "I think she may be an Oracle of some sort," she suggested, her voice soft yet confident, as though uncovering a half-remembered truth.
"Oracle?" Raviel echoed, his curiosity sharpening. "What is an Oracle?" His gaze remained fixed on Avelyn, awaiting an answer.
Avelyn paused, searching her thoughts before elaborating. "From my studies, an Oracle was a figure of great wisdom, capable of predicting the future. Some were simply intelligent strategists, able to foresee outcomes through reason and insight. Others, though… they claimed to commune with the divine, acting as messengers of gods. Their words could shape nations and steer destinies."
Raviel stared at the statue, his thoughts adrift. Thyric, his confusion mounting, broke the silence. "Predicting the future? For what?" His voice was tinged with disbelief as he returned his gaze to the statue, the weight of its mystery pressing upon him.
"To guide their people," Avelyn replied patiently. "Oracles often served as advisors, predicting the outcome of battles or warning of impending calamities that might threaten their nations."
Raviel remained quiet, his mind wrestling with the implications of Avelyn's words. At last, he spoke, his voice heavy with thought. "But why do they have a statue of her? What purpose does it serve here?" He shook his head, dismissing the questions that refused to leave him. "Perhaps I'm overthinking it. Let's move on," he said, though his eyes lingered on the figure for a moment longer, as if it had silently imprinted itself upon his soul.
The trio ascended another flight of stairs, their steps reverberating through the stone. At its end, they were met with a locked door. Raviel glanced at Thyric with a faint smirk. "Thyric, if you would do the honors?"
Without hesitation, Thyric stepped forward. His massive frame coiled with brute strength as he delivered a resounding kick to the door. The impact sent it trembling on its hinges, the lock splintering apart as a section of the door cracked free. The once-immovable barrier hung crookedly, a testament to Thyric's raw power.
"Shall we?" Raviel murmured, gesturing toward the broken threshold as they pressed forward, the lingering enigma of the Oracle's statue following them like a whisper in the shadows.
As they stepped into the chamber, its sheer scale overwhelmed them. The room stretched out in a vast T-shape, twenty meters across and just as long, with the stem extending forward like a path into history. The entrance wall stood flat and unadorned, humble compared to the grandeur that lay within. The walls ahead curved outward, creating an impression of openness that made the space feel even larger, almost boundless.
It was a room crafted for elegance, steeped in a femininity both subtle and commanding. Every detail whispered of wealth and refinement. In one corner stood a magnificent four-poster bed, its wooden frame alive with carvings—spirals, floral tendrils, and celestial patterns intertwined as though wrought by a dreamer's hand. A veil of sheer, weightless fabric cascaded over it, its translucent folds catching the dim light and shimmering faintly, like the threads of a spider's web at dawn.
The walls, however, held the room's truest treasures: three paintings, each demanding reverence. The first, hung to the left, depicted the figure of the oracle. Her image was hauntingly similar to the statue outside, her posture regal, her expression veiled in enigmatic calm. Her eyes, painted with an almost unnatural precision, seemed to pierce through time itself. She stood amidst a swirl of soft hues, her presence transcendent, as though her very being defied the curse of the land. The frame was gold, intricate, and adorned with softly glowing stones embedded at each corner, their pale light lending an otherworldly luster to the painting.
Directly ahead, in the heart of the room, loomed the second painting—a portrait of a man whose very presence seemed to radiate strength. His face, marked by a long scar cutting through his dark beard, bore a fierce expression that spoke of battles fought and victories claimed. His dark eyes were pools of raw intensity, and though his features were weathered, there was no mistaking the pride and authority etched into every line. The golden frame around him, adorned with the same glowing stones, seemed to amplify the painting's commanding presence, as if even here, in silence, he could not be ignored.
To the right hung the third and final painting, softer yet no less captivating. A woman smiled gently from behind a thin red veil that only half-obscured her beauty. Her long, dark hair, woven with threads of gold, cascaded over her shoulders. Her dress, a deep crimson, hung loosely, the fabric as soft and flowing as her expression was warm. Yet her eyes, dark and profound, mirrored those of the man—there was a shared lineage here, an unspoken connection that tied them together.
In the right corner stood a stately desk, its surface strewn with evidence of hurried or frequent use. A large leather-bound notebook rested at its center, its cover worn smooth in places, as though it had been opened countless times. Around it lay a cluttered assortment of inks, pens, and various other tools of writing, scattered without care for order. Beside the desk loomed a tall wardrobe, carved with ornate designs that mirrored the meticulous craftsmanship seen throughout the tower. Its dark wood was etched with motifs of winding vines and blooming flowers, the patterns delicate and precise, as if each line had been carved with reverence. Above the desk, mounted with precision, hung a framed letter, its placement suggested it held some significance, a relic perhaps of personal or historical value.
The floor beneath their feet told its own story. A rich, patterned carpet spanned most of the room, its deep red hues punctuated by intricate gold floral designs. The luxurious fabric softened their steps, muffling the sound in the vast chamber. Yet, as the group's eyes were drawn further into the room, the carpet abruptly ended, revealing dark hardwood flooring near the farthest end. The wood was polished but aged, its surface marked by faint scratches and wear that hinted at a history long before the curse.
Flanking the walls to either side, rows of bookshelves rose high, their shelves filled with volumes that seemed untouched by time. The books were pristine, their hard covers adorned with elegant, intricate designs—leather-bound spines embossed with gold filigree and titles etched in an archaic script. The collection was vast, as though it had been curated with care, each book a potential treasure of knowledge or forgotten tales.
At the center of the room, a marble table commanded attention. Its smooth white surface gleamed in the faint light, streaked with veins of gold that seemed to shimmer faintly, catching the glow of the embedded stones in the paintings' frames. Surrounding it were six chairs, three placed along each side, their backs high and adorned with gilded accents. Beneath the central painting—the imposing portrait of the scarred man—a long, cushioned chair stretched along the wall. Its upholstery, though elegant, bore faint signs of wear, as if it had been a favored seat for contemplation or conversation in days long past.
The arrangement of the room spoke to a life once lived here, rich with purpose and activity. Yet, despite its elegance, the silence persisted, amplifying the faint creaks of the wooden floor and the almost imperceptible hum of the glowing stones.
Avelyn was studying the paintings intently when something caught her attention. Her gaze lingered on the fine arrangements beneath each portrait, and she noticed a detail she had missed before. "Under each painting, there's a gold plate with a name engraved," she said, her voice edged with excitement. "This one here bears the name Lady Sereyna Valdarnia. What about over there, Thyric?" she called, gesturing toward the hulking man standing before the portrait of the stern-faced lord.
Thyric squinted at the plate and stumbled over the unfamiliar script. "I think it says… Lord Mikhail Valdarin," he muttered, his deep voice rumbling through the room. He scratched his head, clearly uncertain of the pronunciation.
Avelyn's face lit up with realization. "Of course!" she exclaimed, a spark of recognition igniting in her expression. "This follows the naming conventions of Velmirast—the masculine version of the surname for men, and the feminine rendition for women. It must've been a custom of their noble bloodlines." She paused, her curiosity piqued as she glanced toward Raviel, who stood silently before the oracle's portrait, his jaw taut with thought. "Raviel? Have you discovered anything?"
Raviel did not turn to meet her gaze. His eyes remained fixed on the haunting visage in the painting before him. The gold plate beneath it gleamed faintly in the dim light as he read the name aloud, his voice measured and solemn. "Zorya Veilkanova," he said, each syllable lingering in the air like a somber bell toll.
The room fell into a heavy silence, the kind that seemed to seep into the walls themselves. Thyric shifted uncomfortably, oblivious to the gravity of the name. Avelyn, however, went pale. Her shock was palpable, her words faltering as she stumbled forward. "H-how… how can this be?" she stammered, her breath catching in her throat. "There's no way…"
Raviel's voice cut through the tension, steady but weighted with disbelief. "Zorya Veilkanova," he repeated, as if testing the truth in the name. "The oracle who may have advised this king…" His voice trailed off as he turned to face the others, his eyes burning with the weight of realization. "And the same Zorya Veilkanova who now reigns as queen of Velmirast."
Avelyn took a step back, her mind racing. "That's impossible," she whispered, though even as she spoke, doubt crept into her voice.
"The same queen who sent us to our deaths in this blighted land," Raviel added, his tone colder now, the bitterness of betrayal rising like bile.