Let's calm down and think, thought Era, though her resolve felt thin against the weight of her unease. Her memories, the threads of her recollection had been unravelled, frayed, tampered with. But by who?
Could it be Phoros? Although he claimed he would sleep through the trial? The thought lingered only briefly- it didn't sit well with Era. Deception was no foreigner to the Gods, but Phoros had never seemed so intamatley interested in her fate- Era was surprised he had even offered her a trial.
No, it was another hand at work here—one more subtle, yet no less dire.
Her gaze fell to her arm, where the faint scrawl of her own handwriting gleamed in the pale light of the oil lamp. Don't sleep. It's not Marlo.
How maddeningly cryptic. Era loathed riddles, as much now as she ever had. The obscurity of her messages could only mean they were written in haste. A warning.
Her thoughts turned, as a leaf caught in a swirling current, to the fable of Marlo. Hadn't it spoke of his voice, carried on the tides, for the ears of the sailors who dared frequent these waters? Could it be that as the kingdom stirred to life once more, so too had he risen, whether in flesh or in restless spirit? But wait—her message was It is not Marlo.
And so the riddle deepened. If not Marlo, then another phantom? If this were the work of a phantom, why did it skulk in darkness and leave her mind in disarray? Her memories of her task remained unaltered- retrieve the Jesters Crown. This pointed to a third, independent party, who's intent lay veiled.
With a sigh born of frustration and weariness, Era murmured to herself, "If I were a ghost, I'd haunt openly. What's the point of subtlety?"
She turned her attention to the mural that stretched across the far wall, half-swallowed by the shadows. Its grandeur had dimmed with the passing of years, yet even so, its craftsmanship was evident. She fetched the oil lamp, the flickering flame breathing light into the cold expanse of stone. As her eyes traced the mural's surface, she realized it was not a mere picture, but a story—a tale etched in painstaking detail.
Yet the story was broken.
Whole sections, bore savage gashes, the handiwork of one who wished to bury the truth. These wounds upon the mural spoke of a deliberate act—of someone who feared the tale it told.
Era sighed again, deeply this time. Was it not enough to contend with the trial set before her by Phoros? Now it seemed she was ensnared in another's schemes.
Wasn't there a cosmic limit to bad luck, a scale which balanced someone's fortune and adversity? Era was owed a boat-load of good luck to be delivered around now. Maybe luck was determind by another egotistical God who harboured her only ill will. How lucky.
Sweeping those depressive thoughts aside, Era realised she was at a crossroad: continue her original task In search of the crown, or as her past self was indicating, uncover the Phantom of the Palace.
The answer came instantly, her gut whispering what her mind could not: the phantom was the key.
An infuriating conclusion, which only promised twice the workload and Era could only hope reward.
And so, with a faint, wry smile, she set her course, donning her invisible Sherlock Holme's deer hunting cap. At that moment, the first pale rays of the sun crept through the shattered windows of the chamber, finally illumiating her entire surroudings. Era took a quick sweep of the room, and nearly jumped for joy.
Bless herself.
She could truly rely on herself to get the job done right.
Her perfect past self had somehow, against all odds, led her directly to the throne room. It lay in stillness, vast and mournful, touched now by the pale promise of dawn. High above, the arched ceiling stretched like the ribs of some ancient leviathan, its once-proud stonework cracked and weathered, though streaks of gold and silver yet glimmered faintly in the growing light. Upon its lonely dais, the throne stood silent and unmoving. Wrought of cold stone and lined with veins of tarnished gold, it bore the scars of the ages—its sharp lines softened, its proud carvings worn smooth. Besides it stood a smaller yet vastly more intricate throne, its body made from shards of shimmering crystal.
The sight stirred something deep within her—a recognition that lay just beyond the grasp of memory. she had no time to dwell on it. The crown was not there. Her path was clear. Whatever haunted these halls held the answers she sought.
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Era's plan was a risky one.
Logically, her time limit would be up at midnight. She couldn't know how many days she had lost to the Phantom, but favouring the side of pesimism, it gave her till tonight to succeed. She had one chance.
To be certain, Era wasted much of the daylight hours wondering around the floor the throne room was on- looking for the crown, but mostly acting as if she was searching, just in case the ghost was watching.
The ghost, for all its cunning, was cautious. It had not shown itself directly, and if Era were to spring her trap, it could not suspect she was lying in wait.
When the sun dipped low, painting the sky in hues of molten gold and deep crimson, she returned to the throne room. There, she let herself sink into the cold embrace of the ruined throne, closing her eyes as if succumbing to weariness- and waited. Her mind raced- this plan was a mixture of assumption, theory and sheer wishes, there was a good chance she would fail entirely.
All of a sudden, the air grew still, the silence heavy and suffocating. As the last rays of light vanished, the darkness settled like a shroud, complete and impenetrable. Era strained her ears, listening for any shift in the room, any sign of the specter's presence. Her breathing slowed, her fingers tightening subtly around the hilt of her dagger.
Then, it began.
A faint melody drifted through the air, its source indistinct but hauntingly beautiful. It seemed to flow like water, seeping into the cracks of her mind and pulling at her thoughts. A chill settled over her, sharp and unnatural, crawling down her spine and prickling at her skin.
The cold deepened as the presence neared. Era felt the phantom before she saw it—a weight upon the air, an unnatural stillness. Her breath misted before her, visible even in the dark. The ghost was close now, its ethereal form a mere whisper away.
Era's eyes flew open, and with lightning speed, she surged forward, her hand grasping at the cold, incorporeal figure. To her relief, her fingers found purchase—the ghost's form, though faint, was tangible. Her dagger flashed, the blade pressed to the figure's translucent throat.
"Don't move," Era hissed, her voice steady despite the thunder of her heart.
So far, Era's calculations were correct. She had assumed, for the ghost to steal her memories, it at some point must become tangible to actually interact with her, and in that moment, Era could also touch it. With her other hand, she quickly armed herself with her oil lamp. The ghost let out a terrible scream, a sound of anguish that seemed to reverberate through the chamber. But Era did not let go. The figure writhed in her grasp, and as it twisted toward the lamplight, it's figure illuminated, Era's eyes widened in shock.
The spectre was a woman—a stunningly beautiful woman, her features ethereal and haunting. Her hair flowed like liquid silver, and her eyes glimmered with sorrow as deep as the ocean.
"Who are you?" Era demanded, her voice hard. "What do you want from me?"
The ghost struggled, her pale, shimmering hands clawing at Era's grip. Then, suddenly, her resistance gave way, and slow tears trickled down her cheeks. Her cries were silent, cold but hearbreaking.
"I am Lysara," the ghost finally revealed, her voice broken.
Era's grip faltered. She knew that name. Princess Lysara. This was the phantom?
"You? Marlo's lover?" Era whispered, her mind spinning. "You've been haunting me?"
Lysara sighed, her cheeks glistening like dew in the light, but her gaze was unreadable. Era's words held power over her.
"Why?" Era demanded. "Why meddle with my memories, my thoughts? What could you possibly want from me?"
The ghost's shoulders sagged, and her voice came as a broken whisper. "I have my reasons. The crown—it corrupts all who touch it. I cannot let you take it. And... and I also feared you would uncover the truth."
"The truth?" Era pressed, her voice sharp. Lysara shuddered, at her tone or perhaps at her own thoughts.
Era couldn't help soften. " Lysara, I must retrieve the crown, it is my duty, but perhaps If you told me the truth, I could make the decision for myself." she said, her words kind but firm.
Lysara hesitated, her form flickering. Then, with a trembling hand, she reached toward Era's forehead.
"Then see," she said mournfully.
And Era did.