Foster finally reached the ruins of Fotiya in the fading light of dusk. The forest that surrounded him seemed to stop abruptly as he approached the abandoned town, as if nature itself refused to expand. The towering trees with their gnarled roots suddenly gave way to an open space strewn with ruins and grey stones.
Fotiya lay before him like a majestic carcass eaten away by time. Imposing collapsed arches protruded from the vegetation, and disjointed cobblestones littered the ground, forming a once noble pathway that had now been reduced to a disorderly chaos. Large stone buildings, once bastions of elven culture, still stood, their walls cracked but resilient, like giants weighed down by the centuries.
Relief motifs, almost erased by the weather, dotted the remaining facades: tree leaves, birds in flight, ancient runes engraved in a language that few could yet decipher, least of all Foster. He touched the runestones lightly with the tip of his hand and sighed.
Foster swept his piercing gaze over the surrounding area. The vegetation had overgrown much of the ruins, making it difficult to make out the landmarks he remembered. But he didn't panic. He knew this path by heart, engraved in his memory like an instinct.
- The Hall of the Ancients first,' he murmured to reassure himself.
He headed towards the centre of the ruins, where a huge circular square once stood. His footsteps echoed faintly on the broken cobblestones. Around him, mutilated statues of elven figures still stood, silently watching over the place. The noble features of these sculptures had been eroded, but their imposing aura persisted. Foster froze for a moment in front of one statue in particular, that of a tall elf holding an arrow to the sky.
'That's it,' he thought.
Behind this statue was the entrance to the Hall of the Ancients. Foster pushed aside an old stone door, grimacing with the effort. The interior of the hall was dark and cold, the air stagnant. Pillars still supported the cracked ceiling, and faded frescoes told stories of a forgotten past.
He walked quickly through the place, not dwelling on the decaying beauty that surrounded him. His objective was clear. At the end of the hall, he found another, smaller door, which he opened carefully. Behind it, a spiral staircase descended into the darkness. He didn't hesitate and plunged into the depths.
Foster walked slowly down a dark, oppressive corridor, his footsteps echoing faintly in the narrow stone passage. The walls, damp and covered in luminescent moss, emitted a faint green glow that made the shadows around him flicker. Each breath seemed heavier than the last, the stale air laden with ancient magic weighing on his shoulders. He clutched the royal ring lightly in his hand, as if to reassure himself.
'It must be here...' he murmured, his voice barely audible in the midst of the absolute silence.
Memories of his previous life came back to him in fragments. This passage, sealed for centuries, led to a sacred relic, protected by powerful enchantments and ancestral knowledge forgotten by most elves. He knew that this place had been designed to repel anyone who was not legitimate. Foster knew he was walking a tightrope, wavering between his cunning and the ever-present danger.
After several minutes of walking, the corridor widened and led to a small circular alcove, carved out of the rock. At its centre stood an imposing black stone door, several metres high. The intricate, twisting carvings in relief seemed to vibrate slightly in the air, giving off a palpable aura of magic. Each motif told a story: intertwining tree branches, ethereal creatures dancing around a colossal tree and, at the top, a symbol representing the World Tree itself, bursting with life.
But that wasn't what caught Foster's attention. It was the strange hand-shaped lock carved into the stone at the centre of the door, surrounded by runic inscriptions. The engraved lines pulsed faintly, as if the door were breathing.
He approached cautiously, his gaze inspecting every nook and cranny, on the lookout for the slightest trap or danger. The elves of Fotiya would never have left such a passage unprotected. Yet everything seemed inactive, as if the ancient magic guarding the door was waiting for something... or someone.
Foster stopped just outside the door, holding the royal ring between his fingers. The object seemed heavier than before, as if the intensity of the magic engraved in it was awakening.
- This is it...
He took a deep breath and slowly moved the ring closer to the hand-shaped lock. As he placed the ring against the surface, a wave of magic erupted around him, as if the door itself had just been awakened. The engravings on the stone suddenly lit up, casting moving shadows across the room. The runes surrounding the lock began to flicker intensely, emitting a low humming sound.
Foster's heart raced. For a split second, he feared that the magic would reject him, that the door would not recognise the ring. But the buzzing became deeper, sounding like a deep drum, and a strange warmth now emanated from the lock.
Suddenly, there was a restrained click, and the runes stopped flickering. The carvings around the door stretched and moved like living branches, slowly spreading apart to reveal an opening in the centre. The heavy stone door swung open with a deafening roar, as if resisting every millimetre. A soft golden light poured through the opening, bathing the corridor in a comforting but strange warmth.
Foster stepped back slightly, dazzled by the light which contrasted so sharply with the darkness in which he had travelled until then. He stood still for a moment, watching the gaping opening before him, his mind on the alert. Behind this door lay his objective: the hidden sanctuary where the seed of the World Tree rested.
'This is it...' he murmured, the tension in his voice betraying his mixture of apprehension and determination.
He inhaled deeply, took a step forward and an explosion suddenly sounded further up the passage, sending chunks of rock crashing into the walls of the corridor and shaking the floor.