A strange, unnatural hum buzzed in the air around Isara. It vibrated and crawled beneath her skin. The containment ward she created shook. Its shimmering barrier flickered like a fading flame. Cracks spiderwebbed across its surface. The stone beneath her feet groaned. The mountain above them, once silent and unyielding, now seemed to echo with a new, ominous warning. A deep rumble shook the foundations of the ruins.
Isara's breath caught in her throat. Her pale gray eyes darted across the cavernous expanse of the library ruins. The ceiling, once a testament to the Order's craft, now threatened to collapse. Ancient beams creaked under the strain, and the stone above them began to buckle. Dust and small shards of rock rained down, scattering in all directions.
A mocking, hollow laugh echoed in the chamber. It sent a shiver down her spine. It was Maroth. Its power was greater than ever, a dark force that had seeped into every corner of the cavern. Isara could feel it. A malignant pressure pressed against her mind. It tried to fracture her concentration. The ritual was to contain Maroth, trapping it forever. But the ward that held it was breaking under Maroth's power.
Focus, she told herself, forcing her hands to steady. The tome, heavy in her arms, pulsed weakly as if it sensed the rising panic within her. You can still do this. The magic will hold.
But the vibrations grew stronger. The sound of cracking stone mixed with Maroth's eerie laughter. The ruins, which had once served as a grand library for the Order, now stood on the brink of destruction. The walls, lined with forgotten and arcane texts, were dissolving before her eyes. With each passing second, Maroth's magic reduced the proud structure to dust.
Ancient builders made the ruin beneath a great mountain. They imbued its stones with protective magic. But this was no mere force of nature that threatened them. This was Maroth, a being of pure decay, and it had learned to manipulate the very fabric of the world around it. It wasn't breaking the ward—it was dissolving the stones, eroding the ground beneath their feet.
Isara felt the floor shift. A sickening lurch as the chasm below widened, threatening to swallow them. The walls buckled and splintered, pieces of rock falling away to reveal the abyss beyond. Her heart raced. Time was running out. She had to act—now.
She could almost hear the voice of the tome in her mind again, its whispers growing more frantic. "The ward... It is failing, Isara. The forces at play here are beyond your control. You must leave this place before it completely collapses."
But she couldn't. Outside the mountain, chaos was spreading. Maroth, though trapped, remained a serious threat. She had come too far to turn back now. The ritual was almost finished. The binding was almost within her grasp.
Her hands trembled as she pressed them to the ground. She felt the pulse of magic beneath her fingertips. The containment ward was buckling. It was a barrier forged by the Order's highest enchanters. Her thoughts raced, but the whispers of the tome persisted, urgent and desperate. "You cannot keep it contained forever. There is always a price to pay when one meddles with such forces. You must seek the answer. The ward will fail."
A sudden tremor rattled through her body, and the floor beneath her cracked. Her vision blurred as a sharp gust of wind rushed from the chasm, scattering dust and fragments of stone. Her heart hammered in her chest, panic clawing at her mind. She closed her eyes for a moment, summoning every ounce of willpower to focus.
The sigil. The sigil is the only way.
She had seen it earlier, etched into the ancient stones of the ruin. It was an old Inkwarden sigil, long forgotten and buried by time. The Inkwardens were once allies of the Order. People respected them for their deep knowledge of magic and decay. But someone had erased them from history, hiding their secrets away. The sigil was the last remnant of their work, and it pulsed now with a quiet promise of power.
It will amplify your magic, the tome's voice murmured. But it will cost you. You cannot fathom the price it demands, Isara. Do not be so hasty.
The wind howled louder, the ruin shuddering beneath the force of Maroth's will. The sigil emitted a soft glow, as though calling to her. A surge of warmth spread through her palm as she reached down. Her fingers brushed the etched symbol in the stone. She could feel the power swirling within it, ancient magic that could turn the tide of battle—but at a price. She could feel it already, a sharp pull at the edges of her awareness. If I use this, I may lose myself.
But what choice did she have? She could see the ruin disintegrating before her. The stones crumbled to dust. Maroth—Maroth was growing stronger. She was the only one who could stop it.
Her breath was shaky as she closed her fingers around the sigil, a spark of energy pulsing through her veins. "I have to do this," she whispered to herself, the words sounding foreign even as she spoke them. The tome gave no answer, but the hum of magic in the air seemed to grow louder, pressing against her.
The sigil flared with light, and Isara's heart skipped a beat. The power surged through her body like a current, lightning coursing beneath her skin. Magic pulsed in her blood. It filled her with power. Yet, it felt like it was draining her life force, siphoning her soul. She could feel her strength ebbing away, each pulse of energy causing her knees to buckle. But she couldn't stop. Not now.
The tome's voice whispered again, but this time, it was tinged with something darker, more urgent: "Isara... the cost—"
Before it could finish, Maroth struck.
A scream tore from her throat as dark tendrils whipped through the air. They slammed into her wards with violent force. She staggered backward, her body rattling with the impact. Shadow fire licked at her skin, searing through her defenses and leaving burns in its wake. Her wards cracked, splintered under the relentless barrage. Maroth's presence was overwhelming, its rage manifesting as a hurricane of destruction.
The sigil flared brighter. So did Maroth's attacks. The two forces clashed in a chaotic frenzy of light and dark. Her strength was fading. Each burst of magic drained her life force as much as it amplified her magic. Blood began to drip from her hands, the cost of the ritual becoming tangible. The sigil was feeding on her, draining her vitality as it merged with the blood she had spilled in the ritual. Each drop, each sacrifice, was a link in the chain that would bind Maroth... but at what cost?
The tendrils of decay slashed through her shield again. The dark energy was eating away at her defenses. Her vision blurred, dizziness creeping into her mind as the sigil's power surged higher. A torrent of raw magic coursed through her. It burned with an intensity beyond her control. She held on, even though the effort screamed through every fiber of her being. A little longer.
The stone under her feet crumbled more. It seemed like it couldn't handle the chaos around her. Maroth's tendrils lashed at her again. This time, they tore through her wards. A jagged spike of shadow impaled her side, sending a sharp cry of pain from her lips. Blood poured from the wound, darkening the ground beneath her as she staggered.
But she couldn't stop. She had to finish the ritual. She had to seal Maroth away.
As the sigil reached its peak, the air around her grew thick with the weight of raw magic. Light exploded in a final burst. For a moment, Isara felt a connection to something vast. It was older than the world itself. It was decay, renewal, life, and death. The sigil pulsed like a heartbeat, an unstoppable force. For a moment, everything seemed to freeze. Time itself held its breath.
And then, they completed the ritual.
Isara gasped for air, her limbs trembling. The sigil flickered, its light fading. But as the power settled, a terrible realization bloomed in her chest.
She had misdrawn the final rune.
The binding had not been perfect.
Maroth was still contained, but not completely. Its essence... was bleeding into her.