Chapter Fourteen – Echoes from the Past
The door was made of stone, but not just any stone—this stone hummed with magic, ancient and familiar. Gilgamesh placed his hand upon it, and for a long moment, nothing happened. The ruins were eerily quiet, the air heavy with the weight of forgotten memories.
Finally, a low rumble echoed through the walls, and the stone door began to shift, grinding against the earth as it opened slowly. The darkness beyond was palpable, yet there was a strange warmth emanating from the other side.
"Shall we?" Gilgamesh said, his voice calm and measured, almost as though he were speaking to himself more than anyone else.
Fern, her curiosity piqued, took a step forward. "What do you think we'll find in there?"
Gilgamesh gave her a sidelong glance. "I cannot say. But it's mine to discover."
The three of them stepped into the hidden chamber, their footsteps muffled by the thick, dusty air. As they moved further in, the faint glow of arcane runes began to flicker on the walls. They illuminated the chamber, revealing ancient inscriptions—some in languages Fern had never seen before.
"Are these… your people's writings?" she asked, glancing back at Gilgamesh.
"Some of them," he replied, voice distant. "Others… belong to the world that was."
He walked toward the center of the room, where an altar stood. On it, surrounded by a ring of gold, was a stone chest, intricately carved with symbols that made Fern's skin crawl.
Stark frowned. "So, what's in it?"
Gilgamesh paused. The air had grown thick with an unsettling energy. He reached out, his fingers brushing the lid of the chest, and it opened with a soft hiss.
Inside, there was nothing but dust.
But, as Gilgamesh closed his eyes, a faint glimmer of gold appeared in the center, followed by an almost imperceptible hum.
"A weapon?" Fern whispered, peering closer.
Gilgamesh nodded slowly. "A tool of great power… one that was meant to be forgotten."
As the golden light continued to pulse, the chest shifted, and something inside began to form. A shape, a figure—not solid, not quite real—but there all the same.
Gilgamesh's eyes narrowed as he stepped back. "It is... not finished."
The figure took form, its shape a fluid blend of shadow and light, and for a moment, it seemed as though the very fabric of time itself was bending around it.
"I have not seen this magic in millennia," he murmured. "The power of the ancients… but it is not mine to command anymore."
As the figure grew clearer, a single word appeared on its lips—almost as though it had been whispered from a forgotten time.
"Return."