The Vorat Family crypt lay deep within the castle’s rocky foundation, where the weight of two thousand years of history pressed upon the air like an unseen force. Its vast corridors and towering arches, though carved with the same precision and spaciousness as the halls of the living above, carried an ominous stillness—as if the very stones bore witness to long-buried secrets. Each step deeper underground amplified the near-palpable sensation of millions of tons of rock looming above, accompanied by a creeping chill that settled unbidden into my bones.

  As I hurried down the well-lit central corridor, the golden masks of my ancestors gazed indifferently from their alcoves, silent reminders that—sooner or later—I too would join them in their eternal vigil. My footsteps echoed faintly into the darker, adjoining chambers, reverberating through unseen spaces beyond the arches and ramps. Had I not known this place so intimately, I might have suspected I was not alone.

  The scent of ancient dust, incense ash, and grave mold intertwined with the fading aroma of wilting soulweed, clinging stubbornly to the air despite the servants’ tireless efforts to keep the crypt clean and well-ventilated.

  On either side of me, the endless reliefs told a story centuries in the making—intricate carvings immortalizing long-dead lords and ladies, each frozen in a scene of bygone glory, stretching back to the founding days of the old Vorat kingdom. Their sarcophagi, nestled seamlessly between them, blended so well into the stone that they almost disappeared into the surrounding artistry. The soft glow of lumin-crystals bathed their frozen faces in an ethereal light, though it no longer stirred in me the same reverence as it once had. As a boy, I had roamed these halls countless times, memorizing the engravings like a beloved yet long-tiresome book.

  After nearly five hundred steps, the corridor terminated at a solid stone wall. Unlike the rest of the crypt, this engraving had been commissioned by my own hand nearly a decade past. Its relief depicted a kneeling man—his clothes tattered, his hair disheveled—while a scarlet-robed figure loomed above him, inscrutable, as if silently passing judgment. The setting was a forest clearing, a weathered stone altar visible in the background. Compared to the grim reality that had inspired its creation, the carved scene now seemed almost innocent, especially in light of the nightmare that had haunted me the night before.

  Yet it was far more than a mere fragment of memory etched in stone.

  I let out a sharp breath, only then realizing I had been holding it. My fingers hesitated as they reached for the small hemisphere above the altar—the or’dain. Unlike the other reliefs, this detail was inverted, creating a deliberate recess in the stone. It was the gateway to one of my darkest secrets. And the sole key lay in my hand.

  Whether I was truly prepared to use it, however, was another matter entirely.

  “Compose yourself!” I growled, the command meant as much to shatter the oppressive silence as to steady my own nerves.

  Even so, it demanded considerable effort to complete the motion and seat the or’dain within its recess. A barely audible click signaled that the orb had settled into place. At once, the spark at its core flared—swelling into a miniature scarlet star, its brilliance too blinding to behold.

  The relief carved into the stone stirred. For the span of a heartbeat, the sculpted branches swayed as though caught in an unseen wind. A chill, sharp as a midnight breeze, seeped through from beyond the wall. Then, the image dissolved, its colors twisting into a swirling vortex before peeling away to reveal the entrance to Ra’maen’s secret tomb.

  Beyond it, naught but cold darkness awaited.

  For an instant, my mind conjured an image of what I might find within: a mummified female form, bearing unnatural, grotesque signs of regeneration.

  I shook my head sharply, dispelling the unwelcome vision before stepping over the threshold. My voice rang firm against the silence:

  “Zarrianu (Light).”

  At once, three lumin-crystals flared to life, their glow pushing back the shadows to reveal a circular chamber—bare stone walls rising into a high, domed ceiling. At its center, frozen in eternity, lay a massive, intricately carved obsidian slab.

  And atop it rested something far more disturbing than I had ever dared imagine.

  “By Kalit’s final mercy…” I whispered, yet in the chamber’s emptiness, the words echoed like a thunderclap.

  The naked form atop the Tot-black stone greeted me with the same unspoiled beauty that had seared itself into my memory when the tomb was first sealed. Even from a distance, the familiar, alluring scent of her skin filled my senses—drawing me forward despite myself.

  Ra’maen lay in a semblance of tranquil repose, as though merely ensnared in a deep and undisturbed slumber. Only the unnatural stillness of her chest betrayed the truth—this was no mortal rest. This was a slumber from which no ordinary being could ever hope to awaken.

  And yet, in the past… she had.

  Resting upon her smooth abdomen, like a venomous serpent lying in wait, was the dagger with which I had taken her life… that final time. Years ago, I had come to understand that the woman—no, the being—lying before me was anything but mortal. Only now did I fully grasp how gravely I had underestimated her power. Despite all the precautions I had taken, her revival was nearly complete—decades ahead of what should have been possible. Woven deep into the obsidian slab were eleven potent spells, designed to hinder—or, at the very least, delay—the regeneration of her body. This was ancient magic, tracing its origins to the Age of Lir’Anarand—its knowledge shattered, fragmented, and scattered across the Enlightened Realms.

  I had expended immense effort and significant resources to secure the necessary texts, even organizing a long and perilous expedition into the Wastes to plunder the ruins of an ancient branch of the Academy of Magic. Three precious tomes had been recovered from that expedition alone, completing the fragments of the lost knowledge. Reconstructing the necessary spells from the myriad of disparate sources had consumed more than a year. And now, as I stood before her once more, I was certain of one thing.

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  It had not been enough.

  Even as the tomb was being constructed, I had known—deep down—that Ra’maen’s power could not be confined to Kalit’s Domain forever. Yet until tonight, I had truly believed I would not live to witness her return.

  “Ra’maen?” My voice barely stirred the silence.

  I doubted she was truly present—not yet. Still, I could not begin examining the body without being certain.

  Receiving no response, I stepped closer. The featureless white mask, silent and unyielding, remained as unsettling as ever. I knew what lay beneath. And I dared not lift it. Some things were better left to time-blurred memory. Besides, what I sought lay elsewhere.

  Her skin was ice-cold yet not stiff. The unnatural softness beneath my touch was neither that of the living nor the dead. A sensation all its own—something between flesh and memory. My unsteady hand traced along the familiar curve of her arm, and for the briefest instant, a wave of recollections threatened to resurface. Some, disturbingly enough, were even pleasant.

  Mercilessly, I forced them down. Buried them with all the rest.

  My fingers carefully examined her body, seeking the wound that had ended her life. Yet all I found in its stead was a fresh, pink scar.

  I sighed, realizing that once again I was forced onto a singular path.

  “Forgive me, Ra’maen, but this is the only way…”

  My whisper barely touched the chamber walls before I gripped the dagger’s hilt and drove it straight into her heart.

  The wail that followed never touched the air. It rang only within my mind—a shattering, soul-rending scream that blurred the line between perception and reality. Agony lanced through my skull as an unbearable surge of power threatened to fracture it from within.

  I staggered back, my vision swallowed by darkness. Warm droplets slipped from my ears, trailing down my neck. Another stream touched my upper lip and entered my mouth, its taste thick and metallic.

  Blood. And a lot of it.

  It took minutes—long, suffocating minutes—before the red haze lifted from my eyes and the dizziness receded.

  Ra’maen remained motionless.

  The dagger’s hilt still jutted from the base of her breast, but a single crimson stream had begun to trickle down her left side, pooling beneath her motionless form.

  “By Azur…” I gasped, my breath ragged.

  This outcome was unforeseen. Her awakening was far closer—far more imminent—than I had feared.

  In my desperation, piercing her heart had been the only course left to me. The only means to slow what was already in motion. But even now, even in death, the regeneration had not ceased. Bit by bit, her flesh was already beginning to reject the blade, pushing it outward—slowly, inexorably sealing the wound once more.

  Even in death, Ra’maen would not suffer such an offense twice. Yet, perhaps… I had secured myself the fragile reprieve of a few more precious months.

  “Rest well, my dear,” I murmured, a semblance of relief washing over me as I staggered from the tomb.

  The swirling mist returned, conjuring painfully familiar images at the entrance. But before they could fully take shape, the robed silhouette suddenly turned its head toward me.

  I froze as her crimson gaze burned through me.

  “Liadar’min Kael (Kael, my beloved),” her whisper slithered through the air, cold as the grave.

  Ra’maen’s figure shifted, as though about to step beyond the limits of her unreal existence. Behind her, the or’dain emerged at last, pulsing with a terrible light—brighter than ever.

  My breath hitched and instinct took over.

  My hand lunged for the small crystal orb, which now seemed to hover at the far end of the clearing. I yanked it back with all my strength. The expected resistance never came. The or’dain slid free with a familiar click, sealing the lock for good. The force of the pull sent me stumbling. Two unsteady steps, then my legs buckled and I collapsed onto the stone floor.

  For a few moments, the or’dain still shone between my clenched fingers—then, gradually, its light faded. The engraving on the wall stilled, returning to an unmoving piece of the crypt’s decor. Silent. Motionless. Unthreatening.

  I thought grimly.

  Lifting a hand to my ear, I absently brushed my fingertips over it—then frowned at the sticky warmth. I wiped at the drying blood on my mouth and neck, using the sleeve of my robe, though the silk was ill-suited for the task. The effort proved futile.

  A sobering realization settled over me. Had I delayed this visit even a day longer, the backlash would have surpassed my limits. If not for Arin’s letter forcing me to check the vault, I would have faced a far graver problem within days.

  Ra’maen.

  I held no illusions. Our twisted dance would be no different this time. How does one restrain a kar’dagora wielding the power of an Archmage—yet wholly unburdened by morality?

  “A fool’s hope,” I muttered, pushing myself upright with a weary groan.

  Death—either hers or mine—had ever been the sole outcome from our relentless contest, yet in her case even that had proven only a temporary reprieve. Ra’maen… she treated her own demise as a mere annoyance, an inconvenience to be corrected rather than an end to be feared. And despite her volatile nature, she was nothing if not cunning.

  Ever since our first ill-fated meeting, all these years ago, I had managed to end her life only thrice. And the second time I made the mistake of consigning her remains to flame. The consequences were disastrous. It took months to unravel which of my closest companions she had claimed as her new vessel. Ra’maen treated our deadly chase as some wicked game. Worse—she reveled in it.

  I could never discern whether her intentions towards me included seduction or murder… or even both. And in each encounter, her methods became more inventive. Unlike her, I could not afford a single misstep.

  Unlike her, I was bound by mortality.

  I doubted Ra’maen had ever truly grasped that fundamental truth. And now… Now, my efforts to hinder her regeneration had proven insufficient. They had bought a mere decade of peace.

  For myself. And for the world.

  Hey, thanks for reading this far!

  I hope you've enjoyed the story until this point and I'd like to hear your thoughts about it. Also, I am trying a new, more contemporary style in my English writing and I am curious to hear some feedback about it. So, let me know in the comments below!

  Boris Khan