Chapter 9 : The Forbidden Hall
572 Words
The hall was vast, its walls lined with shelves of bones—skulls, femurs, ribs—each one carved with runes that pulsed with a faint blue light. The air smelled of dust and old blood, the scent of centuries of sacrifices. Veyla moved like a shadow, her bare feet silent on the cold stone, her fingers brushing the flint dagger at her belt. The black stone in her pouch burned, its pulse syncing with the serpent scar on her shoulder—the mark that bound her to Dravot.
Beside her, Dravot moved with the grace of a predator, his black-veined arms flexing as he gripped his obsidian dagger. His pale blue eyes scanned the shelves, his senses sharp as a wolf’s. "The stone is here," he growled, his voice low. "I can feel it."
Veyla nodded, her heart pounding like a war drum. The Pierre d’Amour Véritable—the Elders’ Prize—was hidden somewhere in this hall, guarded by the Archivists’ most sacred relics. "We shouldn’t be here," she hissed, her voice barely audible. "If they catch us—"
"They won’t," Dravot snarled. His fingers brushed her wrist, his touch sending a jolt through her body. "We take what we want."
A creak echoed through the hall.
Veyla froze.
Dravot didn’t. His eyes narrowed, his body coiling like a serpent ready to strike. "We’re not alone."
From the shadows between the shelves, a figure emerged—tall, clad in black robes, her face hidden beneath a hood of raven feathers. Dravka. Her silver hair gleamed in the torchlight, her lips curled into a smile. "Ah," she purred, her voice like poisoned honey. "The thieves return."
Dravot’s lips curled. "Dravka."
"You killed my guards," she said, her smile never wavering. "That was unwise."
"We killed yours," Dravot growled. "We’ll kill more."
Dravka’s eyes gleamed. "Then you’ll die trying."
Veyla’s fingers tightened around her dagger. "We’re not here to fight," she said, her voice steady. "We’re here for the stone."
Dravka’s laugh was soft, mocking. "And you think I’ll let you take it?"
"We think you don’t have a choice," Dravot snarled.
Dravka’s smile faded. "Try me."
Dravot lunged.
Dravka moved, faster than Veyla expected, her hand snapping out to grab Dravot’s wrist. "You underestimate me, Ghost Warrior."
"Never," Dravot growled, twisting his arm free. His dagger flashed, but Dravka was already moving, her robes swirling as she ducked behind a shelf of skulls.
Veyla didn’t wait. She ran, her feet carrying her toward the back of the hall, where the Pierre d’Amour was said to be hidden. The shelves blurred past her, the bones whispering as she passed.
There—a pedestal, carved from black stone, its surface pulsing with a faint crimson light. The Pierre d’Amour Véritable. It was larger than she expected, its glow throbbing like a living heart.
She reached for it—
"You shouldn’t touch that."
Veyla whirled.
Duskun stood behind her, his pale blue eyes gleaming in the darkness, his form shifting like smoke. "It’s not for you."
"It’s for us," she snarled, her dagger raised.
Duskun’s lips curled. "You don’t understand what you’re doing."
"I understand enough." She grabbed the stone.
The moment her fingers touched it, the world exploded.
Light—blinding, crimson—filled the hall. The bones screamed. The shelves shattered. And Duskun laughed, his voice echoing like thunder:
"You fools."
The stone shattered in her hands.
And the spirits freed.
- Writer
