Fantasy
The vaulted library breathes around me.
Its arches—blackened by centuries of candle soot—rise like the ribs of some slumbering titan, and every wall is inked with crimson sigils that pulse faintly, as if stirred by the cadence of my heartbeat. Dust drifts in the air like fallen ashes. The scent of old vellum clings to the back of my throat, chalk‑dry and metallic.
Third hour before moonrise. The Pact Hall is awake.
Mara found the entrance behind a waterfall no map had ever marked. The stone steps descended far longer than should have been possible, spiraling down through layers of earth and time until she emerged into a cavern so vast its ceiling disappeared into shadow. Floating lanterns drifted through the air like lazy fireflies, casting pools of amber light that made the darkness between them seem alive with possibility.
The basalt palace of Ignis-Rahl did not sit upon the volcano; it was carved into its very throat. Outside, the world was a jagged wasteland of obsidian, but inside the Throne of Embers, the air was a thick, grey soup. Ash drifted from the ceiling like cursed snow, coating the velvet tapestries and the lungs of the few who remained.