Entry 78: The tomb of the First King

Dear Diary,
 
At breakfast, I let the others know of my intention to revisit the shrine of Sister Willow to perform a ritual. Knowing we had more urgent matters to deal with, I suggested going alone. It’s not far, and the way there should be safe enough. But of course, my companions wouldn't hear of it. No amount of reasoning could dissuade them—especially not when the risk, however minor, involved one of their own. We agreed to go together, but only after speaking with Mortimer, the necromancer who might offer insight into the situation with Galienne. And since we’d already be in Keralon, we might as well take the opportunity to delve into the mausoleum and search for the tomb of the first king—perhaps finally find some real answers.
 
Our first stop was the academy, where Mortimer awaited us. He looked exactly like you’d imagine a necromancer who dabbles in the edge of life and death would: thin, pale, and haunted, with eyes that seemed to see far beyond the room we were in—or maybe just too far inward. He had the energy of someone who’d spent far too many nights talking to bones and not enough to living people.
 
We explained the situation, and he confirmed something we already suspected: the curse afflicting Galienne isn’t strong enough to contain a dragon’s soul forever. But what we didn’t know—and what he told us with unnerving confidence—is that he believes the curse itself is evolving. That it’s alive, in a sense. Growing. Learning.
 
His proposed solution was, unsurprisingly, controversial. He would create a receptacle to house the curse, a vessel designed to lure the magic away by channeling the dragon essence into it—forcing the curse to follow. Galienne would survive, he said, but her dragon soul would be stripped from her. She would be human. Whole, but not herself. The cost of salvation would be her very nature.
 
None of us said it out loud, but we were all thinking the same thing: could we really trust a necromancer with a dragon’s soul? Even if Mortimer meant no harm—and I’m still not entirely convinced he does—there’s something in the way he spoke that made it clear: he wasn’t trying to save Galienne as much as he was trying to test a theory. She was an equation. A puzzle to be solved.
 
We declined. Not harshly. Not forever. Just… for now. If all else fails, perhaps we’ll return. He seemed disappointed, but not surprised. Maybe he expected our hesitation. Maybe he knew we'd be back eventually, once desperation made the unthinkable seem reasonable.
 
In an unexpected twist, he offered to teach necromancy to Luke and me. I refused without hesitation. My power doesn’t come from scrolls or spells—it comes from deeper roots. Luke, for his part, politely declined as well. Necromancy doesn’t suit a wizard who prefers to reshape the world in bursts of fire and force.
 
We said our goodbyes and left him there, alone with his theories and his pale ambition. As we stepped out into the sunlight, I caught a flicker of something on Alistan’s face. Disappointment. He hides it well—he always has—but I’ve learned to see the cracks. Another path that leads nowhere. Another hope dashed. And behind his silence, I could almost hear the question that haunted us all:
 
What if this is the best chance we get?
 
When we arrived at the mausoleum, it was Dadroz who took the lead. His knightly order holds jurisdiction over this region, and he knows its hidden corners better than any of us. More importantly, he knew how to avoid his fellow knights. The last thing we needed was to be spotted creeping around forbidden tombs—we had too many secrets already, and few answers to give.
 
He guided us through the overgrown outer paths to the old temple of Belanos. The structure had been abandoned since the destruction brought by Ourborros’ Emergence—its roof torn open, stones scorched and blackened—but recent efforts had restored part of it, at least enough to provide cover. The chaos from the Emergence had left a jagged breach in the foundation, one that led straight down into the tombs below.
 
Excitement flickered through us as we descended into the cool dark, but it didn’t last long. The narrow stone corridor ended in a dead wall, and though we all hoped for a hidden door or illusory passage, Dadroz’s thorough inspection left us disappointed—it was just a wall. Solid. Ordinary.
 
We weren’t about to give up. After a brief, silent exchange of nods, we chose brute force. Luke promised he could restore the wall afterward with his magic, so Gael set up a zone of silence to mask the noise, and Liliana shifted her weapon into a hammer with practiced grace. A few heavy swings, and the stone cracked and gave way, revealing the path forward—dark, dust-choked, and waiting.
 
We pressed on, deeper into the king’s mausoleum. The corridor narrowed, and the air turned colder. My own sight falters in darkness, but I’m no stranger to navigating the unknown. A quick invocation sharpened my vision, rendering the world in shifting greys. Even that was better than Luke’s flickering torchlight and the ominous shadows it cast.
 
The first door we encountered bore the name of Ker Allres the Second—the first king. It was imposing, ancient, and sealed tight. Dadroz approached with caution, his fingers tracing the engravings. “It’s locked,” he muttered, “and trapped. Heavily.” He didn’t offer to disarm it, and after a quick discussion, we agreed to leave it for now. There might be another way forward—perhaps something we missed.
 
Further down the corridor, we discovered a second door. This one was different—its surface delicately carved with motifs of blooming flowers, vines curling around the stone in elegant spirals. It was dedicated to Kaz Rahl. Dadroz examined it and declared that while it was trapped, he could safely disarm it. With a nod, he stepped aside and allowed us entry.
 
The room beyond was eerily still. It was bare, save for a single raised stone pillar in the center. Atop it burned a lone candle—its flame steady, unwavering, and somehow untouched by time or air. There was a reverence to the space, like a sacred hush had settled over it. Across from us, another door stood, but this one bore an inscription—a riddle, carved into the stone.
 
We approached carefully. The candle’s glow cast long, slow-moving shadows against the walls. No one spoke.
 
“I am lighter than a feather, and rise to water’s top.
But hold me for a bit too long, and you will most surely drop.”
 
I didn’t need long to solve the riddle—the answer was “my breath.” It came to me almost instinctively, a whisper in my mind as I read the words etched into the stone. In the time it took to share the answer with the others, Dadroz had already gone to work on the second door. His fingers moved with swift precision, and within moments, the trap was disabled and the way forward opened.
 
The chamber beyond was stark and unsettling. It was empty, save for a wide stone pit at its center, filled with the dark, crumbling remnants of a long-dead bonfire. The ashes whispered of old magic, and of rituals lost to time.
 
Alistan, catching on just as quickly, stepped forward and gently blew out the candle behind us. The flame vanished with a quiet puff—and in its place, a fresh stack of firewood appeared in the once-dead hearth. No words were needed. We understood.
I reached out and sparked the wood alight with a flick of my fingers. The fire roared to life, unnaturally fast, unnaturally hot. And then—they came.
 
From within the flames, two massive forms emerged, their bodies forged of bone and brimstone, their wings folded like cloaks of scorched parchment. Bone devils. They hissed as they stepped into the chamber, clawed hands gripping wickedly barbed glaives, eyes glowing with ancient fury.
 
I reacted on instinct. One of them barely had time to raise its weapon before I cast a polymorph spell—its terrible form shrunk, twisted, and collapsed into the shape of a startled, hissing turtle. Unfortunately, the blasted creature instinctively scurried back into the flames, seeking refuge in the very fire that birthed it.
 
The fight was intense, but brief. With only one devil to face initially, we struck hard and fast. Liliana’s hammer cracked bone, Alistan’s blade danced with divine light, and Luke unleashed a storm of force and flame. Even when the turtle reverted to its true form mid-battle, it was too late—the creature never regained the upper hand.
 
When the last devil fell with a screech that echoed against the stone, the fire began to fade. Luke stepped forward, ever the curious scholar, and sifted through the ashes with a spell of protection around his hand. His eyes lit up in triumph. “A red key,” he said, lifting it for us all to see, its surface still warm from the flames. Retrieving it might have been dangerous for anyone else—but for a wizard of Luke’s caliber, it was almost trivial.
 
With our first key in hand, we pressed forward down the corridor to the next door. The chamber beyond was darker, colder somehow, and carved into the stone were countless images of skulls—some grinning, some screaming, all watching. Like the room before, there was a single candle flickering at the center, and carved into the door, a new riddle awaited us.
 
“I have no arms or legs or torso, no head or neck or feet below.
Yet I stand tall in youth, getting shorter when I’m long in tooth.”
 
This time, the answer was the candle itself. It felt obvious once you looked at the riddle from the right angle. With the trap carefully disarmed by Dadroz, the door creaked open to reveal the next chamber.
 
The room beyond was stark and silent, its centerpiece a strange, shallow fountain chiseled from black stone. Alistan stepped forward with quiet determination and placed the candle atop a pedestal at the fountain’s heart. The moment the wax met the stone, a sharp crack split the silence.
 
A beam of dark energy shot upward like a screaming column of voidlight, and from it burst two abominations—monstrous, bloated things that vaguely resembled goblins twisted far beyond recognition. Their skin sagged with decay, their limbs thick and rubbery. But worst of all were their chests: split open, ribcages flared back like jaws, revealing rows of fangs holding in their still-living victims, whose muffled screams tore through the air.
 
They struck fast. Waves of necrotic energy pulsed from their bodies like a disease made manifest, draining strength and hope with each lash. We fought back with everything we had—Liliana’s hammer broke through the bones of the first creature quickly, felling it in a burst of black ichor—but the second let out a gurgling, rattling shriek and summoned aid from the shadows. Wraiths poured from the walls, shrieking as they descended on us with spectral claws.
 
Gael collapsed first, clutching her chest with a gasp as her life force was sapped away. Luke followed moments later, his magic flickering out as he fell unconscious, pale and still. For a breath, it felt like the tide had turned against us.
 
But we did not falter. With a final, desperate push, we destroyed the remaining undead. The room fell still again, save for the wheezing of our breath and the thud of my boots as I sprinted to the fallen. I dropped to my knees and poured healing magic into them—pulling both Luke and Gael back from the edge of death. Their eyes fluttered open, and though they were shaken and weakened, they nodded grimly.
 
“We press on,” Luke muttered, jaw clenched.
Gael gave a small, tight smile. “We’re not dead yet.”
 
A quick examination of the now-silent fountain revealed a second key—this one pitch-black, its surface cold to the touch. With both the red and black keys in hand, we made our way further down the corridor to the final door.
 
The last chamber was different. More refined. Four statues stood arranged around a flickering candle: graceful elven figures frozen in mid-gesture. Their names were etched into the plinths—Elaira Moonwhisper, Eldrin Sunchaser, Silvani Forestwhisper, and Fennel Starlight. Beautiful names, but meaningless to us… at least for now. Yet the riddle inscribed on the next door offered a clue—some subtle connection between the statues and the candle that would need to be unraveled before we could move forward.
 
We exchanged glances. Whatever this final trial was, it would not be simple.
 
“I start the day, and end the day.
And do the same for your dear friend.”
 
The answer to the riddle was the letter “D.” A subtle clue, easy to miss if you weren’t paying attention—but it was there, hidden in plain sight within the names. Only Eldrin Sunchaser contained the letter. The chamber behind the door revealed a wide stone hall, far grander than the ones before. At its center were four pedestal-like hollows in the floor, each bearing a carved symbol: a crescent moon, a blazing sun, a shining star, and a swirl of open sky.
 
We didn’t hesitate long. “Eldrin Sunchaser,” Alistan said, lifting the corresponding statue. He approached the pedestal marked with the sun and placed the statue there. The moment it settled into place, the air turned cold, and the ground shivered beneath our feet.
 
Without warning, roots and vines burst from the cracks between the stones, snaking outward with terrifying speed. They wrapped around Alistan and Liliana, entangling their limbs and dragging them to the ground. The room bloomed into green chaos. From the corners, four massive centaurs emerged—hulking, spectral creatures carved from bark, sinew, and shadow. Their weapons glinted in the low torchlight, and their eyes gleamed with primal fury.
 
I had a plan—a spell of my own, one that would twist the battlefield to our favor. The vines were perfect kindling for my magic. But before I could act, one of the centaurs raised its spear toward me. A beam of radiant light erupted from its tip, searing my eyes and sending me stumbling back into the previous room, momentarily blind and disoriented.
 
The battle that followed was chaos. The chamber was vast, the lighting poor, and the vines made movement difficult. I heard steel clash, spells crackle, and the roar of battle from every direction. Somewhere in the fray, Luke went down. I forced my way forward, still blinking through the haze of light, and reached him just in time to draw him back from the brink.
 
It wasn’t easy, but we pressed on. Once we recovered our footing, the tide of battle turned. Liliana broke free of the vines with a roar and brought her hammer down with divine fury. Gael summoned shadows to bind the centaurs, and Alistan cut through them with grim resolve. When the last centaur fell, silence returned—heavy and thick with exhaustion.
 
We searched the room, but no key was waiting for us this time. Instead, tucked behind one of the pedestals, we found a scroll inscribed with runes of power and a wand humming with latent magic. Before we could examine them further, Dadroz spotted another door along the far wall. He approached it carefully, picked the lock, and pushed it open.
 
Inside, we found what remained of an ancient burial chamber. Time had not been kind. The sarcophagi were crumbled, their stone eroded by the centuries. Dust blanketed everything. Amidst the rubble, however, something caught the light—a key made of polished jade. Our third, at last.
 
Three trials. Three keys. Three names.
 
We paused to catch our breath, tend to wounds, and restore what magic we could before returning to the tomb of the first king. The massive door, once sealed and bristling with enchantments, now accepted the keys. One by one, we inserted them—red, black, jade. The locks clicked in place, the enchantments shimmered, and the traps fell silent.
 
The door swung open with a slow, groaning creak.
 
Inside was a small, circular chamber, lit only by the faint magical glow of four statues. They stood in a ring: a human, proud and stoic; a fey, wild and beautiful; a demon, cruel and grinning; and an undead, shrouded in tattered robes and silence. It was a strange collection, and though the symbolism was not lost on me, I couldn’t yet guess its purpose.
 
Beyond them lay a yawning doorway, opening into a cavernous final chamber. In its center floated a massive crystal, suspended in mid-air above a dark pit. Four enormous iron chains anchored it in place, pulsing faintly with ancient magic.
The moment Alistan and Liliana stepped inside, statues lining the far walls shuddered, groaned, and began to move.
 
The guardians had awakened.
 
One of the animated bronze bulls decided to charge into the room where the rest of us were still waiting, painfully crashing into us with its weight and fury. Thinking quickly, I warped the space around it, wrenching it back into reach of Alistan, who—never one to waste movement—used the momentum against them and shoved both bulls into the pit below with grim efficiency. The fight wasn’t over, though. Liliana had been overwhelmed in the chaos, her armor torn and body bloodied under the relentless strikes of the remaining statues. I rushed to her side as soon as the last threat fell, laying my hand against her chest and letting warm, golden healing energy flow into her. Her eyes fluttered open, and I gave her a shaky smile, silently promising myself I’d never let them lay a hand on her again.
 
The room was vast and solemn. Our flickering torchlight revealed four statues in the antechamber, arranged in a circle: a human, a fey, a demon, and an undead—symbols, perhaps, of the forces that shaped the kingdom's fate. Beyond that lay the true heart of the mausoleum: a great open chamber, the walls carved with faded scenes from long-lost times. Suspended over a deep pit in the center of the room was a massive crystal, bound in place by thick chains that shimmered faintly with arcane runes.
Even before we stepped close, I noticed the way our light bent toward the crystal—as if it were hungering for it, drinking it in. The others inspected the muraled walls, trying to make sense of the worn carvings, but most of the story was too far gone. Time had claimed it, just like it had claimed the king and his line.
 
I examined the chains next, and a shiver ran down my spine when I realized what they were—dimensional shackles, incredibly powerful bindings that prevent even the strongest beings from teleporting or escaping to other planes. They weren’t meant for a simple artifact. They were meant to trap.
 
Luke, ever the cautious one when it counts, summoned his familiar and had it touch the crystal first. The moment the boggle made contact, it vanished. Gone without a trace. And when he tried to call it back—it didn’t come. Something about the crystal had taken it, and wasn’t giving it back.
 
Then, as Alistan approached the floating gem, a spectral form shimmered into view. The ghost of the First King himself. His presence was regal, but hollow, like a faded painting of a once-glorious monarch. There was a coldness to his eyes, not cruelty, but the kind of distance born of centuries spent trapped in reflection.
 
It was Alistan who spoke most, his questions precise and cutting. The spirit, to his credit, answered. We learned that the Challenge of the Final Tournament—this cruel, ancient rite—had never ended. It has persisted since the king’s death, an ongoing contest with no victor. The price of the challenge? His soul—and the souls of all his bloodline, bound within that crystal, imprisoned alongside him. None had been claimed, which meant no one had yet won.
 
I felt bile rise in my throat as he explained how he had struck a bargain—not once, but three times—with entities of unimaginable power. He had sold not only his soul, but those of his children, and theirs, and theirs. He had no right. No one has the right to trade lives that aren’t theirs.
 
And yet, he had done it all in the name of his kingdom. “A small price,” he said, “for prosperity.” As if that made it noble. As if that made it right.
 
What made it worse was the pride that lingered in his voice. He believed he had outsmarted his enemies by making three deals instead of one. All he had done was doom his descendants to a cycle of suffering—one that continued even now, in secret, behind the grandeur of Keralon.
 
There is so much yet to unravel, but as we left that cursed chamber, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t the end of the Tournament. Not even close.
 
When we asked about the souls of the current royal family, the king’s expression turned a shade more solemn. He explained that the current monarchs are not of his bloodline. Somewhere along the line, the true heir had died too young—too soon for the bloodline to continue. In response, a replacement child had been chosen: one with the same name, the same looks, but not the same blood. A political convenience. Because of that substitution, the present royal family is exempt from the soul-binding deal. It’s strange to think that a twist of fate, or perhaps a cruel mercy, saved them from a curse they never even knew existed.
 
He shared more about the Nemesis Knights too, and why they avoid each other. It’s not fear—it’s calculation. Each one is growing in power, seeking to become the ultimate version of themselves. Their curses are a tool, a method to expand their strength by spreading it, like a sickness with purpose. If we wanted to understand how the curses work, how they evolve and twist those they touch, the only path forward would be to speak with the knights themselves. Dangerous, but perhaps necessary. He gave us names—Kaz Rahl, the Red Knight and a fiend of some sort, and Eldrin Sunchaser, the Green Knight of the fey. It’s eerie how easily he said their names, like recalling old acquaintances rather than monstrous legends.
 
Luke, ever concerned for his lost familiar, asked about Pim. The king only laughed, a hollow sound echoing in the chamber. He told us the only way to retrieve the familiar would be to break the chains holding the crystal in place—chains designed to prevent planar travel. But if we did that, we’d release over a hundred and fifty souls into the city. Some might be confused, others angry—but I’d wager most would be furious. Many were probably bound unjustly, and none would take kindly to being used as leverage in a centuries-old tournament. So for now, Pim is trapped, and Luke must carry on without him.
 
Gael, thoughtful as ever, turned the topic toward the elemental mage towers. According to the king, these towers were built long ago—not to harness power, but to contain it. Specifically, the growing influence of the fey. They used the ancient force of the elemental planes as a counterbalance. Powerful, raw, and stable—at least compared to the shifting, capricious nature of the feywild. The king could even give us a lead on the last two towers. The water tower lies beneath the ruins of a long-forgotten bridge along the Lorerun River, and the tower of air… well, it’s circling high above the city even now, mostly unseen.
 
We’d learned all we could from the spirit, and with nothing more to ask—and perhaps nothing more we wanted to know—we sealed the tomb again. Luke repaired the shattered wall with a wave of his hand, and we made our way back to Wolf’s Rest. We were tired. Bone-tired. But for once, it wasn’t just the fatigue of body—it was the weight of truth, of history, of impossible choices lying ahead.
 
We needed rest. But I think we all knew that peace wouldn’t last long.