Chapter Two

  Weight of Shifting Stones

  Gorik Ironhide’s boots crunch through the underbrush, ferns and roots bending with each step. The trees loom like silent sentinels, their twisted trunks swallowing the path ahead. Ancient and imposing, they seem to carry the weight of centuries. The forest feels heavy with their age, each breath thick with history. Beyond this tangled labyrinth lies the Beast Lord’s castle, its ruins buried beneath unyielding overgrowth, lost to time.

  “We’re close,” Gorik mutters, his gravelly voice more to himself than anyone else. His words drift like smoke, swallowed by the wind’s sigh. “If the stories are true, we’re about to uncover something monumental.”

  His words hang in the air, thick with anticipation, as if the earth itself is holding its breath. A pulse thrums through the trees, vibrating with ancient energy that time and nature cannot erase.

  Behind him, Selene Nightbloom moves with quiet precision, her leather boots barely disturbing the earth. Her sharp eyes flick from tree to tree, watching every movement, every shift in the air. The usual hum of life is missing—no birdcalls, no rustling leaves, no scurrying creatures. An eerie stillness presses in around them, as though the forest is holding its breath.

  “This place…” Selene pauses, frowning as her eyes sweep the twisted canopy. “It feels wrong.”

  An ancient energy coils through the air, brushing against her senses, raising the fine hairs on the back of her neck. The scent of damp earth lingers, but beneath it is something older—something patient, something waiting.

  Ahead, Tibbins Gearwhistle darts between rocks and roots, his small form a blur of frenetic energy. His hands skim over half-buried mechanisms, muttering to himself, thoughts spiraling as fast as his movements.

  “Oh! Wait! Is this—no, just another rusted lever… But what if this one works?” His fingers dance over a pulley system wrapped in vines, tangled by time. His grin widens. “Imagine it! What if the whole castle still functions? We’d be legends! No—scratch that—we will be legends!”

  Gorik doesn’t respond. His gaze remains fixed ahead, his thoughts clouded by a creeping sense of foreboding. The air feels charged, heavy—as if something ancient stirs beneath the earth. The ground trembles faintly, like the bones of the world shifting beneath them.

  Too many legends. Too many unknowns. These ruins will either reveal their secrets—or curse them all.

  His hand drifts instinctively to the hilt of his sword, a silent promise. No turning back now.

  The path narrows, and the silence deepens. It presses in, invisible, suffocating. Each step feels heavier, as if the air itself has thickened. Selene slows, sensing it—something vast, something unseen, moving just beyond reach.

  “What’s that?” Her voice is barely a whisper, her fingers tracing the runes in her journal. Beneath her touch, the earth hums, the stones vibrating with a quiet pulse—alive. The world itself seems to breathe, an ancient rhythm that both soothes and unsettles.

  Gorik halts, listening. The air hangs motionless, taut—as if the world itself is holding its breath. Even the trees seem to wait.

  “Something’s off,” Selene murmurs, her voice strained. “Not of this world.”

  Tibbins, oblivious to the shift in the air, is lost in his obsession. His hands glide over moss-covered stone, his excitement a whirlwind of fervor.

  “What if this one still works?” he mutters, eyes wide with wonder. “What if we’re the ones to wake it?”

  Selene watches him, unease twisting in her gut. She should stop him, warn him to pull away. But Tibbins is beyond warning—driven by his obsession. Only disaster could halt him now.

  “I’ll document everything,” he says, his voice trembling with exhilaration. “This… this changes everything. No one will believe what we’ve found.”

  His words clash with the rising hum of the ruins—too loud, too eager. The magic thickens, palpable—pressing against their skin like the land itself is watching, waiting. The world holds its breath.

  At last, they reach the clearing.

  The castle stands before them, half-buried in earth and time, its stone walls cloaked in vines and shadow. Jagged remnants stretch toward the sky, broken windows dark and unblinking—silent eyes that seem to follow their every move. The air hums, vibrating through the ground and their bones, rising to a deafening roar.

  Tibbins gasps, his voice barely a whisper. “Look! It’s real! The machines—it’s all here!” He points, hands trembling with excitement. “We could—”

  His words are cut off by a sudden shift in the air, thickening like fog.

  The ruins stir. The hum sharpens, crackling with the presence of something ancient—alive, aware. Something that watches them.

  Gorik’s grip tightens on his sword. “We found it,” he growls, steady but tense. “But the real question is—what did we find?”

  Selene’s breath catches, a shiver of dread crawling up her spine. “Something’s wrong.”

  Each step takes them deeper into the mystery—unaware of the ancient forces stirring beneath their feet, waiting to meet them with an answer they might not be ready for.

  The castle rises like a skeletal giant of crumbling stone. Broken spires claw at the sky, jagged fingers reaching for a heaven long lost. Massive doors, half-swallowed by vines and dirt, stand silent—sentinels to whatever lies beyond. Strange runes pulse faintly on the stone, casting eerie shadows that flicker like whispers of a forgotten language.

  Gorik steps forward, boots crunching on gravel, the sound unnervingly loud. He traces the worn symbols with a calloused hand, feeling something heavy settle on his shoulders—not just stone, but something older. Watching.

  “These runes…” His voice rumbles, breaking the silence. “They weren’t made by any hand I know.”

  Selene steps beside him, her movements nearly silent, as if she, too, is trying not to disturb the heavy quiet. The air thickens, humming with unseen energy. Her fingers brush the leather of her enchanted journal, instincts tingling with more than just magic.

  “This magic…” She frowns, her voice dropping to a murmur, nearly lost in the noise of her thoughts. “It’s different. Not like any spell I’ve felt before.”

  Her certainty lingers, an unsettling conviction that something is terribly wrong.

  Tibbins crouches by a crumbling wall, oblivious to the mounting tension. His small hands dive into his satchel, pulling out a whirring device. It clicks, spins, mutters to itself. His mind is already elsewhere, absorbed in the data.

  “Five meters from the arch… no, six… wait, seven? That’s wrong.” He adjusts the dials furiously, mumbling. “What’s the angle? Is it slanted from collapse, or—”

  The ground trembles.

  A deep groan rumbles through the castle, shaking loose dust and stone. For a heartbeat, everything stills. Gorik’s hand snaps to his sword, grounding him. His eyes flick upward, scanning for any sign of movement.

  The rumble deepens. The air crackles, sharp and electric, as though the castle itself is waking, shaking off centuries of slumber.

  Selene’s breath catches. The magic beneath her feet surges—wild, raw, hungry. It claws at her, reaching for something—or someone.

  Then—

  The ground trembles again, harder this time. A low, guttural hum rattles their bones, filling the space between them. Selene stiffens. That wasn’t just the castle groaning. That was magic.

  “Move,” she hisses, pulling Gorik into the shadows, her hands rough and urgent. Tibbins barely squeaks before she yanks him behind a crumbled pillar, his small body tense with confusion.

  Then—light.

  A searing flash splits the air, bleaching the courtyard white. It vanishes in an instant, leaving only a fading afterimage burned into their vision. When the world settles, it is too still. The air thick with something unseen, something waiting.

  In the heart of the ruins, someone stands.

  A man.

  He hadn’t been there before. The ground beneath him shifts, as though it’s just learned how to hold him. His clothes are simple—like a farmer’s or soldier’s—but his hands… those callouses speak of harder labor. His eyes, though, are wrong. Wide. Searching. Haunted.

  Selene presses back against the stone, her heart pounding. A man… here? Impossible.

  “What in the name of stone…” Gorik mutters, his voice low and tense. His hand hovers over his sword, but he doesn’t draw it. Not yet. “A man? Here?”

  Tibbins, oblivious to the growing tension, fumbles for his instruments, breath quick and shallow. “Did—did that man just fall out of the sky? Did he come from a portal? How? I thought they were all extinct! I need measurements, Nay! I need to catalogue this!” He spins in place, hands flying, fingers tapping against his gizmos.

  “Shh,” Selene hisses, jerking him by the sleeve. “He’ll hear us.”

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  But the man doesn’t move. He turns in slow circles, his gaze sweeping the ruins, the runes, the world around him. Confusion flickers across his face, followed by something deeper—a flicker of recognition, maybe. Like he knows this place.

  The magic hums again, and Selene feels it, prickling under her skin, seeping into her bones. The runes on the stone door pulse in time with it, responding to him, reaching.

  She swallows, throat dry. “He’s connected to this place.”

  Gorik’s sharp gaze shifts to her. “How?”

  “I don’t know.” She steadies her breath, forcing the words out through clenched teeth. “But the magic—it’s alive. And it’s reacting to him.”

  The wind stirs, curling around them like unseen fingers, pressing against their skin. The runes flare, glowing brighter, their rhythm steady, deliberate—a heartbeat deep in the earth.

  The man’s voice shatters the silence—hoarse, ragged, as if trapped for ages.

  “Where… where is it?”

  Gorik tenses, muscles coiled. The warrior in him demands answers. But Selene isn’t sure they’ll like the answers they find.

  “What the hell did he just say?” Gorik hisses, low and tense.

  “I… I don’t know. It isn’t a language I recognize.”

  The ruins have called someone—or something—here.

  The man stands at the center of the courtyard, a disruption in the silence. The ground trembles beneath him, soft at first, then harder, as though the castle itself has sensed him. His clothes—patched and worn—seem out of place, mismatched with the frantic way his eyes dart around. He wasn’t supposed to be here.

  Gorik Ironhide steps forward, boots scraping against the stone. His fingers flex around the hilt of his sword. He doesn’t draw it—yet. But his stance shifts, coiled, ready to spring.

  The air is wrong. Heavy. The kind of pressure that settles before a storm. Magic crackles at the edges of his senses—raw and unnatural, thick enough to taste.

  “What in the name of stone…” he mutters again, his voice strained.

  Beside him, Selene barely breathes. Her eyes trace the flickering runes beneath their feet, glowing in rhythmic waves. The castle is reacting. To him.

  She grabs Gorik’s arm, her grip tight. “Something isn’t right.”

  “Understatement,” Gorik mutters.

  Selene shoots him a look, but her mind races. “I mean it, Gorik. That magic—it’s not just here. It’s alive.” She feels it—alive—coiling beneath her feet, spreading through the air like tendrils of power, reaching for the stranger in the center of the courtyard.

  The runes on the stone door pulsed, growing brighter with each beat, echoing the tremors that rattled the ground beneath them—slow and steady, like a heartbeat.

  The castle recognized him.

  Selene’s stomach tightened, a knot of dread deep inside. This wasn’t random. He wasn’t random.

  The man swallowed, a jagged sound like something caught in his throat. When he spoke, his voice rasped—hoarse and strangled. "All I have to say is, Come forth, Excalibur."

  The silence that followed hung heavy in the air. No one answered.

  Without warning, a rift appeared—a window—slicing through the air like a tear in the fabric of the world. From the abyss, a weapon emerged, a magi-tech artifact humming with ancient power.

  The man reached for it, his hands steady yet hungry, like a soldier starved for his blade. He spun it in his hands with practiced ease, checking the weight of a long-familiar weapon. His touch was too familiar.

  Gorik tightened his grip on his sword, eyes flicking between the man and the runes. "These are the ruins of the Beast Lord’s castle." His voice was steady, but his gaze darted, unreadable. "The real question is—who is that man?"

  "Gorik?" Selene’s voice trembled, a whisper.

  "Yeah?"

  "Wasn’t the Beast Lord... a Paragon?"

  "Yeah..."

  "Was he also... human?"

  The silence between them stretched. Gorik didn’t answer. His face—hardened, unreadable—spoke volumes. Selene already knew.

  A low rumble vibrated through the courtyard, followed by the eerie creak of stone. The sentinels—silent watchers of the ruins—began to shift. Their movements were jerky, mechanical, as they sprang to life.

  They charged.

  The man moved without hesitation. He raised the weapon, and in the split second before Selene could blink, he pulled something—a trigger?—and the weapon shrieked, a horrible sound like metal under immense pressure.

  Then—

  BOOM!

  BOOM!

  Two magical projectiles tore through the air, arcane missiles searing with power, and shattered the stone sentinels into fragments. Their pieces fell like dust.

  Selene’s breath caught in her chest. She didn’t just see the blast—she saw the way the man moved. His body coiled with intent, the fleeting flicker of something in his expression before it vanished—too fast to name. Recognition? Fear? Pain? Maybe joy?

  All of it, maybe.

  Gorik froze, half-drawing his sword. His eyes narrowed, calculating, before returning the blade to its sheath. His face settled into grim resignation. He knew—he didn’t need to fight. They didn’t stand a chance.

  "Selene," he said, his voice clipped but calm.

  "Yes?"

  "Ready an Invisibility spell. Just in case we need to make a hasty exit."

  "Right..."

  The ground trembled again, harder this time. The statues shifted, their stone limbs groaning to life. The air grew thick, pressing down on them like a suffocating weight.

  Selene’s fingers twitched, drawing on strands of magic. She was ready—too ready. But this wasn’t just a reaction to the threat before them.

  The castle wasn’t just waking up.

  It was remembering.

  And that, more than anything, terrified her.

  The ground trembled again, the deep hum vibrating through the ruins. The castle stirred, stretching after centuries of slumber. The earth quivered beneath their feet, as if it too sensed the presence of something ancient and powerful. The air grew denser, pressing in like wet clay, clinging to their skin.

  Gorik stumbled back, his boots sliding on loose stone. He grabbed hold of a nearby column, his fingers digging into the cold stone to steady himself. "What in the hells...?" His voice was little more than a breath over the rumbling. "I’ve spent years searching for this place, studying the legends… but this—" He shook his head, disbelief etched on his face. The walls groaned, low and ominous, the sound reverberating like the last murmurs of a dying giant. Symbols carved into the stone began to glow—faint at first, then flaring bright, pulsing like blood in a heart. Red, gold, green—veins of light crawled across every stone, every crack, alive.

  The ground buckled beneath them, sending dust and debris raining down from the rafters. Stones cracked. Walls trembled. The team scattered, arms raised to shield themselves from the collapsing stone.

  "Wait!" Selene’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding. She raised her hands, fingers tracing the air as she muttered an incantation. Glowing patterns flickered in her wake, coalescing into shimmering energy that enveloped them. The air grew icy, the magic biting at their skin.

  Selene’s gaze locked onto the glowing symbols. Her heart thudded harder in her chest. There was something wrong here. The castle—it was reacting to them, to the very air they breathed. Alive. Alive in a way that made her skin crawl. Her pulse quickened.

  A whisper grazed her ear, distant but sharp. Voices—low, fragmented—whispered on the wind, twisted by the magic in the air. She couldn’t make out the words, but the feeling? It was unmistakable: warning, prophecy, or perhaps the last echoes of something long buried. Forgotten. The whispers gnawed at her mind, pulling her closer. She gripped her Journal, a desperate hope rising that it might reveal the truth she sought.

  The symbols on the walls shifted again. Lines twisted, morphing into shapes—familiar, but not quite. For a heartbeat, a throne appeared, towering and regal. A beast, its eyes glowing with otherworldly power, loomed beside it. And before them, a figure cloaked in shadow exuded an authority that made the air crackle. The vision flickered, swallowed by the hum of magic, leaving nothing but the lingering sense of something… else.

  Tibbins let out a nervous laugh, barely stifling the tremor in his voice. "Did you see that?!" He pointed, fingers trembling, eyes wide with a mix of awe and fear. "It’s showing him something!"

  Selene frowned, her gaze darting between Tibbins and Gorik. She turned to Gorik, who paced, muttering under his breath. "The beast, the throne…" Her voice was tight. "It’s showing him something—why?"

  Gorik froze, his face pale, eyes locked on the glowing symbols. "It’s not possible... It shouldn’t be possible, but it is. How? He shouldn’t be…" His voice faltered, too strange to finish.

  The ground trembled again, more violently this time. The walls groaned louder, grinding against one another like they were alive. Pillars that once stood firm now leaned inward, drawn by some unseen force. The stones sighed, the castle’s breath mingling with the swirling magic around them. The courtyard, once forgotten, felt alive—shifting, changing, adapting to some unseen will.

  Tibbins, wide-eyed, snapped his focus back to his mechanical tools. He fumbled with buttons, scribbled furiously in his notebook, hands trembling with excitement. "I can feel it—magic. Real magic." His voice cracked with awe. "This isn’t just architecture. This is…" He waved his hand, searching for words, but unable to grasp the enormity of what he was witnessing. "A kind of power."

  Selene’s gaze snapped back to the man, the source of all this. He stood there, blinking in confusion, as though struggling to remember where he was. But something was wrong. The energy around him, thick and palpable, coiled like a living thing, tightening with each breath. It wasn’t just the castle reacting. He was part of it. Connected to this place in ways Selene couldn’t yet comprehend. How? Why? The questions gnawed at her mind, but the answers were just out of reach.

  The whispers grew louder, more urgent. They

  surrounded her—fragments of forgotten lives, twisted prophecies. Something

  stirred deep within the ruins. She felt it—felt the air shift, as if the walls

  themselves were breathing, coming to life. The stone began to move. Slowly at

  first, then more insistently. New walls rose from the earth like bones knitting

  together—fragile at first, then solid and whole. Shattered doorways twisted,

  reshaping, taking on new forms and purpose. Cracked pillars straightened, reclaiming

  their former strength.

  “Gorik, Tibbins,” Selene whispered, her voice

  tight with unease. “The ruins... they’re reshaping. The walls... reforming. The

  castle—it’s waking.”

  Gorik’s eyes snapped up. Realization hit him. His

  face hardened, lips pressed into a thin line. “This place is unstable. We need

  to leave—now.”

  Selene’s fingers tightened around her Journal,

  the weight of the decision pressing on her chest. “Leave? Leave?” Her voice

  shook with disbelief. “We can’t just leave. Not without answers. The Magister—”

  “Forget the Magister, and forget the council!”

  Gorik’s voice was low, dangerous.

  Selene’s breath caught. “What?” Her shock sliced

  through the tension. “Are you serious? You dragged us here. You convinced

  them—”

  Before Gorik could respond, Tibbins stepped

  forward, cutting through the moment. His hands fell lightly on both of them,

  firm but quick—like someone trained to stop chaos before it could spread. His

  eyes, usually focused on the shifting symbols, now locked onto something

  else—something that sent a jolt of fear through him. His heart raced, but his

  mind moved faster. “Keep your voices down,” he hissed, his eyes darting around,

  calculating.

  Selene and Gorik followed his gaze. The man, only

  a few feet away, had locked eyes with them—not eyes, not quite. He was

  searching for something—something he couldn’t see. Their voices had reached

  him, and now he was on edge, like a predator sensing its prey.

  The man stepped forward, fluid and instinctive.

  He swung his hand in a wide arc, as if trying to grasp something in the

  air—catching the sound, the presence they’d made.

  Tibbins, pale with tension, moved in a blur.

  Without hesitation, he pulled out a pocket watch, pressing it to his lips in a

  brief, desperate gesture. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he tossed it across

  the room. The small object clattered loudly against the stone floor.

  The man reacted instantly, moving with predatory

  precision. In a flash, he turned, eyes locking onto the source of the noise.

  His body blurred with unnatural speed, instincts honed to a lethal edge.

  BOOM!

  The pocket watch vanished in an instant,

  shattered into fragments, swallowed by the air itself.