Deep outside the border of Leviara was the vast forest. The trees were colossal, their moss-draped crowns arching over the dirt paths. The environment was still, yet alive. Above, it was not the moonlight from the night, but the canopy of trees blotting out the sky. Veyric persisted, still limping with his palm clamped over his shoulder from the stab wound. Blood had dried stiff along his sleeve; his breath was ragged, each exhale misting faintly in the chill. His fingers and the back of his hand were crusted with drying crimson. Veyric walked for minutes that felt like hours. The shadows seemed to follow him, shifting subtly to his pace. Silence pressed against his ears, thick and smothering. The path ahead no longer looked like a way forward—it felt like a descent into a bottomless well. Squinting through the shadows, his gold gaze cut through the dark—analyzing the jagged silhouette of a house along the trail. As he neared, he saw how the forest swallowed it whole—vines coiling over its roof, the wood dampened and half consumed by moss. The grass stood knee-high and motionless, speckled faintly with dried blood. He walked through the grass and towards the front porch of the wooden lodge—there was rusting blood on each step, but the amount ebbed with each level down. He trailed up the steps—briefly gazing at the blood before looking at the door to the lodge. The wooden door was splintered, decaying, and marred by numerous cracks. He breathed out heavily, grabbing the mossy doorknob and turning the handle—it weighed like a boulder when he pulled. Seeing that he hadn’t gotten it to budge, he took his palm off his shoulder and placed both hands firmly on the knob—he hauled back with brute force, veins rising to the surface of his skin. The door scraped against the ground like a pair of nails, reverberating through the forest. Veyric grunted, his hands straining until the door slightly pried open. He staggered a few paces back, breathing heavily and placing his hand over his chest. The door meagerly cracked open, but not enough for him to slip through either. Veyric set his hands on the lock side of the door—firmly planting his feet and tugging back persistently. Splinters were digging into his hands, the door creaking vulgarly until he managed to pry it open. He leaned on the door, breathless, while his face was moist with sweat. He pushed off the door, walking inside the lodge—the air stank of the damp old wood and something akin to the smell of a rotting body. His eyes trailed around the interior of the lodge. A cluster of vines hung from the ceiling, moss coating the walls and the wooden floors deeply engraved with withering scratches. As Veyric walked further into the lodge, he saw a heaping pile of papers scattered on the floor. He squatted down, flipping over a paper and scrutinizing it—most of the writing and letters were incomprehensible and fading. He tossed it aside and searched through several more, his brows furrowing, hoping to find something beneficial. He stood up straight, walking towards a rough table with books as worn as boots—nearby was a chair that had flipped over on its side, the front legs chipped and the hind legs completely missing. Veyric grabbed a thick book with a red cover, opening it to the first page—the table of contents. He skimmed through for several minutes, his eyes gravitating towards a section called “Blood Of The Almighty.”
He placed the book on the table, pushing it aside and grabbing another one. Immediately, his eyes focused once he saw the cover—squinting, he tried to decipher what the declining illustration was on the front. Failing to register the symbol, he opened the book—his eyes flew open wide, a tremble running through his hand, and his stomach coiling. Dragons—only the artwork of dragons had filled every page he turned—his eyes skimmed through hundreds of illustrations and runes—the sound of pages turning flowed through the room, and the desolate silence broke at Veyric’s inquisitiveness. His hand turned the next page, and his gaze froze. It was a rough sketch of a hybrid like himself—but instead it was a dragoness. The drawing depicted her as having flowing locks of long hair, scales underneath her eyelids, horns with comparable runes to Veyric, and wielding a weapon. Since the sketch’s clarity had declined, Veyric was unable to see what kind of weapon it was. Aligning underneath the drawing of the dragoness was a title— ”Guardian.” The words were withered, and his features began to dial back.
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“Guardian…?” He muttered.
Veyric closed the book and took it, walking around the lodge. He ducked underneath a sea of vines—navigating towards a small corridor. More dried blood was smeared on the walls in heaping amounts, and the smell of swampiness intensified while he went down the corridor. He tried to clear his throat, coughing in short bursts while he grabbed a knob to one of the rooms, twisting it open and entering. A stained mattress was laid bare on the planks, a desk with a book on it, and a partially empty bookshelf. He briefly scanned the bookshelf. All seemed to be ordinary books when he skimmed through—Veyric placed them back on the shelf, then looked towards the desk with the single book. He stepped towards the desk. There was a quill nearby, and the dye on the nib was dry. Veyric noticed the book was much smaller than the sea of hardcover books he rummaged through—upon opening it to the first page was an entry—this was a journal.
Entry: ”Being a scribe to the king has been a great pleasure. But Leviara’s unity and glorification of harmony are that of an enigmatic illusion. It will not be long until I figure out what they’re keeping from me. If we are to truly coexist, secrets must not be kept from the people they vow to protect—especially if said secrets could destroy us whole. No one dares to question it, but what could King Alan have possibly done to the beings of the Wyvernlands? That legendary dragoness that served to his every whim is gone? Too many questions, and barely any answers for the ones that burn within the depths of my soul. This idealistic king of ours, I’m certain he keeps it all in the vault beneath his castle, and that is on my entire being as a scribe so elderly like myself. Tomorrow I’ll go there myself and investigate.” The entry read.
Entry Two: “As I knew he would, he used Alpha runes to create a barrier of mana outside the vault. His knights opposed a major challenge in my surreptitious investigation. Whatever is behind that vault, I know it has the scrolls of truth behind every one of this kingdom's bloodstained mysteries and atrocities.” The second entry read.
With this newfound knowledge, the simmering curiosity that consumed the scribe, a small amount of it lingered on Veyric. Along the wall was a rusty, old, empty bag. He walked to it with the two books in his hand, packing them away inside, tying it shut, pacing out of the lodge—and then back into the still forest. Veyric’s eyes were set on another destination.