The hall stretched into the gloom like a mausoleum of forgotten things.
Elias moved through it in silence. Each step echoed faintly, softened by centuries of dust. The stone beneath his feet was cracked, webbed with the signs of time's erosion, yet the chill in the air felt recent—fresh, unnatural. These ruins had not slept undisturbed.
Stacked high around him were crates of varying sizes, many long rotted or collapsed. Most held only broken remnants: shattered stone fragments etched with faded sigils, decayed scrolls, disintegrated bones, or half-melted cores that once brimmed with inscriptional energy.
Yet not all were dead.
He passed a row of crates whose lids had already fallen open, inspecting them with narrowed eyes. He crouched by one of the sturdier boxes, its surface sealed with a faint red wax that hadn't aged. As he peeled it open, his fingers brushed against a piece of cool metal.
Inside, wrapped in black silk, was a dagger unlike any he'd seen.
Its hilt was engraved with interwoven serpents, its blade curved slightly like a predator's fang, forged from obsidian-colored alloy that shimmered with buried inscriptions—complex, layered, pulsing faintly with energy.
A weapon for killing without sound.
He slipped it into his robe without hesitation.
In another crate, hidden beneath folded fabric, he found a sealed vial of silver liquid. It glowed faintly when exposed to the air, casting an eerie sheen across his palm. Without needing to uncork it, Elias recognized its essence—Refined Lunar Essence, a rare spiritual catalyst used to purify the inner sea.
A fortunate find. He pocketed it, gaze unreadable.
Still, the pull remained.
He moved deeper.
And then he saw it—a large crate, standing by itself, distinct from the others. The wood was darker, smoother. No rot, no mold. It looked… preserved.
Elias stepped closer. A hum rang through the air—barely audible, more a sensation in the bones than in the ears.
He opened the crate carefully.
Inside rested a wooden coffin.
Its surface was unmarked at first glance, but the grain held strange patterns. The deeper he looked, the more they seemed to twist. They weren't just decorative. They moved—not literally, but in suggestion. Ancient Inscriptions.
His eyes sharpened. A seal? No… something more primal.
He reached into his inner sleeve and drew forth the Coin of Destiny.
The moment his fingers brushed it, the air grew thick, as if reality itself hesitated.
He flicked the coin upward.
It spun midair, hovering longer than usual. A surge of tension rose in his chest. Then, as it landed gently in his palm, a vision struck him:
A screaming wind racing through an endless dark void. A figure bent before the coffin, eyes wide with power and terror. Blood. Splintered time. A shackle closing with a soft click.
The answer burned itself into his soul:
Do not open. Not yet.
Elias stared at the coffin for a moment longer, then stepped back and closed the crate without a sound. Timing was everything. Premature revelation could shatter more than just knowledge—it could unmake the very hand that grasped it.
He left the chamber behind.
The rusty gate loomed once again, cracked slightly open, its hinges moaning softly in the breeze.
And standing before it was the Watcher.
The silent guardian, robed in greys and draped in presence. Its face remained masked behind an iron helm bearing only a single sigil—an unblinking eye that seemed to watch even in blindness.
But Elias's attention shifted.
At the Watcher's feet knelt a woman.
Her hands were bound behind her back by thin, glowing threads that pulsed with sealing runes. A small blood trail ran down her cheek from her temple, drying beneath her jaw. Yet her gaze was sharp, alert—even amused.
Her features were striking. Not in the sense of classical beauty, but with a raw, predatory allure. High cheekbones. Dusky skin smudged with grime from the pursuit. Hair like dark ink pulled into a loose, unruly braid. Eyes the color of violet stormclouds—calculated and watching.
She was dressed in travel leathers, tightly fit and laced with micro-inscriptions. One boot was torn. Her thigh bore a small burn from what Elias guessed had been the Watcher's first blow.
Yet she smirked.
"You move well," she said, her voice husky, low. "Better than most of your kind."
Elias regarded her with measured silence. "Who sent you?"
The woman tilted her head. "No one I'd betray easily. But I wasn't here to kill you, if that's what you're thinking."
"Then why follow me?"
Her smile twisted slightly. "Because someone needs to. You don't even realize what you're walking into. What you're awakening."
Elias took a step forward. "You've been trailing me for days. You knew where I'd go."
"I knew you would find it eventually," she said softly. "And I was told to observe. Nothing more."
"Told… by who?"
She paused. A flicker of genuine uncertainty crossed her expression—then vanished. She looked past him, to the hall behind. Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"You found it, didn't you? The coffin."
Elias said nothing.
The Watcher raised a hand, but Elias halted it again.
He crouched to meet her eyes. "Tell me who sent you, and I'll make sure you walk away."
The woman chuckled, though her breath hitched. "Liar. I can see it in your eyes. You're just like the others. You don't know mercy. You only know timing."
Silence fell.
"You're right," Elias said quietly. "But I never said when I'd kill you."
She blinked.
Before the moment could stretch further, the Watcher stepped forward and tightened the seal. The woman's body slackened—unconscious.
Elias stood, watching her for a long moment.
This was no mere street-level spy. Her training, awareness, and manner spoke of higher echelons—perhaps a clandestine faction aware of things best left buried.
He turned back toward the ruins, then forward again, gaze sharp.
The coffin, the coin, the dagger, the girl.
Threads were beginning to knot.
And somewhere in the dark, a greater weave stirred.
The Watcher remained silent for a moment longer, then spoke—its voice low, like gravel sliding beneath a stream.
"You didn't wake our Master."
The words rang with ancient reverence, but also relief.
Elias didn't look at the Watcher. He kept his gaze on the unconscious spy, the shadows around him shifting slightly as the hall behind breathed faintly.
"No," he replied. "It's not the right time yet."
The Watcher bowed its head slightly. No more was said.
But the silence that followed was no longer empty. It was filled with understanding—a quiet truth between two keepers of a deeper purpose. And in that silence, the Crimson Empress slept on, undisturbed beneath ancient seals and dying light.