[Kingdom Of Elandria - Abandoned Temple Of [???] - ]
Deep within the abandoned temple in the western woods, where shadows danced like restless spirits against crumbling stone walls, Mel and Fletra found themselves in a predicament that exceeded even their worst nightmares.
The cavernous chamber that imprisoned them had once been a sacred space, dedicated to some forgotten Elven deity.
Now, it served as a frightening stage for their captors’ cruel entertainment.
Massive columns, their once-intricate carvings worn smooth by centuries of neglect, supported a vaulted ceiling where patches of night sky peeked through collapsed sections.
In the center of the chamber, a grotesque spectacle had been arranged.
A massive iron cauldron, large enough to hold several people, bubbled with a viscous, foul-smelling liquid that glowed an unnatural shade of green.
Steam rose from its surface in twisting tendrils, carrying with it the acrid stench of chemicals and something worse—something that smelled disturbingly like decay.
Suspended above this noxious brew, a wooden platform hung from thick chains that creaked ominously with each slight movement.
And atop this platform, bound to sturdy wooden chairs with glowing mana ropes that bit into their flesh, sat Mel and Fletra.
"Damn it..." Mel whispered, his voice trembling as he stared down at the bubbling cauldron below them.
"What is that... stuff?"
Fletra shook her head, her dark hair falling across her face.
She tried to blow it away, but the effort was futile. With her hands bound tightly behind her back, there was little she could do to improve their situation.
"I don’t know, but I don’t think we want to find out."
The platform beneath them swayed slightly, causing both guards to catch their breath.
The chains that suspended them from the ceiling groaned under their weight, the sound echoing throughout the vast chamber.
"I’m sorry, Fletra," Mel said suddenly, his voice cracking with emotion. "This is all my fault."
Fletra turned to look at him, her amber eyes reflecting the eerie green glow from below.
"What are you talking about?"
"I should’ve just listened to the Chief’s orders," Mel continued, his words tumbling out in a rush of guilt and regret.
"If I hadn’t followed that group moving those boxes, if I had just told the Chief instead of trying to handle it ourselves, he most likely would’ve solved the problem himself. But instead, I got us into a fight with them, and we ended up losing..."
"Mel, stop... we both made that decision. We both thought we could handle it."
"But I was the one who insisted! I was the one who wanted to prove ourselves!"
The platform swayed again, more violently this time, as if responding to Mel’s agitation.
Both guards fell silent, their hearts racing as they waited for the creaking chains to stabilize.
It had been almost six hours since their capture, and the abandoned temple was growing colder by the minute.
The stone walls seemed to radiate cold, as if they were drawing warmth from the very air.
Even the bubbling cauldron below them did little to warm the chamber, its heat rising past them to escape through the holes in the ceiling.
"I wonder if he’ noticed we’re missing," Mel said quietly, after a long silence.
"Of course he has," Fletra replied, trying to inject confidence into her voice.
"The Chief will be looking for us. He’ll find us."
Mel’s face contorted with doubt, his usual confidence replaced by a grim resignation.
"But what if he can’t? What if he doesn’t make it in time?" He tugged uselessly at his bonds, wincing as the mana ropes tightened in response, sending another wave of numbing cold through his limbs.
"You saw those guys. Those weren’t ordinary thieves... they were above the level of 4 star mages... and their leader, that man with the scar—did you see how she moved? Is it even possible for the chief to win?."
The memory made him shudder. The man had appeared from nowhere, taking place in the shadows as if born from them.
Her movements had been fluid, almost mesmerizing, as she easily took care of both Mel and Fletra.
The two struggle to keep pace with her, as they were merely at the level of a low 5-star mage.
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"And those artifacts they were loading those weren’t just stolen goods. Did you see the markings? They looked like ancient runes. Whatever they’ve stolen, it’s more than just valuable—it’s dangerous."
Fletra shifted in her chair, trying to find a more comfortable position despite the ropes that bound her.
"Why does it matter? Our business is to do things without saying a single word about it! So just don’t complain and just hope that the Chief will come,"
She almost lost her cool, but even in doubt Fletra believed in the chiefs abilities.
"He’s Lady Ophelia’s most trusted associate."
"We don’t even know his name! Have you ever thought about that? Why all the secrecy? Why the mask? For all we know, he could be anyone—a mercenary, a disgraced noble, a criminal even!"
The platform lurched suddenly, as if responding to Mel’s outburst. Both guards held their breath, their hearts pounding as they waited for the swaying to subside.
"He’s not just anyone," Fletra said firmly when the platform had steadied once more.
"Have you forgotten what happened at the Seven Great Families Conference three years ago?"
Mel frowned, his brow furrowing in confusion.
"What does that have to do with—"
"Everything... remember the assassination attempt? The one that was supposed to be impossible? One hundred four-star mages, Mel. One hundred of them, all working together, infiltrating the most secure gathering in the kingdom."
Mel’s eyes widened as understanding dawned.
"The Chief was there. He was the one who stopped them. Alone."
"That’s... that’s just a rumor-"
"…Rumors will be rumors. Why believe the words of stupid nobles trying to save some face?"
A figure emerged from the darkness, his tall frame filling the doorway of their makeshift prison. He was clad in black from head to toe–a long coat, a turtleneck, trousers tucked into sturdy boots. Scars crisscrossed his face, adding a menacing edge to his already imposing presence.
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Mel and Fletra fell silent, their heated discussion forgotten as they turned to face their holder.
"The ones assuming they know the story always tell a few lies. The tale grows taller with each telling, doesn’t it? One hundred four-star mages becomes two hundred in the next whisper, then three hundred in the taverns and 1000 across the country."