The Watchers of The Castle
The ruins of the Beast Lord’s castle stretched
into the stormy sky, jagged spires clawing at the heavens. Once, this citadel
was a beacon of power—its banners whipped in defiance, its towers stood firm
against time. Now, it was a corpse of stone and steel, bones gnawed by
centuries of decay. Rain lashed its remains, pooling in the cracks of forgotten
courtyards, drumming against shattered columns. Water traced the scars of time,
seeping into the throne room where kings once ruled unchallenged.
Above, torches flickered like dying stars, their
weak light swallowed by darkness between ruined battlements. Below, fragile
encampments dotted the landscape—clusters of tents and humming magitech lamps,
their glow insignificant against the abyss. Mortals scurried through the ruins,
marking, measuring, prying. Scholars huddled beneath makeshift shelters,
brushing away centuries of dust with gloved hands. Mercenaries shifted
uneasily, gripping weapons whose names had been long forgotten. The ruins were
awake. The land remembered.
High above the broken throne room, four figures
stood.
Theia appeared first—a shifting veil of light,
her form rippling like liquid starlight, neither fixed nor real. Twin orbs of
vast knowledge hovered where eyes should be, flickering with unspoken things.
She watched the encampments below, unblinking. Their presence was inevitable.
Written before they arrived.
Camelyn came next, perched atop Bartholomew’s
broad shoulders, her porcelain fingers folded in her lap. A doll of velvet and
brass, she sat still except for the soft clicking of gears beneath her
lace-trimmed dress. Emerald light flickered in her glassy eyes as she surveyed
the intruders, firelight dancing in their depths. The rain didn’t touch
her—Lenore, the maid construct, held an umbrella with mechanical precision.
Camelyn’s lips curled into a thoughtful smile.
“They’re like ants, aren’t they?” she mused,
tilting her head. “So busy. So small.”
“Opportunists,” Karnak rumbled, stepping from the
shadows. He loomed at the edge, fury barely contained within a form that
struggled to resemble flesh. Fire coiled beneath cracked obsidian skin, molten
veins pulsing with rage. The rain hissed into steam before it could touch him.
His golden eyes burned as they swept over the trespassers below. “They pick at
the corpse of something greater than they will ever understand.”
Theia remained silent. She did not soothe. She
observed.
Before them, an ethereal map flickered to life—a
spectral projection of the ruins, tiny markers drifting across its surface.
Pink for scholars, orange for adventurers, red for those with darker
intentions.
Camelyn leaned forward, legs swinging idly. “Are
they all here because of Grant?”
Bartholomew, the dutiful butler, inclined his
head. His deep voice was measured, careful. “I’m afraid so, my lady.”
She pouted, adjusting the lace cuff of her
sleeve. “Should we invite them over for tea?”
Lenore hesitated. “That might not be… wise, my
lady.”
Camelyn frowned. “Why?”
Theia’s voice was distant, quiet. “Not all seek
knowledge. Some seek power. Others, greed. But none understand what they
disturb.” Her gaze did not waver. “None realize what you are.”
Karnak’s lips curled, embers flaring in his
throat. “If left unchecked, they will tear apart what remains.”
Beneath them, something shifted. A whisper in the
stone. A deep, waiting breath.
The land did not forget.
And something was waking up.
Lightning tears through the sky, carving a jagged scar of white across the storm’s belly. For a heartbeat, the ruins of the Beast Lord’s castle ignite in stark relief—broken spires, shattered archways, rain-slick stone. Then the light dies, and the world collapses back into shadow.
Below, the intruders stir.
Theia watches. A silent sentinel woven from starlight, her form flickering at the edges, as if caught between moments. Her many eyes trace the unseen strands of fate, twisting and unraveling with each step taken in the drowned corridors.
They move through the ruins, hesitant hands pressing against walls untouched for centuries. Their magitech lamps sputter, their feeble glow barely enough to fight the dark pressing in around them.
She sees them in hues.
Soft pinks and teals drift with reverence—scholars, seekers of knowledge. Fingers brushing against damp stone, as if hoping the past might whisper its secrets. But the red hues move differently—heavier steps, hands lingering too close to weapons. Greed sharpens their movements. They do not come to learn. They come to take.
Karnak exhales, and the ruins tremble. His claws flex, gouging deep scars into ancient rock. Rain hisses into steam before it dares to touch him. Beneath the molten glow of his gaze, the ruins seem to shrink, as if remembering what it means to burn.
Camelyn perches atop Bartholomew’s broad shoulders, lace and porcelain amid the ruin. The emerald glow of her eyes pulses in time with the rhythmic ticking in her chest—soft, steady, counting down.
She tilts her head. Lenore mirrors the motion, tilting the umbrella with mechanical precision. Raindrops bead and run, fine silver veins across silk.
Camelyn hums. “They look... hungry.”
“Perhaps,” Bartholomew rumbles. Lenore does not speak, only watches—unblinking, calculating, scrutinizing the scurrying figures below.
Theia does not blink. Does not breathe. But nods once. “Some hunger for knowledge. Others hunger for what they cannot comprehend.”
Karnak growls, thunder given voice. “They hunger for something that is not theirs.”
Below, a looter steps forward, fingers curling around something half-buried in the mud.
Above, Karnak exhales embers into the night.
Rain lashes against the ruins, drumming on broken stone in relentless waves. The wind howls through shattered archways, carrying the scent of damp earth and old magic. Below, the scholars move like ants, their voices hushed but excited as the weight of history shifts around them.
Then, the ruins stir.
A tremor runs through the foundations, shaking loose centuries-old rubble. Stone groans and crumbles, falling away in slow collapse. Dust and rain swirl together, revealing the weathered shape of a statue beneath. Water streams down its surface, washing away grime, unveiling the solemn face of the Beast Lord.
Camelyn gasps, her emerald eyes widening as they catch the dim glow of magitech lanterns below. She leans forward, fingers twitching against the frills of her velvet sleeves. “They found something!” Wonder fills her voice, small but brimming with childlike delight.
Bartholomew shifts, lifting her slightly higher on his broad, mechanical shoulders. “It appears so, my lady.” His tone is polished, regal—no surprise, only quiet acknowledgment.
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Lenore, ever poised, tilts the umbrella just enough to shield Camelyn from the rain. Water beads across her polished brass fingers, tracing thin silver lines. “Shall I dispose of them, my lady?” Her voice is smooth, untouched by emotion.
Camelyn stiffens, turning sharply. “What? No! What if they’re Grant’s friends?”
Karnak stirs.
The earth trembles beneath him as molten eyes narrow. His breath is thick with heat, curling into the rain like smoke into the sea. A storm caged in flesh, he looms—his presence a silent threat pressing against the ruins.
“Friends…” His voice rumbles, deep and scornful. “They killed him.”
Theia watches in silence, as still as starlight. Her celestial form flickers, a constellation caught in an unseen current. A slow pulse runs through the air, faint but undeniable.
“Oh no…” she murmurs, unease in her voice.
Karnak’s claws flex, carving molten lines into the stone. Something stirs beneath the ruins—something that should have remained buried. His fangs grind together, and the storm within him darkens.
“Idiots,” he growls. “They should let the dead rest. Digging them up will only bury them.”
The obsidian dot flickers on the map—a jagged, dark shape pulsing with an unnatural glow. Its cold light contrasts sharply with the deep purple dot beside it, the two locked in a silent standoff. Camelyn’s breath catches, unease creeping up her spine. The air grows thick, heavy, as though the stones beneath her feet have come alive. The map’s hum falters, and a faint tremor ripples through the ground. The world outside fades; only the dot holds her attention. Her fists clench, emerald eyes narrowing. Something is wrong. Her delicate fingers tremble as she scans the room, sensing an ancient force stirring beneath the castle. A sickening groan vibrates through the stone walls, like the ruins themselves are moaning in pain.
A deep rumble echoes from within the castle, shaking the stronghold to its core. The ground trembles, the air crackling with static, as if something vast is awakening. The ancient stones, weathered by time, tremble under barely contained power. The stone floors groan, and even the flickering torches dance wildly. Camelyn presses her hands to her ears, as if the sound itself could tear her apart. Her heart races, pulse quickening with every passing second. She feels it—raw, primal, rising from deep within the castle’s foundations. Something she cannot control is moving.
Her eyes widen in disbelief. Why isn’t it listening? The once obedient castle, familiar under her command, now refuses to obey. Her stomach twists, a sick knot forming in her chest. This shouldn’t be happening. Her hands tremble as she grips Bartholomew’s coat, leaping off his shoulder. Her voice rises in panic.
“Stop it! Stop killing them! They’re disappearing. Why?!”
The world around her blurs, memories rushing through her—moments when she controlled this place with an iron grip. But now, her power slips through her fingers like sand. A cold pit forms in her stomach, and the innocence that usually fills her eyes darkens. Something has changed, and she’s no longer sure she can control it.
Bartholomew stands unmoved, his stoic presence a sharp contrast to Camelyn’s growing panic. He looks down at her, unreadable, as if he’s seen this before—perhaps many times.
“Is there a problem, my lady?” His voice is steady, measured. No tremor in his tone. He doesn’t flinch at the rising chaos, though something shifts in his gaze—as if weighing the consequences of the disturbance. His large hands remain firm but gentle on her shoulders. Camelyn doesn’t like the calmness in his voice. The knowledge he carries. He sees what’s happening but doesn’t speak it. There’s more to this castle than even she knows.
Lenore’s mechanical precision falters as she holds the umbrella above Camelyn. A slight tremor betrays her concern, though her expression remains neutral. The clicking of her gears slows, the rhythmic hum that usually accompanies her movements now quieted. She peers at Camelyn with growing unease.
“The castle, my lady?” Her voice softens, her usual efficiency giving way to doubt. Her mechanical fingers twitch, seeking an escape, a command. For a brief moment, she seems... human—caught in the awareness of something beyond her control.
Theia watches, her glowing orbs dimming in the thickening storm of uncertainty. A wave of quiet understanding washes over her—slow, almost mournful. This wasn’t supposed to happen. The castle, the labyrinth, the traps—they were never meant to stir like this. Only the Beast Lord could truly override Camelyn’s will, and that presence has lingered deep within the castle’s foundations. It has begun. The words echo in her mind—unspoken but clear. She feels it—a pulse beneath the stones, pulling at the heart of the castle. Theia, ever detached, understands that this disturbance was inevitable, though she cannot see how it will unfold. All she can do now is watch as the pieces begin to fall into place.
Karnak’s molten eyes burn with primal fury, but even he falters. His towering form stills as the disturbance ripples through the castle. He feels the raw, untamed power awakening. For the first time, uncertainty flickers in his gaze. He knows what has risen. He knows its weight. It has begun. His words come in a guttural growl, barely audible over the tension. His body hums with barely contained fury, but hesitation lingers in his stance. This is no mere force. Something deep within the castle has stirred—something even he fears. Karnak tightens his fists, claws scraping against the stone. He’s ready to fight, but this feels different. The castle is waking—and it will not be tamed easily.
The Beast Lord's castle groans under the weight of its forgotten history. Even in ruin, it lives. Crumbled walls stretch like broken ribs, shrouded in creeping moss. Pillars that once stood proud now sag, burdened by dust and time. The air hums with the discord of hammering, chiseling, and the faint clink of tools against stone—sounds of discovery and defilement intertwined.
Lanterns, scattered across the excavation site, cast pools of flickering light. Scholars crouch over relics, murmuring in excitement as they catalog each find. Their mercenary guards, clad in worn leathers and battered steel, scan the corridors with wary eyes, hands resting near their weapons. Beyond them, deeper into the castle’s forgotten halls, adventurers clash with the restless dead—skeletal warriors, rusted sentinels, ancient stone guardians, and shifting shadows.
The castle resists.
Torches flicker weakly, their light swallowed by something darker than shadow. The air pulses with latent power, thick with a tension that unsettles even the stone constructs, causing ripples of unease to stir through the walls.
High above, in the overlook chamber, a holographic map flickers to life. The projection of the castle sprawls before them, corridors and chambers outlined in pulsing veins of light. Dots—dozens of them—shift and scatter, tiny red specks representing the living: mercenaries, adventurers, scholars.
Then there is the other.
The obsidian dot.
It moves without hesitation, unwavering. One by one, the red specks vanish in its wake, extinguished like candles caught in a storm.
Theia watches, her many glowing eyes dimming. A long breath escapes her—distant, strange. The sound is like stars collapsing inward, a vast, inevitable echo. She had hoped this day would never come.
Karnak, looming beside her, grins. His jagged teeth, like embers in a dying fire, catch the dim light. "It’s her... isn’t it?" His voice rumbles, thick with anticipation and loathing.
Camelyn, perched between them, does not smile. For the first time, the Lady of the Keep—the doll of glass and clockwork—falls silent. Her delicate fingers tighten on Bartholomew’s coat, her golden eyes fixed on the shifting map. "You mean... the Witch of the Depths?" Her voice is small, careful.
Karnak exhales sharply. "And her." He does not spit the words, but there’s no warmth in them. "The Uncompromising. The Beast Lord’s mount."
The obsidian dot moves again. Another cluster of red dots vanishes.
Below, the mortals remain oblivious. The scholars laugh softly, dusting off ancient carvings, tracing long-dead languages with trembling fingers. Their guards shift, uneasy but unaware of the true threat. Further in, adventurers fight on—steel clashing against bone, fire against shadow. They do not know they are already dead.
But some—some sense it.
A scholar pauses, his breath catching. He doesn’t know why, but the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He glances up from the ancient carvings, scanning the corridor. Nothing. The flickering torchlight wavers, but the shadows remain still. He exhales slowly.
A mercenary tightens her grip on her sword. Something is wrong. Her stance shifts instinctively, her weight balanced in preparation. The others notice. Frowns deepen. Hands move to weapons. But there is no enemy. Not yet.
A cleric, mid-prayer, falters. A shiver runs through him. His grip on his holy symbol tightens, sweat beading on his brow. His goddess is silent.
The obsidian dot pulses.
Theia whispers, barely audible.
"I was afraid of this."
Karnak’s grin fades. His ember-like eyes reflect the map. He knows that presence. He’s felt it before—the tremor in lesser creatures, the deep-rooted fear that precedes a predator beyond reason.
Camelyn flinches. Her delicate frame—porcelain and brass—suddenly seems fragile. The gears in her joints whir a fraction slower. "But why now?" she murmurs. "The seals—"
"Gone," Theia interrupts. Her many eyes close. "Shattered. By their own hands."
The castle rumbles.
Below, a scholar stumbles as the floor quivers beneath him. Dust spills from above, drifting like forgotten ash. A mercenary barks a command, pulling the others back. The cleric grips his symbol tighter.
Then the first scream echoes through the halls.
It’s distant, muffled by stone and ruin. But unmistakable.
Something moves. Not the living. Not the dead. Something else.
Theia does not speak her final thought aloud.
Grant... hurry. Come back. Before she destroys us all.