Langsung ke konten utama

📖 Journal of DeLuna — Entry 69: The Dark Citadel

I have now officially met the leadership of The League of Eternal Darkness.

I still do not know whether I should be terrified or embarrassed on their behalf.

Possibly both.

Earlier this morning several armored guards removed me from my prison cell and escorted me upward through the Dark Citadel.

The prison halls themselves already looked absurd enough.

Black stone walls.

Massive hanging chains.

Purple fire somehow burning inside iron braziers.

At one point we passed a hallway containing at least fourteen separate portraits of Lord Nyctharios staring dramatically into different directions.

One included lightning in the background despite clearly being painted indoors.

The throne room itself looked like someone attempted to construct “evil” using only unlimited funding and absolutely no restraint.

Gigantic black pillars.

Skull decorations everywhere.

Long crimson carpets.

Massive curtains that moved dramatically despite the complete absence of wind.

There was even an enormous pipe organ near the upper balcony continuously playing ominous music.

I still do not know who was operating it.

Then I finally saw him.

Lord Nyctharios the Unraveling Eclipse.

Unfortunately…

he actually looked terrifying.

Very tall.

Broad shoulders.

Heavy black armor lined with dark fur despite the desert heat.

A massive human skull embedded directly into the center of his chestplate.

Even his voice sounded dangerous.

The kind of voice that feels permanently accompanied by thunder.

When he stood from the throne, however—

he accidentally stepped on one of the decorative skulls near the stairs and crushed it immediately.

The sound did not resemble bone.

More like pottery.

I noticed.

I do not think anyone else noticed.

Or perhaps nobody wanted to acknowledge it.

Lady Valthyria stood beside the throne wearing layered black robes covered in silver thread resembling spiderwebs.

She looked significantly more frightening than Lord Nyctharios somehow.

Not louder.

Not larger.

Just…

the kind of woman who might genuinely know forbidden things.

Though I admit her eye makeup was slightly distracting.

The dark eyeliner surrounding her eyes extended so heavily outward that she appeared less “ancient void sorceress” and more “someone recently punched repeatedly by destiny.”

I nearly laughed accidentally.

Thankfully fear preserved my survival instincts
Baron Zorvathian sat near the lower steps observing me silently the entire time.

Very thin.

Very pale.

Very unsettling.

Mostly because every few minutes his mouth slowly drifted open absentmindedly while staring into nothing.

Then suddenly he would realize and close it again.

Only for the process to repeat shortly afterward.

I genuinely do not know how to describe him properly. 

Lord Nyctharios accused me of infiltrating the Dark Citadel under orders from the capital.

Apparently normal people do not wander directly toward the center of villain headquarters carrying fried cheese.

Which honestly sounded reasonable once phrased aloud.

I attempted explaining that I simply became separated from my companions.

This explanation did not satisfy anyone.

Mostly because Lady Valthyria kept staring directly into my eyes while saying things like:

“THE VOID REVEALS ALL HIDDEN FALSEHOODS.”

At one point Baron Zorvathian whispered:

“She walks strangely.”

Then continued staring at me for another ten minutes.

Eventually Lord Nyctharios rose dramatically from the throne and pointed one armored hand directly toward me.

“If you refuse to confess,” he declared, “then the heavens themselves shall become instruments of your destruction.”

Then he announced he would execute me using lightning.

Immediately afterward thunder exploded directly above the citadel loud enough to shake the entire room.

Everyone jumped.

Including Lord Nyctharios.

There was approximately three seconds of absolute silence afterward.

Then Lord Nyctharios slowly lowered his hand and said:

“You witness merely a fragment of my dominion over the storm.”

I think even Lady Valthyria looked unconvinced briefly.

Eventually they concluded I should undergo “enhanced interrogation procedures.”

Which sounded deeply concerning.

I attempted remaining calm.

This failed.

Then something extremely unfortunate happened.

One guard stepped forward while another reached toward my bag.

Instinctively, I reached inside first.

And unfortunately—

the first object my hand touched was Spathian’s glowing spoon.

So naturally I pulled it out dramatically and raised it into the air.

The spoon immediately activated.

Bright white light erupted across the throne room.

The guards recoiled.

Lady Valthyria gasped.

Baron Zorvathian stood up so suddenly his chair fell backward.

Even Lord Nyctharios visibly froze.

Unfortunately I also panicked.

So while blinded by the glowing spoon myself, I accidentally shouted:

“STAY BACK.”

This somehow worsened everything.

For several horrifying seconds nobody moved.

The spoon continued glowing ominously between us.

Then Baron Zorvathian whispered something I could not fully hear.

I think it was:

“The Radiant Relic…”

At this point the situation became completely unsalvageable.

After several minutes of increasingly dramatic discussion between the leadership of The League of Eternal Darkness, they finally decided I should be returned to my prison cell temporarily while they “reconsider the nature of the threat.”

Apparently I am now considered either:

a highly trained spy,

an assassin from the capital,

or a possible herald of an opposing prophecy.

I am genuinely not certain which option concerns me most.

The guards returned me to the prison afterward.

Someone also brought extra snacks.

I still have the glowing spoon.

Honestly…

I think this may somehow be Spathian’s fault.

Komentar

Postingan populer dari blog ini

📖 Journal of DeLuna — Entry 2: The Powers Beneath the Crown

If the king of Dunskar stands at the peak… then beneath him lies a web that never truly rests. There are four powers here. Not equal—but none insignificant. The Nobility came first. Old families, their names carved into the foundations of the kingdom itself. They do not rule outright, but their bloodlines built Dunskar. Land, wealth, influence—most of it flows through them. Some smile at the crown. Others measure it. Then, the Church of the Sun. They worship Solus, the ever-burning eye above the world. Their temples are quiet, but their reach is not. Faith here is not forced… yet somehow, it is everywhere. Even soldiers bow their heads before battle. I cannot tell if they serve the king… or if the king simply allows them to exist. The third is… unusual. The Guild. Not a government body, yet somehow essential. They write the guidebooks—records of monsters, ruins, forbidden paths. To adventurers, it is survival itself. To the crown? A tool, perhaps. Or a risk. Information is ...

‎📖 Journal of DeLuna — Entry 1: Dunskar

‎Dunskar is not ruled by age. ‎It is ruled by presence. ‎I arrived expecting a kingdom bound by tradition—an old king, a fixed line of succession, predictable order. I was wrong. ‎ ‎The throne of Dunskar does not belong to the eldest child, nor the firstborn. It belongs to the one who can take it… without tearing the kingdom apart. ‎Every ruler must carry the blood of the previous king—this much is sacred. But blood alone is not enough. Among the royal lineage, they choose. ‎ ‎Not by simple decree, but by a form of judgment. Influence. Strength. Charisma. The ability to command not just soldiers… but belief. ‎ ‎They call it a “vote,” though it feels less like democracy and more like quiet warfare. Alliances form in whispers. Loyalty is tested long before the crown is placed. ‎ ‎A weak heir is never crowned. ‎A strong one is rarely unchallenged. ‎The current king—whoever he may be—does not simply inherit power. ‎He survives for it. ‎ ‎And perhaps that is why the people do no...

📖 Journal of DeLuna — Special Entry: The Weight of Knowing

We left the gathering behind. The colors faded first. Then the voices. Then the sense that the world was… wider than I could follow. For days, we walked. The ground changed slowly. Red gave way to something softer. Not yet green—but no longer harsh. And still—I found my attention returning to the same person. Sondre Eldar. Though no one calls him that unless they must. To most, he is simply the Caravan Master. I had watched him before. Everyone does. But not like this. Not with questions that refuse to settle. It began with a memory. A sound I could not place. Clicks. Tongue against teeth. The language of the Siltfang. I had heard it clearly. And I had heard him answer. Just as clearly. For several days, I said nothing. It felt… inappropriate to ask. As if the answer would not be given freely. Or worse—as if it would. He noticed before I spoke. “Something on your mind,” he said. Not a question. Just an observation. I asked anyway. About the language. He did not answer immed...