The Drowned Library of Aeloria

“It is, for most of the month,” Elara said, her gaze fixed on the horizon. “But there are certain times… certain tides… when the ruins emerge from the depths. It will be our only chance to enter the city safely.”

“Safely,” Lyra echoed, her tone dry. “Right.”

Rourke’s mouth quirked in a humorless smile. “Don’t let her pretty words fool you, sellsword. There’s nothing safe about Aeloria. Not anymore.”

As if on cue, a low, mournful sound echoed across the waves—a horn, Lyra realized, though like none she had ever heard before. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, a warning that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

“What in the hells was that?” she asked, her hand going to the hilt of her sword.

“The city’s call,” Elara said, her voice soft with awe. “Aeloria knows we’re here.”

“Wonderful,” Lyra muttered. “A city that’s happy to see us. That can’t possibly be a bad sign.”

Elara shot her an amused look. “Not happy, exactly. More… aware. The magic that once protected Aeloria still lingers, even after all these centuries. It senses our presence.”

“And is it going to try to stop us?” Lyra asked, her gaze scanning the surrounding waves for any sign of threat.

“That remains to be seen,” Elara replied. “The city’s defenses were meant to keep out invaders, not welcome guests. But we are not the first to seek entry to Aeloria since its fall… and we will not be the last.”

As she spoke, a strange mist began to rise from the surface of the sea, swirling and eddying in ways that seemed to defy the wind. It wrapped around the Wanderer like a shroud, dampening sound and reducing visibility to near zero.

“Damn it,” Rourke snarled, spinning the ship’s wheel to avoid a jagged outcropping of rock that seemed to materialize out of nowhere. “I can’t see a thing!”

Lyra tensed, her hand tightening on her sword. “This another one of your city’s welcoming committees?” she asked Elara, her tone sharp.

The elf shook her head, her brow furrowed. “No. This is not Aeloria’s doing. This is something else.”

As if in response to her words, a series of low, guttural cries echoed through the mist, seeming to come from all directions at once. They were followed by the sound of something heavy scraping against the hull of the ship.

“Get down!” Lyra shouted, shoving Elara behind her as she drew her sword. She caught a glimpse of shadowy figures moving through the mist—figures that seemed to shift and change as she watched, their forms indistinct and unsettlingly fluid.

“What are they?” she asked, her voice tight.

“Spectral guardians,” Elara said, her own hands weaving in the air, trails of silver light following her movements. “They are drawn to the city’s magic… and to those who seek to disturb its rest.”

“Great,” Lyra muttered, falling into a defensive stance as the first of the guardians lunged out of the mist. It was vaguely humanoid, its body seemingly composed of writhing tendrils of darkness, its eyes burning with a malevolent green light. “Just what we needed.”

The battle was short but brutal, the spectral guardians proving to be fearsome opponents despite their insubstantial nature. Lyra’s sword passed through them with little effect, and it was only through Elara’s magic—the silver light of her spells seeming to burn the spectral figures wherever it touched—that they were able to drive the creatures back into the mist.

By the time the last of the guardians had dissolved into nothingness, Lyra was breathing hard, her clothes torn and her armor scored with deep, burning gouges. Elara looked little better, her face pale and drawn, her hands trembling slightly as she lowered them to her sides.

“Well,” Lyra said, wiping a trickle of blood from her brow. “That was fun.”

Elara managed a weak smile. “Indeed. But we are not out of danger yet.”

As if to prove her point, the mournful horn sounded again, louder this time, and closer. The mist began to thin, revealing the dark, jagged shapes of ruined buildings rising from the sea ahead.

“Aeloria,” Elara breathed, her eyes wide with wonder.

Lyra followed her gaze, taking in the sight of the drowned city. It was a place of stark, haunting beauty, its towers and spires draped in seaweed and coral, its streets choked with centuries of silt and debris. The water had receded with the tide, revealing a labyrinth of crumbling stone and ancient, waterlogged timber, and Lyra felt a shiver of unease run down her spine at the thought of what might be lurking in those flooded depths.

“Well,” she said, turning to Rourke, who was watching the ruins with a mixture of awe and trepidation. “You’ve done your part, Captain. We’ll take it from here.”

Rourke shook his head. “Not a chance, sellsword. I’ve come this far. I’ll see it through to the end.”

Lyra opened her mouth to argue, but Elara laid a hand on her arm. “Let him come, Lyra. He has earned the right.”

Lyra hesitated, then nodded. “Fine. But if you slow us down, I’m leaving you behind.”

Rourke’s mouth quirked in a humorless smile. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

With that, they set out into the ruins, Lyra taking point with her sword at the ready, Elara following close behind, her hands already glowing with the beginnings of a spell. Rourke brought up the rear, his own blade drawn, his eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of threat.

The city was a maze of narrow, twisting streets and half-collapsed buildings, the ground treacherous with slime and loose rubble. The air was thick with the smell of salt and decay, and the only sounds were the distant crash of waves and the mournful cry of the wind through the empty towers.

As they moved deeper into the ruins, Lyra couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched. More than once, she caught a glimpse of movement at the edge of her vision—a flicker of shadow, a shifting of stone—but when she turned to look, there was nothing there.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” Elara murmured, her voice low. “The city’s gaze.”

Lyra nodded, her jaw tight. “Like we’re walking into a trap.”

“We are,” Elara said. “But it is a trap we must navigate, if we wish to find the Starstone Compass.”

They pressed on, the way becoming ever more difficult as they went. In places, the streets were entirely submerged, forcing them to wade through waist-deep water that tugged at their clothes and threatened to pull them under. In others, the ground had given way entirely, revealing jagged pits and crevasses that seemed to drop away into nothingness.

It was as they were crossing one such chasm—a narrow, crumbling bridge of stone that spanned a seemingly bottomless drop—that disaster struck. A section of the bridge gave way beneath Rourke’s feet, sending him tumbling into the abyss with a startled cry.

“Rourke!” Lyra shouted, lunging forward, but it was too late. The captain was gone, swallowed by the darkness below.

Elara was already moving, her hands weaving in the air as she wove a spell of silver light. “Hold on!” she called, and Lyra felt the magic take hold of her, lifting her off her feet and sending her hurtling over the edge of the chasm in pursuit of the fallen captain.

The descent was a blur of wind and darkness, the walls of the chasm rushing past in a dizzying whirl. Then Lyra was landing hard on a narrow ledge, her legs absorbing the impact with a grunt. Rourke was there, lying in a crumpled heap a few feet away, his breathing shallow and ragged.

“Rourke,” Lyra said, scrambling to his side. “Can you hear me?”

The captain groaned, his eyes fluttering open. “Lyra? What… what happened?”

“You fell,” Lyra said, her hands already moving over his body, checking for injuries. “Can you move?”

Rourke tried to sit up, then hissed in pain, his hand going to his leg. “I think… I think it’s broken,” he said, his voice tight with agony.

Lyra’s mouth thinned. “Elara!” she called, looking up toward the lip of the chasm. “We need you down here!”

There was no response, and Lyra felt a flicker of unease. “Elara? Can you hear me?”

“I hear you.” The elf’s voice was strained, and Lyra looked up to see her clinging to the edge of the chasm, her face pale with exertion. “I can’t… I can’t hold on much longer. The spell… it’s too much…”

“Elara!” Lyra shouted, but it was too late. The elf’s grip failed, and she plummeted toward the chasm floor, her body bouncing off the walls as she fell.

Lyra reacted without thinking, lunging forward to catch the elf before she could hit the ground. They landed in a tangled heap, Lyra’s body absorbing the worst of the impact, and for a long moment, neither of them moved.