He made a right, walking away from the window-laden hallway towards one instead lined with intricate and colourful paintings.

One painting dated fifty years prior grabbed his attention. Four silhouetted figures stood over a large ravine, the brightest of lights radiating from the depths of its gorge. As if the sun itself had opened up the earth to rise amongst its inhabitants. It was hypnotising to look at.

Syril reached out and touched the picture. He could feel the paint strokes, the care that went into each brush flick. But, beyond its surface-level beauty, he could feel something more, a sense of finality and resolution within the paint. 

He pulled the hand away, and the feeling evaporated. He felt strange, as if he had unwillingly invaded the artist’s mind. He continued, watching as the paintings progressively became older and more withered as he moved through the hallway. 

Some of the battles and landscapes in the paintings Syril did recognise. The once towering kingdom of Brimrath particularly stood out. Seabright was practically in love with the ancient city, and he often went on tangents in class, discussing its majesty and beauty.

Syril wasn’t fond of it, not short in part to all the enslaving and conquering the Elvish kingdoms performed.

One portrait ground Syril to a halt; he looked up into the shimmering emerald eyes of Rivira Oloran, the Ethirian girl sent as one of the first Oath Keepers. She sat behind a small desk and stared gleefully down at him. 

She was older yet still just as magnetising; the wrinkles around her eyes had darkened, and her hair had deepened to a dull grey. Yet as Syril stared at her, he could see the same mischievous smile etched into her face. 

She wore a simple summer dress painted with sunflowers and blue skies. Her hands, clasped together over her knees, were no longer dainty and soft; instead, they were calloused and rough—the unmistakable marks of someone who had worked hard throughout their life.

He reached out to touch her portrait, feeling it calling to him. He felt the intent and emotions behind the painting stir within him, numbing him, capturing him. 

“There you are”, huffed the girl from the library, ripping Syril’s attention away as she briskly walked toward him, “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Why did you leave your room?”

“I was trying to find the reliquary,” Syril responded earnestly, “someone called Miana wanted to meet me for lunch.”

“The reliquary is this way,” she said, pointing in the opposite direction to where Syril was going. “Follow me. I was going to bring you there anyway.”

She started walking away; Syril had to jog to catch up.

They walked in awkward silence, Syril only a few steps behind the mysterious girl. She looked like she had come from an intense workout. She wore a dark tank top that showed off arms full of scars and toned muscle. One arm had a small familiar symbol tattooed onto its shoulder, and Syril realised that it was a replica of the emblem on his watch.

She had tied her dishevelled and sweaty hair into a flyaway ponytail. She had a soaked towel hanging from her neck, and her glasses hung from her shirt. Syril would have guessed she’d just been jogging if it weren’t for the two small daggers tied to her waist.

“Who are you?”

“It’s none of your business,” she said, not bothering to look back at him.

“Well, that seems reductive,” Syril interjected, “you know who I am. And I should think after kidnapping me; it’s definitely my business.”

“We didn’t kidnap you.” She said, failing to hide the defensiveness in her voice.

“What would you call it then?”

“Forceful relocation.”

“Was that a joke?”

She didn’t respond. But Syril swore he saw the flash of a smile across her face. 

After a few more minutes of walking, they approached a large mahogany double door etched with various runes. Syril recognised a few as warding and defence runes, but most were runes he’d never come across in his studies.

It swung open before they could touch it as if it had expected their arrival. Then, like a dam bursting, sounds and light overwhelmed Syril, warm air washed over him, and the savoury smell of cooked meat and vegetables followed soon behind.

He felt safe to assume that they were in the reliquary. It wasn’t fair to describe it as a hall; it was much too ambitious for that.

Syril could only describe it as a forest, the type that chirped and rustled with books, antiques, and people. Shelves stretched so far into the distance that they became mere specks on the horizon; what they had in length was doubled in height. And as Syril stood in awe at the sight before him, he looked to the roof.

No.

To a sky.

A sky swirled above him in a mystifying harmony of colours and clouds. At this moment, he realised the lack of external lighting or any lights for that matter. Instead, the light bore down from above, like a makeshift sun hiding behind clouds of colour and beauty.

The ground floor contained a myriad of small desks, each occupied by groups of gaggling teenagers and the odd adult. There was no uniform or order between them; each looked as comfortable and free-willed as the next. The only similarity he could find was the symbol from his watch, and only on those whose arms were exposed. 

The laughter dulled to a shrill silence as the door swung closed behind them. The room paused, and watched as he and the girl wandered closer to the shelves.