Mikhail's right hand shimmered with a cool, bright blue light as a warmth spread from his palm to his body. He checked the black rope at his waist, securing it with a nod, then focused on the glowing rune below him.
He knelt and pressed his glowing hand firmly against the intricate symbol igniting it along with several other runes that formed a perfect circle around him. A sudden, powerful gust of wind whipped through the chamber. It tousled his silver hair, billowing his robes and sending all small, unsecured items hurtling through the air. The air inside the chamber pulsated with ancient energy.
Undeterred by the storm blowing around him, Mikhail chanted words long forgotten by the world, and with each uttered syllable, the strength of the wind intensified and roared around him like a beast eager to break free of its chains. It pushed and pulled against Mikhail and threatened to lift him off his feet. Yet, he held firm, bracing himself against the ferocious gale, never lifting his arm from the glowing rune.
As the runes continued to glow brighter, the silhouettes of other men emerged against the room’s dark stone walls. Each held onto the other end of the heavy, black robe tethered to Mikhail’s waist. With practiced agility, they quickly sidestepped all the airborne debris, their faces hidden beneath their hoods.
A blinding light burst into existence right in front of Mikhail. It cast stark, elongated shadows that danced menacingly along the walls. The light grew in intensity with the passing seconds and morphed into a swirling vortex of brilliant, ever-shifting colors. Its size threatened to consume everything in its path, turning the room into chaos and brilliance.
The power of the vortex lifted Mikhail's body off from the ground. His fingers strained to maintain their grip on an iron handlebar firmly embedded in the stone floor, a last anchor in the storm. The light from the rune enveloped his entire form as his right hand remained pressed upon its surface despite the spell's force.
As hard as he struggled to continue with the spell, the power unleashed by the vortex finally ripped Mikhail off the rune and pulled him toward its spiraling center. The rope around his waist pulled taut as the men on the other end held firmly to Mikhail. Even as he risked being consumed by the spiraling light, Mikhail continued with the chant. A voice shouted from behind him, one of the men holding the rope, but he paid it no heed.
I am so close. I cannot stop now.
A sudden pang in his chest caused Mikhail’s breath to catch in his throat. And in that pause, one by one, the runes’ glow extinguished, their energy spent. The multi-colored vortex shrank until it was no more, leaving the chamber in utter darkness.
Mikhail’s exhausted body fell to the ground with a soft, almost pitiful thud. The chamber was plunged into an oppressive silence, broken only by the ragged breaths of the hooded men who rushed to his side.
“It didn’t work,” he muttered softly, his voice barely more than a whisper. With his heart heavy with the weight of his failure, Mikhail closed his eyes, accepting the shroud of darkness that enveloped him.
A chill, icy as a winter's touch, swept across Mikhail's brow, pulling him from the grasp of dreams. Eyelashes fluttered, giving way to the world as he endeavored to dispel the remnants of slumber. As the fog in his vision dissipated, the familiar details of his opulent chamber emerged from the gloom.
Rising from beneath him was a majestic bed adorned with a canopy of deep sapphire velvet. The walls, covered in tapestries depicting ancestral tales of bravery and magic, reflected the warm glow from the golden sconces that held delicate flames. Now dormant, a grand chandelier of crystal and gold cast intricate shadows across the plush carpet.
Suddenly, one of the room's ornate double doors — sculpted with intricate designs of roses and vines — groaned softly, allowing a sliver of the hallway's muted light to break through. The figure silhouetted entering the chamber was an older gentleman. Time had gracefully painted his hair with streaks of deep gray woven into the strands of his former midnight-black mane. His age showed in his hair and the crow's feet that lightly touched the corners of his eyes. Dressed impeccably, his suit — as dark as the night — clung to his slender frame, the cut and stitches speaking of a master tailor's hand.
His footfalls, barely more than a whisper on the carpet, brought him to the bedside. The relief in his oceanic blue eyes was palpable as they settled on the stirring Duke. "It is heartening to witness your eyes open once more, Your Grace," his gentle and fatherly timbre resonated with genuine worry. Carefully, he removed the wet cloth from Mikhail's forehead and aided him to a seated position.
Turning his attention to the grand, arched window draped in rich, navy-blue curtains, Mikhail's eyes lost themselves in the early night sky outside. "Pascal," he began, "how long was I asleep?"
"Merely a handful of hours, your grace," Pascal replied, nodding towards a polished wooden bedside table where damp cloths lay folded in a neat pile. "A touch of fever had its claws in you."
A long pause ensued, thick with unspoken words and shared history. It was Pascal, always the caretaker, who pierced the stillness. "Shall I request your evening repast, your grace?"
A single, brief nod from Mikhail was all the response Pascal required. With a respectful bow, the elder retired to gather dinner for the young Duke.
Drawn to the outside world, Mikhail rose from the bed and approached the resplendent balcony doors; his gaze focused on the looming tempest gathering strength from the south. Rain, a harbinger, whispered to his soul.
However, a knock rippled through the silence before Mikhail could lose himself further to his thoughts. "Enter," he beckoned, assuming it to be Pascal and the maid with his supper.
Yet, as the doors swung open, a young man entered, his hair a chaotic cascade of chestnut and eyes azure as the midday sky, brimming with trepidation.
Mikhail beckoned, "Take a seat, Henry." He gestured toward one of the lavishly upholstered couches, velvet the color of ripe plums, set against the room's regal backdrop.
Henry perched on the couch, "Your grace," he began, his voice tinged with the gravity of the news, "we have just received a raven from Aeloria."
Mikhail sat on the couch across from Henry, his intense gaze compelling Henry to elaborate. "Is that all?" he inquired, a trace of impatience in his voice.
"The guild members claim that they felt a strange energy pulse in the area a few hours ago, around the same time as..." Henry's voice trailed off, his unspoken words hanging in the air.
Mikhail, however, didn't need Henry to complete his sentence. His eyes alit with recognition. "We must head to Aeloria at once," he declared, moving with such urgency that his rising caused a bout of vertigo. He swayed unsteadily, grasping for balance, just as Pascal entered with a maid bearing his dinner.
"Your grace, you are not fit to go anywhere," Pascal asserted, concern etched deeply into his features.
Henry stepped forward, offering his support as he and Pascal guided Mikhail back to the comfortable confines of the couch. "Pascal is right, your grace. You still need to recover. I will ride out and look into this. I'll send a raven ahead so that the guild members in Aeloria can begin searching for the energy source," he explained to Mikhail, his tone resolute.
Mikhail shook his head, determination flickering in his eyes. "You aren't going alone," he insisted, attempting to rise but ultimately surrendering to his body's protests. He sank back into the plush cushions, the maddening sense of helplessness washing over him.
He finally conceded, "Take Belmont with you." He addressed Henry, who promptly nodded his agreement.
"Yes, your grace. We will head out immediately. We should make it to Aeloria by tomorrow night." Henry bowed and took his leave.Mikhail was left in the care of Pascal and the maid, who were finishing setting up his dinner on the table before the couch. His thoughts churned in turmoil as they bustled about, arranging the dishes.
Could it have worked? He wondered, his gaze drawn again to the window, the darkened sky outside a canvas for his racing thoughts.
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