Delores sat slumped on the cold marble floor of the antechamber, her back resting against the base of a massive pillar. She was exhausted in a way she hadn't known was possible. Her muscles trembled with a deep, persistent ache, her lungs burned with every breath, and her mind felt bruised.
By her own hazy, desperate counting, she had been training and fighting for roughly fifty continuous hours.
It had been a relentless, agonizing cycle of violence. Valerie moved with a speed and grace that was impossible to anticipate, striking with devastating precision. Delores had tried everything but it was like fighting a hurricane with a wooden stick. The ancient lich would dismantle her defenses, inflict a crippling, near-lethal wound, and then freeze Delores in that agonizing moment of defeat to coldly dissect exactly what she had done wrong.
"Your footwork was sluggish. You telegraphed the strike with your shoulder. You relied on the shield when you should have moved."
Only after the brutal lecture would Valerie apply her magic, healing the worst of the damage, but deliberately leaving the dull ache, the deep bruising, the memory of the pain as a harsh reminder of her failure. Delores rubbed the back of her neck, a shiver wracking her small frame. She had lost count of how many times Valerie's hand had closed around her throat, the last thing she saw before passing out being the terrifying, vibrant green flash of the lich's shifting eyes.
She imagined her parents witnessing this. Even their strictest, most grueling military drills paled in comparison to Valerie's sadistic tutelage. They trained soldiers; Valerie was trying to forge a weapon capable of surviving a war among gods.
Across the vast, shadowy hall, Valerie sat gracefully on the edge of her dark metal throne, looking entirely unbothered, her breathing slow and even. The silence stretched between them, heavy with the unspoken exhaustion of the student and the terrifying patience of the master.
Eventually, as her breathing began to slow, Delores's gaze fell upon an object resting on a low, ornate pedestal situated exactly halfway between her pillar and Valerie's throne. It was a shallow, wide basin, resembling a large, dark stone birdbath, its surface smooth and unadorned. It was filled to the brim with water, but the liquid was an unnatural inky, smoky black that seemed to swirl and churn of its own accord, despite the stillness of the air.
"What is that?" Delores finally croaked, her voice raspy, nodding towards the basin.
Valerie glanced down at it, her expression indifferent. "It is a scrying font," she stated simply. "A tool I use to observe the shifting currents of the world outside this prison. To see events as they unfold."
Delores frowned, curiosity momentarily overcoming her exhaustion. She slowly pushed herself to her feet, wincing as her battered muscles protested, and walked stiffly towards the pedestal. She stopped at its edge, looking down into the churning, pitch-black water.
"Is this how you've been spying on me?" Delores asked, raising an eyebrow at the lich. "And Bastian? Just sitting here watching us like a play?"
Valerie offered a soft, musical chuckle that echoed eerily in the large hall. "Spying is such a vulgar word, little one. Observing is far more accurate. Though I must admit, it rarely shows me exactly what I want to see with any precision."
She rose from the throne and glided down the short stairs, coming to stand beside Delores at the font. The sheer proximity to the lich made the air feel instantly heavier.
"It does not operate like a simple window," Valerie explained, leaning forward slightly. "It is attuned to the threads of fate, to significant shifts in magic and power. It shows me what I need to see. Convergences. Threats. Pivotal moments."
She reached out, extending a single, elegant finger, and gently dragged it across the surface of the dark water.
Delores watched, entranced. Where Valerie's finger disturbed the surface, the smoky blackness parted, revealing flashes of color and movement deep within the basin. It was like looking down into a storm cloud that was crackling with hidden lightning. The swirling patterns were hypnotic, drawing gaze deeper, promising secrets she wasn't sure she was ready to learn. The hypnotic movement of the water seemed to pull at her consciousness. Despite the exhaustion radiating through every muscle in her body, her thoughts drifted away from the brutal training and back to her companions. What are they doing right now? she wondered, a pang of worry mixing with her curiosity. Are Barin and Rael alright? Is Bastian actually helping them, or just showing off his piles of junk?
As the questions formed clearly in her mind, the water in the font reacted violently. The slow, lazy churn accelerated into a rapid, frantic vortex. The inky blackness began to thin, replaced by flashes of muted color and shifting light.
Delores gasped, leaning closer, her hands gripping the cold stone rim of the pedestal. The swirling colors coalesced, sharpening into focus until she was no longer looking at water, but through a window. She was seeing the inside of a vast, cluttered cavern. It was dimly lit by glowing crystals and filled with mountains of gold, ancient armor, and strange, petrified beasts. But the view wasn't static; it was moving slightly, panning across the room from a height that felt uncomfortably tall.
"Interesting," Valerie murmured beside her, her voice barely a whisper. "It seems the font is responding directly to your anxieties. It has even latched onto Bastian's perspective."
Delores watched, mesmerized, as the view shifted downwards. She saw Barin, looking small from this height, standing with his arms crossed. Beside him, Rael was leaning heavily against a crystalline formation, his chest heaving, his face pale and slick with sweat.
Suddenly, a voice echoed from the water, clear and distinct. It was Bastian's voice, but it sounded closer, echoing slightly, as if Delores was hearing his thoughts as he spoke them aloud.
"I must admit, Master D'Gar," Bastian's voice resonated from the font, "I am fairly shocked. A cleric of your obvious potential, yet you rely solely on a single, cumbersome tome to conduct your spells. It seems terribly inefficient."
In the vision, Rael let out a ragged sigh, shifting his weight against the crystal. "Unfortunately, Bastian," Rael replied, his voice thin and strained against the magical pressure of the lair, "any weaponry or focus that could properly interface with my severe sensitivity to raw magic, and my oddly large internal pool… anything I could wield properly either does not exist, or is gods-awful expensive."
Barin barked a harsh laugh, stepping into the frame. "Aye! We ain't exactly made of money, lizard! The Baroness's coffers are currently holdin' moths and good intentions."
Through the font, Delores heard Bastian chuckle—a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated slightly. "You forget yourselves, my friends," Bastian's voice echoed. "You are standing in the hoard of an ancient dragon. You never really know what I might have lying around."
The perspective shifted again. Bastian's gaze turned away from Rael and locked onto Barin. More specifically, the view zoomed in slightly on the dark, tarnished metal plate resting against the half-orc dwarf's chest.
A sudden, sharp thought echoed through the water, clear as a spoken word, but distinctively internal. It was Bastian's inner monologue: That plate… the Star-Forged Obsidian. The runes… they sing of the Shattered Peaks. It reminds me of something I cataloged centuries ago. Something forgotten in the deep vaults…
The vision abruptly blurred, the colors washing out as the water turned smoky black once more. Delores blinked, pulling back from the basin, her mind racing to process what she had just seen and heard.
"Did you see that?" she asked, turning to Valerie. "I think he knows what Barin's plate is about."
Valerie was watching her, a single, elegant eyebrow raised, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. "I saw," she agreed smoothly.
The lich stepped away from the font, gliding back towards the steps of her throne. "Bastian is a meticulous hoarder," Valerie said, her tone conversational but laced with hidden meaning. "He collects many things even though he prefers stories. But you must understand, Delores, nearly all of the significant weaponry and artifacts he owns carry powerful sealing magic. Wards designed to ensure that only those who left them, or those of their direct bloodline, could ever reclaim them safely."
She paused at the bottom of the stairs, turning back to face Delores. The shifting colors in her eyes settled into a cold, piercing silver.
"However," Valerie continued, her smile widening slightly, "there were a few very rare things that managed to outlive their owners. Things whose masters died so long ago, in such profound ways, that the magic binding them simply frayed. Or perhaps," her smile grew sharper, "they are items that only respond to a very specific, undeniable right of claim."
Delores locked eyes with the ancient lich, the implications of her words sinking in. Valerie knew exactly what Bastian was thinking, and she knew exactly what was hidden in his hoard.
Valerie gave a slow, deliberate nod. "If your guardsman truly carries the blood of the creators, the artifact will answer. If not..." She shrugged carelessly. "Well, let us hope his pain tolerance is as high as yours, my dear."
The vision in the font had faded, but its implications lingered, a persistent itch in the back of Delores's mind. For the next few hours, however, Valerie refused to let her dwell on it. The physical brutality of the morning had been replaced by a different kind of torture: the grueling minutiae of nobility.
Valerie had summoned a spectral chalkboard of sorts, tracing glowing, complex diagrams in the air to explain tax structures, border disputes, and the intricate, often treacherous etiquette required when dealing with emissaries from larger kingdoms.
Delores sat cross-legged on the cold marble, rubbing her temples, a dull, throbbing headache beginning to form behind her eyes. She sighed inwardly. So much for adventure, she thought grimly. The reality of being a Baroness, it seemed, involved significantly less exploring ancient ruins and significantly more attending mass quantities of painfully boring meetings and learning how to effectively suck up to kings who could crush her fledgling settlement with a single command. It was disheartening.
Her attention, despite Valerie's sharp reprimands when she drifted, kept snapping back to Bastian's hoard. What could a dragon who supposedly preferred stories to gold possibly possess that would warrant such a sinister warning from Valerie? What was Bastian about to subject Barin and Rael to?
Unable to concentrate on the finer points of grain tariffs, Delores let her gaze slide away from the glowing diagrams and land on her tutor.
Valerie had paused in her lecture. She was sitting perfectly still on the edge of her dark throne, staring off into the vast, empty expanse of the hall. Her expression was strangely blank, the usual mask of mocking amusement or terrifying intensity completely gone. Yet, it was her eyes that held Delores's attention. The swirling colors—the purples, greens, and silvers—were shifting differently now. Instead of a slow, hypnotic churn, they were darting rapidly, flickering and pulsing like a storm viewed from afar.
For a long moment, Delores simply stared. She allowed herself, for the first time, to truly study the ancient lich without the immediate threat of being thrown across the room. Valerie was flawless. Every line of her face, the cascade of her midnight hair, the effortless grace of her posture—it was all devastatingly perfect. It was hard to reconcile this breathtaking figure with the concept of a decaying, undead horror.
She must be insanely powerful, Delores realized, a shiver running down her spine that had nothing to do with the chill of the marble. To maintain this form, to hold back the decay of centuries while trapped in a prison. The sheer amount of magic she must constantly expend just to exist like this is unfathomable.
It made Bastian's terror of her entirely understandable.
Suddenly, the rapid flickering in Valerie's eyes stopped. They snapped back to Delores, locking onto her with unsettling precision. The blank expression vanished, replaced by that familiar, knowing smirk.
"Is there something on my face, Baroness?" Valerie asked, her voice silky. "Or are the nuances of agricultural trade agreements truly that uninspiring?"
Delores felt a flush rise to her cheeks. She quickly looked away, clearing her throat. "No, nothing. Just… thinking."
Valerie chuckled softly, rising from the throne. "Thinking about your friends, no doubt." She glided down the steps, her bare feet making no sound. She didn't stop until she was standing beside the stone pedestal holding the scrying font.
She looked down into the dark water, then glanced back up at Delores. "It seems," Valerie murmured, her tone suddenly hushed and expectant, "that my lizard is finally making his move."
Delores frowned, pushing herself up from the floor. She hurried over to join Valerie at the pedestal, looking down into the basin. The previously still, inky water was churning again, swirling faster and faster, preparing to reveal what was happening deep within the dragon's hoard.
The smoky black water in the font cleared, snapping into sharp focus. Once again, Delores found herself looking through the invisible window into Bastian's cavernous hoard.
The perspective hovered near the ceiling, looking down at the trio. Rael was seated cross-legged on the dusty stone floor, his eyes squeezed shut in intense concentration. Resting across his lap was a long, thick staff. It was made of gnarled, twisting wood that looked ancient and organic, almost as if it were still alive.
Delores scrunched her face up, peering closely at the image. Is that a magical artifact? she thought skeptically. It looks like a very large, very bumpy stick.
Barin stood nearby, leaning slightly to watch Rael with a mixture of concern and his usual gruff impatience. Bastian stood a few paces away, his arms folded. For a moment, he seemed to be watching Rael with a look of quiet pride, perhaps acknowledging the tiefling's sheer stubbornness in enduring the crushing ambient magic of the lair.
Then, Bastian's gaze drifted. His ice-blue eyes fixed on Barin, specifically on the dark, metallic plate hanging just visible against his armor. The dragon-in-disguise raised a hand, rubbing his smooth chin thoughtfully. Even through the scrying font, Delores could almost hear the gears turning in his ancient mind as he tried to place the familiar, heavy energy radiating from the small artifact.
"Master Strongsunder," Bastian's voice echoed out from the font. "If you would indulge me for a moment? Come here."
Barin hesitated, casting a protective glance down at the meditating Rael. He clearly didn't want to leave the cleric alone while he was so vulnerable. But, with a reluctant grunt, he stepped away and walked over to Bastian.
"Hold that plate up, if you please," Bastian requested, his tone dropping its usual lightness, becoming focused and academic. "Allow me a closer look."
Barin complied, gripping the heavy plate and lifting it slightly away from his chest. Bastian leaned in, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinized the intricate, alien script carved into the dark metal.
"What do you actually know of this object, Barin?" Bastian asked, his voice low.
Barin shrugged, his massive shoulders rising and falling dismissively. "Told ye before. It was my parents'. And theirs before them, far as I know. All I really know for sure is that it's got my family name on it." He paused, then mumbled under his breath, barely audible even through the magic of the font, "Not that anyone ever bothered to teach me how to read the damn thing."
Standing beside the pedestal, Valerie let out a sharp, unladylike snort of amusement.
Delores bristled instantly, feeling a surge of protectiveness for her friend. "Hey," she snapped, glaring at the lich. "I'm working on it with him. He's trying, and he's made decent progress." She looked back down at the font, her expression souring. "Besides, it wouldn't matter if he was a scholar. I've looked at that plate. I can't read a single word of it either. It's gibberish."
Valerie just offered a patronizing smile but remained silent as the scene in the font continued.
"One side," Bastian said slowly, tracing a finger in the air above the plate without touching it, "clearly states your familial name. 'Strongsunder'. But the script is a strange, archaic mesh of ancient Orcish and high Dwarven. A dialect I haven't seen in so long."
He pulled back, his brow furrowing deeply in intense contemplation. A low, vibrating growl rumbled in his chest. "It feels so familiar," he muttered to himself.
Valerie watched Bastian's struggle with a look of mild exasperation. She sighed, a delicate, airy sound. "Honestly, his memory is atrocious sometimes. I suppose I could help him. Just this once."
Delores looked up in surprise just as Valerie raised her hand and snapped her fingers.
Instantly, within the vision in the font, a brilliant, unmistakable flash of purple light erupted directly around Bastian's head. It was there and gone in a fraction of a second.
Through the water, Delores watched Bastian gasp, his eyes flying wide open in sudden, startling clarity. He dropped the plate, letting it swing back and smack hard against Barin's breastplate with a sharp clack.
Without a word of explanation, Bastian grabbed the bewildered half-orc dwarf by the arm. "Come with me! Now!" he demanded, his voice tight with a mixture of excitement and sudden, profound worry.
He turned and began to sprint through the cavernous lair, dragging the heavily armored Barin behind him.
"Oi! Watch the arm, lizard!" Barin bellowed, stumbling as he tried to keep his footing and keep up with the deceptively fast merchant.
The image in the dark water held for one more second on Bastian's frantic face, illuminating his urgent desperation, before the colors washed out entirely. The swirling smoke returned, and the vision faded to black, leaving Delores staring at her own bewildered reflection.