The inside of the museum feels like another world. Along both sides of the wide hall stand rows of humanoid iron armours. Each warrior's armour is a timeless work of art. The empty hollows of their eyes seem to carry a spark of life, as if they are watching every movement of those who enter.
Above their heads, a golden floating sphere hangs in the air, unsupported by anything visible. The sphere turns slowly, releasing a soft golden light from its surface. This light fills the entire court hall with a mysterious glow. Along the walls stand rows of bound bookshelves, each book a vessel of knowledge thousands of years old.
Though the youths wear hoods, their faces can still be seen. They move like smoke, silent, carefully avoiding anything that might be dangerous. Every step is calculated, every breath controlled.
In one corner of the court hall stand many soldiers' iron armours. Like guards adorned with emptiness, their helmets filled only with starlight. There are no bodies inside their armour, no life. Only a terrifying void. And yet, it feels as though they could move, could come alive if needed.
Vesha, the quickest and most agile of the group, moves ahead of everyone like a cat, completely silent. Every motion is so smooth it feels as though he is not touching the ground. Just ahead, another door comes into view. Vesha reaches it and carefully tests it.
Vesha returns and signals, "There's no lock on it."
There is a trace of surprise and suspicion on his face. It should not be this easy.
Mir warns the others in a low voice,
"There's a creature ahead. Be careful."
There is experience in his tone, as if he has faced such situations before.
Everyone prepares themselves. They grip their knives tightly, keeping their breathing steady.
Vesha slowly turns the door handle.
As the door opens, a sight appears before them that freezes the heart.
Standing before them is a massive tiger. Far larger than any natural tiger, its eyes glint with an inhuman intelligence. Its black-striped coat carries an otherworldly sheen. Its claws are sharper than steel, its teeth as keen as daggers. The tiger stares at them in silence, as if measuring them. Deciding who is more dangerous, who should be attacked first.
A stillness falls that hurts the ears. The sound of the tiger's breathing, the scrape of its claws against the floor—everything becomes unnaturally sharp.
Mir moves forward quickly but with caution. Each step is calculated, as if he is performing a complex dance. From his waist, he pulls out a small bottle containing a magical liquid. The bottle trembles in his hand, yet there is no flaw in the steadiness of his grip. In one swift motion, he throws the bottle onto the floor.
As the bottle shatters, thick blue smoke bursts out, rapidly filling the entire room. The smoke carries a sleeping property, capable of sending any creature into deep slumber. Its scent is sweet, almost alluring, but hidden within it is irresistible power.
At first, the tiger becomes irritated, about to let out a roar. But slowly, the smoke takes effect. Its eyelids grow heavy, its legs begin to wobble. At last, the massive beast collapses onto the floor.
Then the tiger falls into deep sleep. Its chest rises and falls with steady breathing, but it is no longer a threat.
Silence settles again. But this time, it is a silence of relief. The five look at one another, a mix of relief and pride in their eyes. They have passed the first obstacle, but they know many more await ahead.
******
Beyond the door lies a long, arched corridor. The air is thick with the smell of powdered stone. The corridor feels like the mouth of an endless tunnel, its far end swallowed by darkness. The stone floor is so old that thousands of footsteps have carved deep grooves into it. Each slab is perfectly cut from black marble, its surface playing with a silvery sheen. As if they are alive, breathing.
The ceiling above is so high that echoes hum endlessly. The arches are signs of otherworldly architecture, every curve and angle shaped with perfect geometric balance. Ancient sentences are carved into the walls in a language no one understands, yet from every letter spreads an ominous vibration.
The magic of the night is growing weaker. Patience is wearing thin. Fatigue begins to touch the bodies of the five. Their Elrulis garments, which once rendered them invisible, now tremble faintly, as if their power is running out.
Beads of sweat gather on Mursalin's brow, making the worry on his face more visible. A subtle tremor runs through his arm, the kind that comes only with deep anxiety.
Suddenly, the corridor door closes behind them, like a tomb sealing shut. The heavy stone doors meet silently, making no sound, yet creating a sense of finality.
Their escape route is now closed. From this moment on, there is only one path—forward.
For a brief moment, a flash of fear appears in Mir's eyes, which he immediately hides behind his usual firmness.
Ahead of them, the corridor stretches onward, flanked by monstrous, faceless armours carved with veins of silver. Each grips the hilt of a massive sword, heads bowed as if in prayer. These armours are nearly twice the height of a human. They are forged for warriors, carved with flawless skill. But the most terrifying thing is the absence of helmets. Where a helmet should be, there is only smooth stone. No eyes, no nose, no mouth. Just a disturbing emptiness.
Their swords are enormous. Each blade is six feet long, sharp as diamond, etched with unknown designs. The hilts are made of black stone, inlaid with silver. Each armour's hand rests upon its sword, as if standing in eternal guard. Or waiting.
Narvi, whose face still carries the softness of youth, is anxious. His hands are trembling, though he is trying to hide it.
There is a hard seriousness on Vesha's face.
Halem's chest is rising and falling rapidly, though he is trying to control his breathing.
Mursalin measures the situation. His body is tense with alertness. In a softly trembling voice, but with firm certainty, he warns everyone. Before speaking, he takes a deep breath, as if preparing himself for what he is about to say.
"Do not look at the armours."
But before he can finish his words, the sound of stone grinding echoes. A terrifying, harsh noise that sends an icy chill running down their spines.
One armour has moved.
The sound is like centuries-old frozen ice cracking apart. Stone striking against stone, creating a metallic echo in the air.
The armour's sword, which had been resting just moments ago, is no longer there. Slowly, with ominous resolve, it is raised.
The heads of the armours, which were bowed just moments ago, are now straight. Even though they have no faces, no eyes, there is still a terrifying sense that they are watching them. From the smooth surfaces where eyes should be, a sinister glow seems to radiate.
Halem, Narvi, Vesha. Everyone's heart begins to pound rapidly. Their breathing quickens, yet they try to remain silent. A sharp look of fear is etched on every face.
They move as if crossing a frozen lake. Every step is extremely careful, extremely calculated. The soles of their shoes touch the floor in such a way that they make no sound at all. Every breath is controlled, every gaze fixed forward, but everyone knows that the armours beside them are tracking their every movement.
Mursalin's thigh is cramping from this cautious movement. Beads of sweat are visible on his face.
A deep shadow of thought now fills Vesha's eyes.
Narvi's Elrulis ability is useless at this moment, a look of helplessness on his face.
Mir pulls out a shard of mirror from his pocket. The piece is very small, but its surface is perfectly smooth. He angles his hand so that the reflection faces the armours. It is an ancient trick. If the armours truly see, they will be confused by the mirror's reflection.
The nearest armour, whose sword is still raised high, slowly advances. The sound of its steps is terrifying. Each step makes the stone floor tremble. But when it sees the mirror's reflection, it stops. Its empty face, where there are no features, tilts to one side as if confused.
Seizing this moment, Mursalin, now marked by firm determination, moves forward. His muscles are taut, every nerve alert. His feet touch the floor as if he is barely touching the ground at all.
Suddenly, Halem, whose body is trembling with fear, unknowingly turns his head. His sharp eyes fall upon an armour. Fear becomes clear on his face, his lips tremble, his breathing grows fast.
At that very moment of looking, a terrifying change occurs. The heads of the armours slowly and inevitably turn. There is no sound, but a sinister vibration fills the air. Their smooth faces are now directed at Halem.
The armour has seen him.
As that gaze locks deep within the museum, outside, the night of Tenmorih seems to draw an unseen breath. The stars in the sky dim for a brief moment, the layers of clouds slowly parting to reveal the moon. Indifferent, cold, without judgement. The castle's spires grow sharper in its light, the black stones casting long shadows over the city. The fog thickens below, covering the roads, erasing all signs of return. On this night, the sky knows that what has begun inside will not end easily. History has awakened once more, and its gaze is now fixed on the Balan Museum.