Black Rook Hold swallowed sound. The moment Leylin crossed the fractured threshold of the outer halls, the wind vanished, and with it, any sense of the living world beyond the fortress walls.
The air inside was stagnant—heavy with fel residue, ancient dust, and something far more unsettling: the lingering presence of the dead.
Shadow Stalker moved ahead of him, its paws silent against the cracked stone floor. Leylin kept his mana flow suppressed, allowing only the faintest arcane resonance to circulate through his body. Here, even a careless fluctuation could draw unwanted attention.
The corridor before him was lined with broken statues. Elven knights. Noble figures. Banners bearing the Ravencrest sigil—now torn, defaced, and blackened by time and corruption.
Leylin paused before one such statue. "This fortress wasn't just conquered," he murmured. "It was consumed."
As he advanced deeper, the temperature dropped subtly. His breath fogged faintly, and a strange pressure settled against his chest—not physical, but spiritual.
Leylin stopped. The shadows ahead trembled. From the collapsed hall to his left, something began to form.
At first, it appeared as a shifting mist, pale and translucent. Then limbs emerged—too many, overlapping, merging and separating in an unnatural rhythm. Faces surfaced within the mass: elven visages twisted in silent screams, some bearing noble features, others unmistakably servants, guards, retainers.
A spirit amalgamation. Leylin's pupils narrowed. "…Spirits from the Ravencrest Family?" he whispered.
The creature radiated grief so dense it pressed against his consciousness. It did not attack immediately. Instead, it drifted aimlessly, as if lost, its many eyes unfocused.
Leylin observed carefully. The spirit avoided fel-lit corridors, lingering near shattered elven wards and ancestral carvings. When it passed a cracked mural depicting the Ravencrest family, the mass convulsed violently, fragments of memory tearing through its form.
Not a guardian, Leylin concluded. A remnant. Shadow Stalker growled softly, but Leylin gestured for restraint. The amalgamation let out a soundless wail that reverberated directly through Leylin's mind. Pain flared—but Leylin endured, reinforcing his mental barriers and stepping slowly backward.
The spirit recoiled—not in fear, but confusion—before drifting back toward a shattered family crest carved into the wall. As it touched the symbol, the amalgamation convulsed violently, then dispersed into dozens of faint motes of light, dissolving into the stone itself.
Leylin remained still for a long time. "…So this is what became of them."
The spirit did not pursue. It simply drifted back into the darkness, dissolving into the walls like fog absorbed by stone.
Leylin exhaled slowly. "So the souls weren't released," he muttered. "They were bound… and broken."
Continuing upward, Leylin entered the residential quarters of the fortress. Here, the demonic presence was weaker, replaced by decay and abandonment. He searched methodically, opening doors, scanning shelves, and examining scattered belongings.
That was when he found them. Journals. Old, leather-bound tomes—some scorched, others preserved by lingering arcane wards. Leylin collected several and retreated into a side chamber, activating a faint isolation field before opening the first.
The handwriting was elegant, aristocratic.
—The war is lost. Father refuses to abandon the hold. He believes honor demands we stand until the end… Leylin frowned and continued reading.
—I was taken from Black Rook Hold by force. Maiev Shadowsong herself escorted me to the Vault of the Wardens. They say it is for my protection, but I know the truth. I am being imprisoned for the sins of my bloodline…
Leylin's expression shifted. "The daughter of Lord Ravencrest…" He read on, piecing together fragmented entries from different journals.
After the War of the Ancients, Lord Kur'talos Ravencrest's daughter had been imprisoned—sealed away within the Vault of the Wardens, deemed too dangerous, too tied to the failures of the past. Millennia passed.
Then—The prison is open. The demon hunters have been released. In the chaos, I am free. Leylin's breath slowed. —Black Rook Hold lies in ruins. Demons infest my home. Father's spirit does not answer my call. The final entry was written in trembling strokes.
—If this fortress is to fall, then I will fall with it. I will give everything—my flesh, my soul—to defend what I failed to protect during the War of the Ancients.
Leylin closed the journal. "…She became the anchor," he said quietly.
Everything made sense. The amalgamated spirits. The soul pressure. The fortress is bound to grief rather than strategy. This was not merely a demonic stronghold.
It was a sacrifice. As Leylin ascended toward the upper levels, the fel energy thickened again—hot, aggressive, oppressive. Each step upward felt like moving deeper into hostile territory.
Then—
A heavy thud echoed through the hall above. Leylin froze. Shadow Stalker flattened instinctively. From the stairway ahead emerged a massive silhouette.
The demon was enormous, its body resembling that of a hulking ogre—but twisted, armored with fel-forged plates embedded directly into its flesh. Glowing green veins pulsed beneath its skin, and mechanical augmentations fused seamlessly with muscle and bone.
Leylin's eyes sharpened. "…A mo'arg."
Not a mindless brute. Mo'arg were engineers, commanders, tacticians of the Burning Legion. Their species varied wildly—from stunted gan'arg mechanics to towering felguards and even colossal fel lords.
This one radiated intelligence. Its eyes swept the corridor with calculated precision. Its breathing was slow, controlled. In its massive hands, it carried a cruel, rune-etched cleaver humming with fel energy.
Leylin retreated into shadow, suppressing his aura to its absolute minimum. Direct confrontation would be costly, he assessed. Possibly fatal. The mo'arg paused. It sniffed the air.
Leylin felt a spike of danger. "…It can sense magical disturbance."
Shadow Stalker's muscles tensed, ready to strike if ordered. Leylin steadied his breath. Not yet.
This was still reconnaissance. He withdrew silently, melting back into the fortress's shadows as the mo'arg continued its patrol.
Black Rook Hold had revealed its truth. A fallen noble house. A daughter's sacrifice.
A fortress bound by grief and fel corruption. And somewhere above, beyond demons and spirits alike—The soul of Kur'talos Ravencrest awaited judgment.
Leylin's eyes gleamed faintly. "This mission… is no longer just a transaction."