The entrance to the spire was a gaping maw of darkness.
Their magic sputtered and died within ten feet of the threshold.
Swords and bows would be their only tools now. Inside, the architecture was breathtaking and alien—soaring arches and vast chambers, all carved from the light-devouring crystal.
They encountered no guards, no monsters.
The only enemy was the pervasive, soul-crushing silence.
In the heart of the spire, in a circular chamber lined with empty shelves that once held unimaginable knowledge, they found the source.
A single, emaciated figure sat on a throne of the same dark crystal.
His robes were ancient and pristine, but his flesh was translucent, revealing a network of pulsing, black veins.
His eyes were open, but held no light—they were windows to the void outside.
"I am Valerius," the figure spoke, his voice not a sound, but a direct imprint in their minds.
It was a cold, precise, and utterly terrifying sensation.
"Not the upstart duke who borrowed power. I am the Last Archivist of Aetheria.
I have waited an eternity for a world worthy of my preservation."