The biting wind of the Welsh coast clawed at elara's cloak, whipping her dark hair across her face. Rain, as persistent and unforgiving as the grey sky above, blurred the jagged silhouette of the cliffs. She pressed a gloved hand against the cold, damp stone of the crumbling church, the remnants of a once-grand structure clinging precariously to the edge. The air hummed with a subtle, almost imperceptible thrum – a resonance that had become both familiar and repulsive. The echo of the Obsidian Pact.
This was her life now. Finding the things they wanted. Doing the things she *hated*.
Her fingers traced the carvings on a weather-beaten stone tablet, the ancient runes slick with rain. This was her latest task: retrieve the "Whisperstone," a relic whispered to amplify the voices of the past. The being had chosen her for this; she was a scholar, a linguist. She knew how to find the lost. It was, she often thought bitterly, a skill she wished she didn't possess.
The task should have been simple, she thought, before she saw the bodies.
A low growl rumbled in her throat. Two men, their faces contorted in silent screams, lay sprawled near the church entrance, a crimson stain blossoming on the wet stone. They were guards, likely belonging to the Order of the Silver Dawn, a group sworn to protect the Whisperstone. They hadn't seen her, had they? If they had, there would be three bodies instead of two. She swallowed, the taste of ash in her mouth.
This wasn't part of the instructions. The being had only specified the retrieval of the stone. This brutality… it wasn't her doing, not directly. But the Obsidian Pact, as she was coming to understand, had a way of attracting violence like a moth to a flame.
She knelt, ignoring the chill that seeped through her woolen trousers. *Damn it all*. The bodies were a complication, a mess. This was not the precise plan she had, which only furthered her hatred toward the situation. This was not supposed to happen. Her stomach clenched. A wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm her.
She rose, the Whisperstone's weight already pressing on her mind. The rain intensified, a curtain of grey obscuring the angry sea.
"Very well," she muttered to the wind, her voice barely a breath. "Let's see what whispers you hold."
The opening was at the side of the church, where the rain had eroded the wall. She ducked her head and slipped inside. The stone felt cold. And the whispers, faint at first, were already beginning to rise.
The interior of the church was a skeletal shell, the roof long collapsed, letting the sky bleed through. Moonlight, filtered by the storm clouds, cast long, dancing shadows. Sera pulled a small, oilskin-wrapped pack from her shoulder, setting it down. From it, she retrieved a sturdy leather-bound notebook, a charcoal pencil, and a small, silver-plated compass. The tools of her trade, her escape.
She was from **Bath, England**. The elegant architecture, the gentle hills – it all felt a lifetime away. She wished she was back there.
Her eyes scanned the space. The Whisperstone, if the rumors were true, was meant to be kept somewhere near the altar. Sera moved forward, carefully avoiding the puddles and the broken stones, her gaze darting from shadow to shadow.
As she moved forward, something changed. The air crackled with a new energy, and the whispers intensified, growing from a distant murmur to a chorus of voices. They whispered of loss, of betrayal, of sacrifice. They spoke of the Whisperstone itself, a vessel of forgotten truths and dangerous secrets.
Suddenly, a cold hand brushed against her arm.
She gasped and whirled around, heart pounding.
There was nothing there. Just the empty, echoing church and the ceaseless drumming of the rain.
But the whispers... they were louder now, and they were all directed at her.
Beware the Silver Dawn… she's coming… your doom awaits…
Sera clutched her notebook tighter. This was more than just a retrieval. This was a hunt. And she had become the prey.
Her hand instinctively went to the inside of her cloak, where a small, flat vial of **phosphorescent liquid** was hidden. It was a recent addition to her supplies, a gift of sorts from the Pact itself. She wasn't sure what it was. It felt dangerous, but it was glowing. This could be useful.
The whispers intensified, filling her mind. She tried to calm herself. What was the smart thing to do? The bodies were a problem. The Order would be alerted, if they weren't already.
She could try to slip out unseen, but the being would be displeased, and the consequences of that would be severe. She could try to find the stone quickly and leave.
The whispers gave her a chilling hint: The altar… it is a false front… find the crypt…
Sera took a deep breath, steeling her nerves. She had no choice. She had to continue.
She moved towards the altar, its simple stone design partially obscured by shadows. It did not seem as if much could hide behind it. But if she was to believe the whispers, she had to follow them. She looked around. A floor tile, slightly out of alignment, caught her eye. She knelt, her fingers searching for a catch. After a moment, a faint click sounded.
She lifted the tile.
Below, in the dimness, she could see a set of narrow stone steps leading downwards into darkness.
The crypt.
And perhaps, the Whisperstone.
But also, possibly, the Silver Dawn.
Well, she thought, her voice a whisper, here we go. She pulled out the vial of phosphorescent liquid, uncorked it, and gently poured it down the steps. The liquid clung to the stone, illuminating the way with an eerie, pale green glow.
Then, with a resolve that surprised even herself, she started down.
The air grew heavy and cold as she descended, the scent of damp earth and something else, something metallic, filling her nostrils. The phosphorescent liquid cast an unnatural green light, revealing the rough-hewn stone walls and the occasional cobweb clinging to the steps. The whispers continued, now echoing around her, swirling in her ears.
As she moved deeper down the steps, she began to notice a pattern, a barely perceptible rhythm to the whispers. They seemed to pulse with the rhythmic drip, drip, drip of water, suggesting the presence of a hidden well or underground spring. Her scholarly mind, automatically, began to process the information, searching for meaning.
She is near... find it… before she does… the stone... The whispers became insistent.
At the bottom of the steps, she entered a small, rectangular chamber. The green glow illuminated a handful of stone sarcophagi, each adorned with faded carvings of saints and angels. The walls were lined with niches, where bones had once rested. The air was thick with the scent of decay. A sense of unease settled into her bones, making her want to leave.
And then, she saw it.
In the center of the chamber, resting on a crumbling stone pedestal, was a simple, unassuming stone. It was no bigger than her palm, smooth and dark, almost black, and radiating a faint, internal glow. The Whisperstone.
But she wasn't alone.
A figure emerged from the shadows. Tall and cloaked, their face obscured by a deep hood, they moved with a silent, almost ethereal grace. They carried a long, silver blade that gleamed in the ethereal light.
The Silver Dawn.
They found me.
The figure raised a hand, and a wave of pure, chilling magic washed over her. Sera stumbled back, her breath catching in her throat. The whispers, suddenly, became screams.
She had to move fast. But she was trapped.