Somewhere deep in the jungle, the sound of hooves and metal disturbed the ancient hush of the trees.
Birds scattered from the canopy. Leaves trembled as branches snapped underfoot. The undergrowth—thick and tangled—parted only reluctantly for the dozen-strong cavalry pushing through.
Spears and swords clinked against saddles, and sweat rolled down faces beneath helmets as heat and humidity wrapped around them like a second skin.
It was slow going.
The jungle here was dense—untamed, wild in a way that suggested no one had walked this path in years.
Vines hung low, thick with thorns. Roots twisted like serpents across the ground. More than once, a horse reared in protest as the earth dipped unexpectedly beneath its hooves.
And still, they pressed on.
At the front rode Mira's father—Garron, his cloak damp with dew and grit—and beside him, Captain Alric, visor lifted as he scanned the path ahead.
“Still no sign of it?” Alric asked, voice low.
“Patience,” Garron muttered. “It should be close.”
And then—suddenly—the trees thinned.
The jungle gave way to a clearing.
There it was.
The Elmhurst manor.
Standing alone in the heart of the jungle, as if time had forgotten it.
The building loomed from the earth like a half-buried memory.
Nature had reclaimed much of it: ivy crawled thick across stone walls, and one upper balcony was nearly consumed by the limb of an ancient tree. Moss had overtaken the eastern archway entirely.
Ferns and vines burst from cracks in the flagstone path. What might’ve once been a garden was now a miniature forest of its own.
And yet—despite it all—it still stood.
The manor was intact. Weathered, yes—but its roof remained whole.
Its windows, though dark and dust-covered, were unbroken. The heavy front doors stood shut, their carvings faded but visible.
No signs of fire. No broken glass. No ruin.
Just silence.
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The horses slowed as the men took it in.
“…It’s not what I expected,” Alric murmured.
Garron said nothing. He dismounted, boots sinking slightly into the soft, overgrown soil. His eyes stayed fixed on the manor, brow furrowed.
“Me neither,” he said. “For something abandoned this long, it’s in surprisingly good shape.”
Behind them, guards exchanged quiet glances. A few reached instinctively for the hilts of their blades.
Alric dismounted beside Garron with a soft thud. “So what now?”
Garron stepped forward, parting tall ferns with one gloved hand. His boots crunched against gravel on the forgotten path.
“We knock,” he said grimly. “And see if something still lives in there.”
He climbed the front steps. The others stayed mounted, watching silently as he approached the doors.
He placed a gloved hand on the wood. Solid. Weathered—but sturdy. No rot. No damage.
He tried the handle.
Locked.
Of course.
He glanced at Alric, who gave a short nod.
Alric motioned to two of the men, who dismounted and climbed the steps, lifting a heavy iron battering ram between them.
“On my mark,” Alric said.
The first strike echoed through the jungle like thunder.
The door groaned but held.
Again. Wood splintered.
On the third strike, the latch gave with a loud crack. The doors creaked open, revealing a yawning darkness within.
A gust of stale air spilled out—thick with dust and age. It smelled of forgotten things.
“Torches,” Garron ordered.
One of the guards lit a torch from the saddle pack, and a warm, flickering glow cut into the gloom.
They stepped inside.
The entrance hall stretched before them—silent, immense.
Marble floors peeked through a thick carpet of dust and dead leaves.
Furniture stood draped in white cloth: chairs, benches, narrow tables—like pale ghosts frozen in place.
A grand staircase curved upward in the distance, its banister wrapped in cobwebs.
A chandelier hung high overhead, veiled in dust and vines that had crept in through a broken skylight above.
To the left and right, doors stood closed or slightly ajar, leading deeper into the manor’s forgotten wings.
On the walls, faded portraits watched them pass—aristocratic faces with pale skin and stern eyes, staring down through cracked varnish.
“This place hasn’t been touched in years,” Alric muttered.
Garron ran a gloved finger along a shrouded table, leaving a clean line through the dust.
“Decades, maybe. But no rot. No mold. Just... time.”
Alric nodded slowly. “And no one’s looted it.”
“Which is strange,” Garron said. “Very strange.”
They moved forward, boots muffled by the dusty carpet.
In the next room—a sitting lounge, perhaps—an enormous mirror leaned against the far wall, its silvered surface fogged with age.
Cracked porcelain vases lined a shelf. The fireplace sat cold and gray with old ash.
One of the guards sneezed.
“It’s like they left in a hurry,” Alric said. “Or were planning to return.”
Garron glanced again at the portraits. “Or maybe… they never left.”
The words settled like a chill.
From deeper in the manor, a faint creak echoed.
Everyone froze.
Garron raised a hand for silence, then slowly drew his sword. Steel rang faintly in the stillness.
Alric followed, signaling for the guards to fan out.
“Secure the perimeter,” he ordered. “Check cellars, back exits, stairwells.”
Garron’s gaze stayed fixed on the shadowed hallway ahead.12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpnlZREaJNf
“Let’s see what secrets Elmhurst left behind.”
The group moved cautiously through the halls, torchlight dancing across faded wallpaper and dust-choked drapes.
Doors creaked open with resistance. Some rooms were empty—storage closets, drawing rooms, a ballroom layered in dust—but when they reached the west wing, Garron slowed.
He eyed a tall, arched doorway with a tarnished brass handle.
“Here,” he murmured.
The door groaned open, revealing a long, vaulted room beyond.
The manor’s library.
The air was thick and still. Tall shelves stretched to the ceiling, packed with books whose leather bindings were cracked and brittle.
Dust lay heavy across every surface, muting the colors of old velvet and parchment.
Torchlight revealed sliding ladders, heavy desks, and a faded globe in the corner—its oceans pale, its continents peeling.
A long table stood in the center, cluttered with dry inkpots, brittle quills, and yellowed pages.
Alric stepped inside, trailing his fingers along a shelf. Dust rose in a soft cloud.
“Gods,” he breathed. “There must be a thousand books in here.”
“More,” Garron said, scanning the room. “This wasn’t for show. Someone lived here. Studied here.”
He picked up a page from the table—faded ink, precise handwriting. Notations. Formulas. Maybe a journal.
“Still legible,” a guard called from the far side, holding up a thick leather tome.
Alric wandered toward a ladder, gazing upward. “So much knowledge… left to rot in the dark.”
“It’s not rotting,” Garron said. “It’s waiting.”
Alric glanced back. “Waiting for what?”
Garron didn’t answer. His eyes had landed on a sealed glass cabinet built into the wall.
Inside sat five black-bound books, each marked with strange symbols instead of titles.
A small, rusted lock kept the cabinet shut.
He stepped closer.
“These books...” he said softly. “They look ancient.”
Alric frowned. “Ancient?”
Garron nodded. “And… I can feel it. There’s magic in them.”
Outside the library, wind whispered through a cracked window, stirring the drapes like a breath through memory.
Alric gave the room one last look. “We’ll need scribes for this. Maybe even a mage. Carefully.”
Garron nodded. “But first—we finish clearing the house.”
He turned toward the door. But as he stepped out, he cast one last glance at the locked case.
And for just a moment…12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡaK1azi4AsV
it felt like the books inside were watching him, too.
