The first rays of dawn were gentle, filtering through the high windows of the guild hall in soft, honeyed streaks. They brushed across Celina’s armor, turning the polished steel into a mirror of golden light. She knelt on the stone floor, a soft cloth in her hand, humming a low, tuneless melody as she worked.
She treated her breastplate with the care a mother might give a child, or a lover a partner. Every hinge was oiled until it moved in silence; every strap was supple and strong. To the townspeople, she was a statue of justice, but here in the quiet, she was just a woman preparing for work. Two years of knighthood had given her a quiet confidence that radiated from her posture. She knew she was skilled, she knew she was strong, and she knew she was beautiful—a fact that usually commanded respect in the guild, though she never relied on it.
Breakfast was a simple, peaceful ritual: a crust of fresh bread and a cup of cool water. She savored the crunch, watching the dust motes dance in the light. The hall was empty, the other knights still lost in dreams or the lingering warmth of their beds. Celina cherished this. It was her time to center herself, to feel the "calm" before the heavy weight of the steel took over.
She spread the wanted poster on the wooden table, smoothing out the frayed edges. Locus.
The name didn't frighten her; it annoyed her. She had heard the whispers—rumors of a man who didn't use blades, but words and "tricks" to break the will of younger, greener adventurers. Cowardly, she thought. She traced the sketch of his face with a finger. He looked unremarkable. To a woman trained in the high arts of combat and mental fortitude, he seemed like a minor nuisance, a stain on the honor of the Spire.
“Humans are just flesh and bone,” she whispered to the empty room, a small, confident smile playing on her lips. “And flesh is easily mastered.”
She began the rhythmic process of dressing. The linen undershirt slid against her skin, followed by the padded gambeson. Then came the steel. She felt her identity shift as the weight settled on her shoulders—the transition from a woman in the sunlight to a Knight of the Realm. She checked her satchel: high-quality rations, silk rope, a few expensive poultices, and a pristine notebook. She was prepared. She was professional. She was untouchable.
Outside, the town was a postcard of morning life. The smell of baking bread drifted from the square, and a merchant tipped his hat to her as she passed. “Good luck today, Dame Celina!” he called out. She offered a gracious nod, her armor clinking musically with every step. The world was bright, ordered, and safe.
The walk to the Sunken Spire felt like a stroll through a royal garden. The forest was lush, the air sweet with the scent of pine and morning dew. Even as she reached the stone entrance—the yawning dark mouth of the dungeon—the sun stayed at her back, warm and encouraging.
Celina paused at the threshold, placing a hand on the cool stone. The air coming from within was damp and smelled of old moss, a sharp contrast to the flowers behind her, but she didn't flinch. She adjusted her sword belt, feeling the familiar, reassuring weight of her blade against her thigh. She felt invincible. She was a knight at the peak of her form, entering a world she believed she understood perfectly.
She took one last look at the golden horizon, a final breath of the sweet surface air, and stepped into the shadows.
The transition was instant. The warmth vanished, the light died, and the heavy, oppressive silence of the Spire swallowed her whole. The calm
46Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQXpftOHXvK
was over.
46Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEgCN9qzbHp
and then Add to home screen.