The Lady of the Passages

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The catacombs beneath Elarion were older than the realm itself. Their walls told of forgotten kings, of gods whose names no longer spoke, and of secrets that would never see the light of day. Few dared to descend, for the passages had a Lady—and whoever encountered her never left the shadows. That evening, however, a soft step traversed the stone. The torches didn't flicker, but the darkness receded, as if it were itself making way. Between the arches, she appeared: tall, clad in a robe of black and emerald, her shoulders studded with steel jewelry like thorns. Her hair, green as sparkling crystal, shone in the twilight, casting flickering patterns on the walls. She was known as the Morrivane, the Keeper of the Forgotten Paths. Some called her a witch, others a goddess, and it was said that her eyes saw not only the shadows of the present, but also the outlines of the future. She walked slowly, but her footsteps echoed as if they bore the weight of centuries. Every movement of her cloak made the air tremble like a wave. Behind her, the passage closed as if it had never been open. "Another seeker," she murmured, her voice both distant and near. "Again and again they crawl here, driven by greed, by the desire for power, or simply by a foolish hunger for answers." In the darkness, further ahead, a figure twitched. A young warrior, his armor dulled with dust, stepped forward. His hand trembled on the hilt of his sword, but he did not flinch. "I seek the Crystal of the Oath," he gasped. "They say it lies down here, guarded by you." Morrivane paused. A faint smile twitched across her lips, but it was not a friendly one. "The crystal," she repeated, "yes, it lies here. But it is not what you believe. Whoever touches it binds their heart to a truth that cannot be broken." "Then give it to me," demanded the warrior, his voice louder than his courage. Her eyes shone, a bright green that pierced him. "You want a weapon. But the crystal is not a sword, not a shield. It is a mirror. It shows you what you truly are—and forces you to remain so." For a moment, there was only the pounding of blood in his ears. Then he stepped closer, his sword raised. "Then let it show!" Morrivane slowly lowered her hands. No spell, no curse—just a gaze that settled like a weight on his chest. She turned, her cloak rushing through the corridor like water. "So be it," she said. "Follow me." She led him deeper into the vault until the passage opened into a hall with a pedestal in the center. He lay upon it: a crystal, clear as frozen water, yet pulsing with green light. The warrior approached, breathing heavily, and placed his hand upon it. A scream rang through the hall. He no longer saw Morrivane, no longer the crystal, not even the stone. He saw himself—with all his fear, his guilt, the words he had never spoken, and the deeds he never regretted.