Blood Magic

Chapter 12

243 days after turning.

"Where does one even begin to look in vaults like these?"

Geraldus speaks my thoughts aloud as Gale steps forward to the centre of the atrium, arms stretched out in a grand display.

"Welcome, my esteemed guests, to the epicentre of my private vaults!" Gale announces loudly and unreservedly. "Everything from our adventures of defeating the Elder Brain to my treasure hunts near Mintarn lies within these stony walls, but do ere on the side of caution while you are present. As every great wizard knows, if we are to afford efficacious security of our proud possessions, it must be achieved through surprising and unforgiving means! Therefore, there are many arcane traps abound, so do keep alert and touch nothing without explicit permission."

Five tall and narrow passageways connect to the atrium in a star pattern, each stretching far beyond sight. A faint whiff of magic can be sensed if one is open enough to it, but otherwise, a lesser wizard could not detect anything unusual about the vaults at face value. Geraldus takes my hand and guides me as we follow Gale into the passageway to our left.

"First, we are in need of protection, so let us refamiliarize ourselves with our most beloved swords and shields. And, well, staffs for us wizards, of course" Gale boasts.

Several steps down the first passageway, we enter a sitting area with three adjacent closed doors on the wall across from us.

"Take a seat," Gale instructs. "Carefully."

We tip-toe to the centre of the small square room and gently take a seat along the long stone bench. We sit quietly for a few moments, waiting in sudden anticipation as I am reminded of the breath that captures the living. There was a time where I would be immersed in a story, surrounded by complete silence, and I would catch my breath as if it were sneaking up from behind to subdue me. I would remain frozen there in tension, waiting for the moment when my lungs would give way and breath would best me once again. Listening in on breath's subtle hunt along my companions' airways, a part of me sorely misses the cat-and-mouse game, as silly and contrived as it is, and somehow I find myself so distracted by the disruptive catch of Geraldus' breath that I nearly miss what surprised him in the first place.

The room dissolves around the three of us. The neighbouring furniture sinks into the floor. The three doors jerk downward into pitch black. Our feet give way as the ground collapses underneath, so we tighten our hold onto the only remaining surface. We float in the abyss for several more moments until an enormous bunker materialises piece-by-piece in the space surrounding us. Dull and polished iron and steel flash in every direction as rows of candle-lit chandeliers and candelabras come to life. Sweet hums and vibrant iridescent glimmers of magic vibrate from the midsection of the armoury, calling out my name.

As stone cushioned by natural woven rugs forms and hardens at our feet, I stand and charge toward the magical weapons. Displayed adequately upon the wall in between Shadowheart's glittering Spear of Night and Wyll's elegant Duellist's Prerogative, my Markoheshkir Legendary Staff shines brightly as the only sunburst exquisite yet gentle enough for a vampire spawn to wield. Blessed with Kereska's Favour, Markoheshkir is imbued with such draconic ferocity that allows the wielder a powerful surge of any elemental variety, Bolts of Doom being my speciality. Beyond the impressive aid from a dragon goddess, the staff saves me the energetic burden of spellcasting—a lifesaver from the lethargy of a long fight.

Markoheshkir, once a prized treasure heavily secured beneath Sorcerer's Sundries, is finally back in my possession. I should be overjoyed to have an old friend back in my life, but as I lift the staff off the wall rack, a wave of sadness overwhelms me.