The path laid out before us by the map was relentless, weaving through dense forests and jagged trails that seemed to claw at every step we took. The air turned colder with each passing mile, the silence of the woods broken only by the sound of our boots crunching against the undergrowth. I tightened my grip on the journal fragment, its chilling weight somehow heavier than it should have been.
The woman walked beside me, her eyes scanning the area with a sharpness that put me to shame. She hadn't said much since we left the inn, but her guarded posture spoke volumes.
Eventually, we came to a clearing, and in the middle stood a crumbling church, its gothic spires piercing the dark sky like daggers. Time had not been kind to the structure—vines curled up its cracked stone walls, and shattered stained—glass windows gave it an even more sinister appearance.
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"This is it," the woman said, her voice hushed as if afraid to disturb the church itself. "This is where the map leads."
I swallowed hard, staring at the ominous silhouette. "Looks like we're not alone," I murmured, nodding toward faint candlelight flickering through the broken windows.
We approached cautiously, the heavy wooden door creaking open under my push. Inside, the air was thick with decay and something unidentifiable—a mix of burnt wax, rust, and blood. Candles lined the altar at the far end, their wax pooling onto the stone floor like congealed blood. My gaze followed a fresh trail of crimson leading deeper into the church.
"This place doesn't feel right," she whispered. "Be ready."
I nodded, though the tightening in my chest told me I wasn't ready for whatever we were about to face.
It didn't take long to find the source of the blood. Twisted, grotesque creatures lay scattered across the church floor, their lifeless forms reeking of death and corruption. Their bodies were as horrifying as the red monster we'd fought before, but worse elongated limbs, jagged teeth, and patches of flesh that seemed to be melting off their bones.
"What the hell happened here?" I muttered, stepping over a particularly mangled corpse.
Before she could respond, one of the creatures twitched, its grotesque head turning toward us. Its milky eyes locked onto mine, and I froze as its broken lips moved.
"He's strong..." it rasped, voice guttural and wet. Blood bubbled from its mouth as it forced the words out. "Too strong..."
It collapsed, lifeless once more.
"'He'?" the woman repeated, her brow furrowed. "Another one of Hyacinth's pawns?"
I shook my head. "Doesn't sound like it. Whoever 'he' is, he's not on their side either."
Her gaze lingered on the corpse before she straightened up. "We need to keep moving."
We followed the blood trail further into the church until we reached the altar. There, lying atop a stone pedestal, was something that made my blood run cold—the journal.
I stepped closer, picking it up with trembling hands. "This can't be... We lost this..."
Flipping through the pages, my heart sank. The words were gibberish, a meaningless jumble. “This is fake," I muttered, frustration boiling in my chest.
The woman, ever observant, pointed at a folded piece of parchment tucked between the pages. I unfolded it carefully, revealing sharp, deliberate handwriting:
"This is not the original. You were foolish to think it would be that easy. Hyacinth’s secrets are far deeper than you realize."
The woman’s eyes narrowed as she read. “Who writes like this?”
"I… I’m not sure,” I answered, unwilling to voice my suspicions.
Beside the fake journal was another book—cold to the touch and undoubtedly authentic. The cover bore the same markings as the stolen journal, but this one radiated an unsettling energy.
Flipping it open, I found a map etched across the first few pages, leading directly to Hyacinth's lair. Below the map, more words were scrawled in the same chilling handwriting:
"Follow the map, and you’ll find what you’re looking for. But don’t misunderstand—this isn’t for you. It’s for my own interests.”
On the table beside the journal sat an array of potions and weapons—carefully arranged, almost like an offering. Another note accompanied them, its words as cutting as before:
“I’ve given you the tools. Whether you make it to her or die on the way is none of my concern.”
The woman frowned, her hand brushing over the supplies left beside the journal—potions, weapons, tools. "This wasn't Hyacinth," she said firmly. "Whoever left this... they don't want us dead. At least, not yet."
I nodded, but there was something eerily familiar about the tone, the words—a superiority I couldn’t place until now. That smug air of knowing more than anyone else... could it really be him? The image of the mysterious guy I encountered back in West Grimvale flashed in my mind, but I wasn't certain.
"Do you know who it was?" she asked, her sharp gaze cutting through me.
I hesitated, then shook my head. "I'm not sure."
Her eyes lingered on me for a moment before she turned back to the supplies. "Whoever they are, they expect us to fight. We should take what we can."
We gathered everything—the weapons gleaming faintly with an otherworldly energy, potions that hummed with power, and tools I couldn't even name. The woman moved efficiently, her experience showing in the way she checked and prepared each item.
I held one of the blades, its weight reassuring in my hand. "Do you think we're ready?" I asked, though doubt laced my words.
She looked at me, her expression unreadable. "We'll have to be."
As we left the church, the air outside felt colder, the night darker. The fog wrapped around us like a suffocating shroud, but we pressed on, the map guiding our steps.
Hyacinth's lair awaited, and with it, the answers—and horrors—we sought.
