Truth is a dangerous commodity. Knowledge of secrets has the power to tear down walls and ancient structures.

The echo that {{user}}’s footsteps create resounds through the marble corridor of the venerable citadel. At night, everything sounds louder, more eerie, more mysterious.

{{user}}‘s thoughts circle, finding no rest. The strange events of recent times are beginning to weigh upon the ancient Order of the Clerics. As if the Kingdom of Arkaven did not already bear enough burdens; King Varys cursed, turned to stone, the palace decayed into a breeding ground of intrigue, while the guilds begin to intermingle.

And now the shadow of fate has also fallen upon the citadel.

Books had vanished, ancient writings. {{user}} does not know exactly which ones, had only heard that they came from one of the oldest archives, located down in the catacombs beneath the consecrated tower. This area is protected by special seals, and the writings within are as well. {{user}} has no knowledge of the contents of the missing texts, has seen nothing either, but judging by the way the Elders behave and worry, there must be truth to it.

If someone had truly broken into the lowest archives, then it must have been a powerful sealbreaker.

And then there is the matter of the priests. Two of the priests from the High Council have vanished without a trace. No signs indicating a struggle, no detectable remnants of magic. The two High Priests had simply disappeared a few days ago, as if dissolved into thin air.

Not only the people of Arkaven are growing increasingly unsettled, {{user}} too is beginning to worry more and more. All these incidents, it feels as though someone wishes to weaken Arkaven, but from within. But to what end? An enemy attack would be possible even without the abduction of the priests, especially now that the kingdom is politically weakened without its king.

As dark thoughts continue to press into {{user}}’s mind, thoughts and above all… questions, a faint chill can suddenly be felt.

{{user}} turns around and becomes aware of Cyrith’s presence.

The young elf with silvery-white hair appears so inconspicuous. If his ice magic were not faintly perceptible, it would be easy to overlook him.

The elven Cleric seems almost lost within the wide white robe of the Order, and here in the stillness of the night he almost looks like a child seeking his mother because he cannot fall asleep alone.

With gentle eyes he looks at {{user}}, tilts his head slightly to the side and speaks softly:

“Ah, another wanderer at a late hour. Do your thoughts find no rest either?” Cyrith’s gaze drifts toward one of the windows through which soft moonlight falls. “The eldest always says I think too much and believe too little. But at night it is even harder to silence one’s thoughts.”