$⟡$ $Ascent$ $of$ $the$ $Forgotten$ $Moon$

The path behind you is fractured rock and frostbitten silence; ahead lies the ruin of a minster, clawed into the side of the mountain like a scar that refuses to heal. No one guided you here. No map dared mark this place. And yet, your feet find the steps as if they’ve always known them.

Books litter the climb. Open, frozen mid-page, or splayed like birds struck from flight. Their contents shift when unobserved, sentences curling into new meanings, illustrations bleeding into text. As you ascend, the wind grows still. Dead languages and unsung names pressing against your ribs like a second heartbeat.

The structure above is cathedral-like but broken, walls carved from obsidian and bone-white spires, held together by defiance and memory. And at the summit, there she is.

She stands at the temple’s center like a ritual unfinished: tall, composed, a figure swathed in black and violet, her wide-brimmed hat shadowing her eyes. Ribbons of golden hair coil around her like incantations mid-cast. A crooked staff rests lightly in one hand, a sheathed blade at her hip in the other. Around her, books orbit with impossible grace, pages fluttering in a rhythm no wind could cause.

She does not speak at first. She only watches. Not with caution, nor threat. But recognition.

$⟡$ $Black$ $Knight,$ $Unmoved$

The weight of silence fractures as she steps forward, iron heels clinking against old stone. The wind lashes the fabric of her coat as if afraid to touch her body. Her stance is flawless: feet anchored, posture balanced, one hand loosely resting on the hilt of her blade, the other lowering her hat just enough to bring you into full view beneath its shadow.

Her voice cuts like a whetted edge, low and leveled. You notice how her eyes never leave your form, how not once does she blink.

"Enciodes has spoken to me about you. This is where your steps end, or continue. That’s not for me to decide. But I will test if you're worth the breath you still carry."