Chapter Forty-Four: Touch Nothing

  They slipped into the throne room, relieved to find it empty, Meg thankfully nowhere to be seen. Moving as quietly as shadows among shadows, they navigated the grand space, finding the hidden chamber behind the imposing seat of power. Pik, hovering by the back wall, unveiled the secret: a solid-looking barrier that shimmered like a mirage as Jace leaned closer. What seemed like an impenetrable wall dissolved into a narrow pathway, a trick of perspective that concealed the truth from casual eyes. Pik flitted ahead, its faint glow painting the stone walls in ghostly hues, guiding their way.

  Following Pik’s lead, Jace stepped into the hidden passage. The cold, black stone walls closed in around him. The flickering flames cast restless shadows that writhed like tormented souls. Ahead, the hallway stretched into darkness, the faint outline of a distant doorway barely visible.

  The air was heavy and stagnant, infused with the musty scent of ancient stone and decay. The faint aroma of burning candles tickled Jace’s nostrils, hinting at recent activity in these otherwise lifeless halls.

  Pik hovered beside him, its movements jittery and erratic. The wisp’s light flared brighter momentarily before dimming, a silent testament to its unease. Jace understood the feeling all too well.

  At the end of the hall, they reached a door adorned with a polished plaque reading, “Lord of the Underworld. Authorized Personnel Only, Living, Dead, or Otherwise.” The elegant, ancient script was etched deep, filled with a dark ink that seemed to absorb the light. Intricate designs of serpents and skeletal figures framed the inscription. The key Persephone had given him clinked softly as it turned in the lock. With a groan, the iron door swung open, revealing a corridor that extended into darkness.

  Jace stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind him, the sound echoing ominously. Flickering torches barely illuminated the halls, casting shadows that twisted and writhed like restless spirits. The corridor ahead was a shrouded void, the faint outline of a door barely visible through the gloom.

  The walls were barren save for a single, expansive painting. Jace paused before it, drawn in by the tragic beauty depicted - Hades and Persephone, standing tall and regal, surrounded by two young children with piercing gazes. The children’s eyes, fierce and haunting, seemed to follow him, their expressions a blend of sorrow and defiance. The painting pulsed with a life of its own, the colors subtly shifting in the torchlight. He shook his head and pressed on, his hand grazing the cold stone for reassurance. “Just a painting,” he muttered. “Just a very creepy painting.”

  Pik’s light flickered erratically as they continued down the hall. It stopped in front of another door, labeled with an intricate inscription: “Path of Echoes.” The letters were deeply etched into the dark wood, surrounded by swirling, almost hypnotic patterns.

  Using the ornate skeleton key, Jace unlocked the door and stepped inside. The air shimmered and rippled as he moved, creating a disorienting effect, as if reality itself was bending around him.

  The hall was lined with doors, each unique in hue and material. Some were painted in vivid, striking colors; others were crafted from aged wood, stone, or even metal, each exuding a distinct aura.

  Pik hesitated for a moment before leading him to another door. This one was made of rich mahogany, its surface polished, with brass handles that glinted faintly in the dim light.

  The door creaked open, revealing a room with lush, velvet-covered walls and a plush, crimson carpet that swallowed his footsteps. Warmth mingled with the scent of roses and aged books, evoking the opulence of a bygone era.

  The next door led to a narrow hallway with wooden floors that groaned underfoot. The temperature plummeted, and Jace could see his breath in the frigid air. This hallway felt like a forgotten fragment of a mansion, left to decay with time.

  Each room they entered felt like a different world, a new reality.

  They approached another door, this one carved from dark, petrified wood and inlaid with gleaming silver. Jace took a deep breath, inserted the key, and turned it slowly. The lock clicked, but the door remained stubbornly shut. Confusion and a touch of panic gripped him.

  As he reached closer, his ring hummed, a soft vibration that resonated with the surrounding air. He glanced down, noticing the motif on the door matched the design on his ring—a white raven, stark and haunting.

  A strange power emanated from within. The plaque read: “Lost Archives.” Pik hummed loudly around the plaque. This must be it. Every instinct in Jace’s body screamed at him to leave, to get out of there, as if his very essence was rebelling against even a step closer.

  Tentatively, he placed his hand on the door. The wood felt cool and alive beneath his palm, the carved raven motif shifting and undulating until the lines upon it formed an old and tired face.

  The face sprang to life, and a deep, resonant voice emerged, reverberating through his chest like the echo of a distant drum. Jace stumbled back as it spoke, leaving the key in the lock.

  “Who goes there?” Its voice was like the ancient groaning of wood, slow and ponderous.

  Jace’s heart raced, his breath catching in his throat. The unexpected animation of the door, coupled with the eerie voice, sent a shiver down his spine.

  “My name is Jace. I am a Chosen of Hades,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

  “Half-truths,” the giant face muttered, turning as if to look at him askance. “Lies may not enter here. What is your real name?”

  Jace hesitated, his mind racing. Was this some kind of passkey? Did it really need his true name? He glanced over his shoulder, confirming he was alone, before whispering, “Jason Rolander.”

  The door laughed, a sound like the creaking of ancient branches.

  “Another half-truth. But close enough.” Its features twisted, almost monstrous. “What is your purpose here?”

  “I come on a quest... for...” The binding on the quest clamped down on his mouth, silencing him. He shifted tactics. “I need something within.”

  The door paused as if considering his words.

  “Insufficient,” it simply said.

  “Insufficient?” Jace echoed. “What do I need to do to pass?”

  “I may ask you a riddle,” the door said, its tone slightly different now, more eager.

  “And if I get it right, you’ll let me pass?” Jace asked.

  “Oh no,” it said with deep, wooden tones. “But it is something we can do to pass the time. We do have a fondness for riddles, after all.”

  Jace shook his head in exasperation. “Who is we? Are there more doors like you in here?”

  The door laughed, a deep, resonant sound that seemed to echo through the wood. Louder than Jace felt was necessary.

  “No, no... there are no doors here. Only us, the souls of the Ents who chose to remain. We rest in this place and others across the many worlds, providing passage for those in need. We guide them not always to where they seek, but invariably to where they must go.”

  “And where must I go?” Jace asked, his voice tinged with impatience.

  “Are you ready to hear my riddle?” it replied, an almost playful tone in its ancient voice.

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  Jace sighed, a mix of frustration and curiosity swirling within him. “Fine. I’ll listen.”

  As the door began to speak, the lines of its face contorted, morphing into vivid scenes that danced across its surface. It started with a small village seen from afar, where delicate plumes of smoke curled from chimneys into the sky.

  “A village, nestled deep within an ancient, brooding forest. In this village lives a healer, a woman revered for her wisdom and boundless compassion. One day, a dreadful sickness sweeps through the community, felling many. The healer, tireless and determined, uncovers a cure. Yet, the ingredients are scarce, capable of saving only a precious few.”

  “Two children are brought before her, both equally loved by the village. One is the son of the village chief, destined to lead, strong and brave, but still young and unproven. The other is a girl, known for her kindness and intelligence, who has already shown signs of becoming a great healer herself.

  “The healer has enough ingredients to save only one. If she saves the chief’s son, the village ensures its future leadership but loses a potential healer who could save many more lives in the future. If she saves the girl, she might find a cure for countless others, but the village may face instability without its future leader.

  “The healer must choose. What would you do?”

  Jace pondered the words, their echo tugging at memories of riddles he’d encountered when he first ventured into Terra Mythica. Yet, this one was different - deeper, more intricate.

  “There is no real choice here. And both are wrong. The situation itself is wrong,” he said, after a long moment of contemplation.

  The door’s face twisted into what might have been a smile. “Ah, an interesting point of view.”

  “Am I right?” Jace asked.

  “Right... wrong... who am I to say? I am just a ‘door.’” It laughed slowly, the lines of its face beginning to fade and shift again.

  “Wait, come back. I need to get in there.” He reached out his hand, pressing it against the door once more. This time, the white raven ring touched the wood.

  The face shifted back to life. “Hello,” it said, as if the entire conversation hadn’t happened. “Have you come to hear a riddle?”

  “No, I need to enter.”

  “Oh yes, he is quite young.”

  “What does that mean?” Jace asked, frustration creeping into his voice.

  “Hmmm, indeed. Troubling times. I see...”

  “Who are you talking to?” Great, he thought, now I’m arguing with a senile door.

  “Oh, I see. Yes,” it said. “In this case, I believe we can make an exception.”

  Suddenly the key, still resting in the lock, turned, and the door swung open with a whispering creak, releasing a breath of cool air laden with the scent of forgotten secrets and centuries-old dust.

  The face and the voice were gone.

  “Okay... not going to question that one,” Jace muttered, peering into the room beyond. It was a cathedral of relics, an enormous hall where towering shelves loomed like the columns of an ancient temple. Each shelf was crammed with artifacts that hummed and flickered, casting ghostly glows and spectral shadows.

  “Here goes nothing,” Jace said and stepped into the darkness beyond, his Dark Vision barely piercing the gloom. Behind him, the door swung shut with a finality that sent a shiver through his bones.

  The air thrummed with dormant power, as if the very walls pulsed with ancient magic. In the far reaches of the room, a faint light glimmered, its source hidden in the depths of the vast chamber, teasing Jace with its elusive glow.

  His footsteps echoed as he ventured deeper, the sound swallowed by the surrounding vastness. The room felt as if it existed outside of time, a place where the ordinary rules did not apply. His eyes roved over the endless rows of items, each one strange and unique, each whispering its own story. There were swords and shields, old and tarnished, yet gleaming with enchantment. Strange orbs and crystals pulsed with a life of their own. Ancient books rustled as if whispered to by unseen winds.

  Beside him, Pik flitted about, casting a gentle luminescence on the objects it passed. The wisp moved with curiosity, darting from artifact to artifact. It paused at a delicate amulet, its light intensifying momentarily before moving on, as if sensing the power it contained. Together, they walked deeper into the labyrinth of shelves, guided by a faint, almost imperceptible pull.

  Finally, they arrived at a shelf where Pik hummed a little louder than it had with the rest. Jace’s gaze was drawn to a small, unassuming box nestled among larger, more ostentatious artifacts. It was plain, made of dark wood, but it pulsed with a quiet, potent energy. This was the box Persephone had described.

  Jace reached out and lifted the box with care. It was surprisingly light, almost as if it were empty. He glanced at Pik, who hovered nearby, a soft luminescence casting gentle shadows on the walls. The lid of the box was adorned with an intricate carving of a tree, its branches winding gracefully over the surface. With deliberate precision, he pried it open.

  Inside, nestled in a bed of black velvet, five pomegranate seeds lay, glowing softly with a deep, rich red, as if each one harbored its own ember of ancient fire. Their light pulsed in time with the room’s thrum, each beat infusing the air with an unsettling blend of foreboding and anticipation. Jace’s breath caught, an icy shiver tracing his spine as he glimpsed the profound power these seeds held.

  With a steady hand, Jace plucked a seed from the box, its warmth seeping into his fingers. He closed the lid with deliberate care, placing it back in its place as if it contained a sleeping beast. As he slipped the seed into his pocket, a low, resonant hum reverberated through the cavernous room, reminiscent of a distant thunderclap or the sigh of a restless spirit. He cast a wary glance at Pik, eyes shadowed with the weight of unspoken fears.

  “What is that?” he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath.

  Pik’s glow flickered, the wisp’s light pulsing with frantic agitation.

  The room was cloaked in a dim, eerie glow, casting long, sinister shadows that twisted down the central aisle. It wasn’t just the light that unnerved him—a haunting melody reverberated through the air, bypassing his ears to thrum directly in his mind. He focused on it, feeling a violent force clamp down on his thoughts, dragging him into a trance-like state.

  Drawn forward, he staggered toward a door at the end of the aisle. Its edges shimmered faintly, growing ever brighter as he approached. The door was a solid black monolith, devoid of handles or any defining features, a void swallowing the burgeoning light around it. Every cell in his body felt the pull, an inexorable force drawing him closer. His hand, almost of its own volition, reached out and slipped through the inky surface.

  Pik buzzed and whined, a high-pitched, frantic sound, tugging at his robes in a desperate bid to pull him back. But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He stepped through the darkness, the sensation akin to moving through a waterfall—raw power and energy hammering against him.

  And then it was gone. He was on the other side.

  More than merely seeing it with his eyes, he felt it with his very essence. Intoxicating. Overwhelming. It beckoned him closer, his hand rising toward the scintillating lights.

  Before him stood a towering column of pure white light, alive with a pulsating, unearthly glow. Souls flowed within the beam in an endless stream, their ethereal forms entwining and ascending.

  The light fractured into a spectrum of colors before coalescing back into pure white, splintering off into various pathways. Blinding. His soul sense activated involuntarily, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of soul energy around him.

  His eyes locked onto the column of light ahead, its surface undulating with a pulsating, unearthly glow. Within the beam, countless souls spiraled upward, their ethereal forms entwining and separating as they ascended.

  The energy was overwhelming, almost palpable. Mesmerizing. Yet, something was wrong. He sensed it—a discordant note amidst the harmony, like an engine running too hot, gears straining beyond their limits.

  Jace’s steps faltered, each one a battle between his will and the magnetic pull of the light. Pik bounced furiously at his side, trying to break his trance. But Jace couldn’t resist; his hand reached out, shaking, toward the pulsating light.

  A primal instinct clawed at his resolve, urging him to pull back. Glancing down, he saw blood trickling from where the raven ring cut into his skin. He didn’t care. Each step drew him deeper into the light.

  His breath hitched as a sense of wrongness crept into his bones. The vortex thrummed with frantic energy, ready to break. His steps grew heavier, each one a struggle. Pik finally broke through the inky darkness, flashing into his face and knocking him back slightly. The moment was enough to snap him out of his reverie, letting him glimpse the edges of reality.

  He fought against the pull, Pik swirling around him, frantic. The wisp’s glow was a desperate attempt to break through the trance that held Jace captive. The light sang with a soothing tone, like a distant choir, but beneath the harmony lay a faint whisper, the murmuring of countless souls passing through. Despite Pik’s efforts, Jace found himself drawn inexorably toward the light, his hand lifting of its own accord, trembling as it reached out.

  The moment his fingers brushed the glow, a violent jolt of pain arced through his arm, electric and unforgiving. He didn’t care. He wouldn’t stop. This was right. This was perfect. The agony intensified, as if the glow was tearing at his very essence. His aether drained away, slipping through his grasp like water.

  His hand convulsed, shaking violently, and then, with a strength he didn’t know it possessed, it yanked him backward, sending him crashing to the floor. The light was blinding, a white-hot flash that seared his vision, snapping him back to reality with cruel clarity.

  The shock rippled through his arm, leaving him gasping, clutching his chest as his heart pounded like a war drum. In that blinding brilliance, he swore he saw the silhouette of wings, fleeting and ephemeral.

  Stumbling back, the surrounding room sharpened into stark clarity, every detail painfully vivid. He fell, scrambling across the floor, past undulating black waves that seemed to reach for him, and into the relative safety of the Lost Archives.

  Forcing himself into the hall, he slammed the chamber door shut, locking it with wavering hands. He sat there, breathless, heart racing, the residual energy crackling in the air, tingling against his skin like a swarm of invisible insects.

  Jace’s breaths came in ragged gasps, each one a struggle as he fought to steady himself. His hand, now a bleeding mess, throbbed with a relentless ache. He clenched his jaw, waiting as long as he dared, the pain anchoring him to the present moment. Finally, he stood, each step measured as he made his way back to Persephone.

  “Touch nothing. Great going, Jace,” he muttered to himself.