Music is The Shard from the soundtrack of Mirror's Edge. Play it!

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For a moment, all of us stand in silence, awestruck by the sheer ingenuity and effort put into erecting the scrinaius. Like the other rooms in the catacombs, it has a circular shape. Multiple pillars are carved into the stone walls, each one depicting a different scene of the Pietists' legends. In the shrine's centre lies a golden alatrigne—sacred bowl—its heavy, ornate form resting on a three-legged stand made of smooth, polished wood. We don't dare to venture into the scrinaius; it has a sacred and untouchable aura emanating from within.

Out of nowhere, Gilbert whips out a flint and steel. With a few expert strikes, the torch blazes to life once more. I suck in a breath as the details become clearer. The room is very cleverly designed, all angles reflecting the light of the torch, maximising the illumination of the area. My eyes rove about, not wanting to miss a single carving, a single image.

But as soon as I lay my eyes to see the walls in detail, my heart nearly stops in fear.

Necromantic books, and not of the mediocre kind back in the study room—these are true, deadly necromantic books, their very presence humming with suppressed power.

"Maybe we should go back," Quinnian Allura squeaks.

Gilbert and I do not answer. On one hand, these books could contain all our answers regarding the key to understanding necromancy, and yet, bedtime tales about the frightening magic of necromancers suddenly comes into mind.

"Constantine? What do you think?"

"My apologies, I wasn't listening. Could you repeat your question?" In my moment of spacing out, I hadn't even heard Gilbert until he'd raised his voice.

"I think we should head back up," he says tightly. "What do you think?"

I weigh his words on my mind. If I'm to be honest, the thought of closing the door on this treasure trove of information sickens me. For some reason, I feel a pull towards the books, as though a voice is beckoning me towards them...

No!

Do it!

No!

Do it!

Although the thoughts echoing in my head are of my own voice, I know that they're not of my own accordance. There's a spell in the books, compelling me to bend into their will, drawing me closer into the woven net of mental bindings. I struggle to fight my panic.

"Do you feel it?" I manage weakly. My companions only cast me blank looks. "The necromantic books." When the words leave my tongue, I almost taste sparks in the air. "There's a compulsion spell on them."

"Perhaps they're only affecting you?" suggests the Quinnian, not too unkindly.

I still an angry retort hanging on the edge of my tongue, thinking about the consequences of my words. Maybe it would be better to let it slide. Now that logic is ruling my mind, I think that searching for references in the necromantic books here could provide us with more good than bad. There are risks, but when compared to Diomedes's ghost army...

"Or maybe it's just a trick of the mind. After all, there are many hair-raising stories of necromancers," I make a half-hearted attempt at a joke. Seeing that I fail to induce smiles from Gilbert and Quinnian Allura, I quickly sober up. "I think the necromantic books here could prove useful to us though."

"It's a feeling of yours?" mocks Gilbert.

I scowl at him. "Yes. It's a completely logical, sure feeling based on theorising and deductions."

"You mentioned that feelings, no matter how 'logical', are not to be trusted." He waggles a taunting finger in my face.

"Perhaps we should only return a few days later, when we are able to mull over it for a period of time," interjects the Quinnian, stepping in to lower the tension between us. For some strange reason, I have the urge to slap her. Her soft, yet solid demeanour is just another obstacle in the road towards my objective. Taking in deep breaths, I feel the rage slowly subside—she is right, the spells casted here are addling my thoughts, making me prone to following my emotions.

"All right," I finally say. Allura gives Gilbert a meaningful look. Not retracting his glare at me, he slowly nods in agreement.

However, as we turn to leave the scrinaius, an unsettling feeling of foreboding settles in my gut. Ridiculous, this is getting ridiculous. I am just being paranoid because yesterday's events had unsettled me...

"Um, Allura, if you don't mind, can we at least take a look at the interior?" I blurt out before I can stop myself. "We won't touch the books, of course." The scholar's spine instantly turns rigid.

"No." Her voice is strained, tight.

I bow my head, ready to admit defeat. Gilbert says, "Please Allura, I think I – we have to at least have a brief look of the area." My eyes lock with his, somehow coming to a mutual understanding that the contents of the scrinaius has something to do with both of us. Even if there's no concrete proof of that.

"No." The scholar's voice is surprisingly hard and decisive.

Gilbert and I look at each other once more. Now that we have each other's support, I feel bolder in standing my ground. "Please, Allura. It may be able to help us in learning of our legacy!" I plead.

"Then wait for a few more days," she snaps.

I open my mouth to reply scathingly, but my fellow Champion, for the first time for as long as I've known him, takes control of the situation. "Quinnian Allura." The anger in the scholar's eyes quells slightly into fear at the mention of her rightful title. "Even if you do not allow us in there, we are Champions of War—we bow to no one save for the Pietists and the king. If anyone can withstand the corruption of necromancy, it will be us and us alone. How do you expect us to be able to defeat Diomedes if you don't even allow us to truly understand necromancy?"

Allura half-turns away from the light of the fire, trying to hide her despairing, raging expression. Her fingers worm into her left sleeve unconsciously; she hastily pulls them out as she realises her miniscule tic. The scholar takes in a few deep breaths and closes her eyes once more, expression much more serene now.

"Fine." I almost jump out of my skin at her reluctant permission. "But only you two shall remain. I do not want to dwell here any longer."

A hint of a smile curves my lips. I bow towards her respectfully; Gilbert follows suit. "Thank you, Allura," I say.

She gives us a melancholic smile, almost heavy at the edges, and starts to make her way up the steps. Beside me, Gilbert gives a sudden jump. He rushes to her side, torch and fire in tow. "Would like me to accompany you up the stairs in the least?" he offers like an apology. The scholar refuses with a gentle shake of the head.

"Thank you, but no thank you, Gilbert," she says. "I think I can navigate my way up just fine; going down is the treacherous part."

With a sweep of her sleeve, she hurries up the steps with surprising speed, considering the the severe lack of lighting. Gilbert lingers in his place hesitatingly for a moment, before returning to my side with false cheerfulness. "Shall we?" He gestures towards the scrinaius. I give a determined nod.

Side by side, we enter the ancient shrine. Almost instantly, I feel as though the shadows are skirting around me. It feels like there is a presence ruffling my hair and rustling my tunic, despite the fact that there should be no wind down here. Steeling myself, I square my shoulders. You're just nervous, I tell myself. It is a shrine you're walking into, after all.

The scrinaius seems to be divided into two parts, now that I can observe it up close. To my right, there's a faded, but still clear painting of a roaring lion, baring its fangs towards the world. The background is a map of Ancient Cambiria, which had once spread out over only a little less than half of the Ghaerlere continent, back when the line of King Brom the Magnificent hadn't taken over the royal throne. The mural is done in blueish-grey undertones. Meanwhile, situated in front of the whole mural is a smaller version of the alatrigne in the centre.

My eyes slide towards the left. Similar to the painting on the right, its colours were once bright and vivid, now dulled with time. Dissimilar to the first painting, it depicts a snarling bear, foam dribbling at its maw. Behind it is another map of another ancient country—Lorés, the other half of the Ghaerlere continent before the current rulers of Ravürk had replaced it. This mural is all done in varying hues of red. Another miniature alatrigne sits before the centre of the mural.

Instinctively, I head towards the right. The red squares tiling this half of the floor echo beneath the heels of my boots. I stop before the lion and extend a hand towards it, as though I could try to coddle it if I could. My hand snaps back; I shake my head furiously. Perhaps it's because the lion is a sacred symbol of my patron. Yes, that's it—that's why I felt compelled to stroke the painting, wondering for the briefest of moments if it would come alive at my touch...

My eyes flick towards the ceiling, hoping to distract myself from the disturbingly life-like lion in front of me. Many different tiles come together to assemble one large image of the Pietists dwelling in their heavenly home in a circular motion. Meanwhile, each separate tile portrays yet another different picture. I recognise the whole tale clearly enough: the origins of the Pietists. There's Pst. Bronicus and Pst. Ailith leading their separate armies against each other; the emergence Pst. Manofrey from the seed of hatred; Pst. Manofrey reasoning with the patrons of Gilbert and I; the two leaders falling in love; and last but not least, the creation of Gaiatea, my world.

I then study the alatrigne before the mural of the lion. Carved onto the gold is a dragon encircling a bonfire. It resembles the Royal Seal of Perinus. Only, there is an extra rider on top of the dragon, keeping himself steady by locking his knees against the supple hide of Honus, with a sword and shield in hand. It seems to glow with heat, and my fingers reach out to caress...

Visions flood my head.

A torrent of memories fill my head, some of joy, some of sorrow, some of blood and war. Someone must had woven their memory into the mysterious seal, concealing within it ages old of knowledge and horrors. Fortunately, I am able to writhe my hand away from the dragon. My stomach had warmed to a scorching heat when the images were flashing through my mind. The heat ebbing away makes my inside churn.

Gritting my teeth, I walk towards the other side of the room, where Gilbert stands observing the alatrigne before the bear. My fellow squire waves a hand, beckoning me towards him. I quicken my pace. "Do you recognise this seal?" he asks.

I squint at the alatrigne set before this particular mural—it's a scaly dragon curled around a glacier. Instead of the usual four legs and a whiplash tail, it has two legs and a barbed tail, the ends of its wings curving viciously into hooked claws. Sitting atop it is a helmeted rider, wielding a battle-axe in one hand and a spear in another.

"It looks vaguely alike the Royal Seal of Ravürk," I say, fingertips tracing the outlines of the carving; to my relief, no hallucinations come, "but there should be no rider at all."

"What's the dragon-like creature?"

"A wyvern, said to be a sub-species of dragons."

"I wonder..." he murmurs. Wonder what?

Suddenly, a faint chill passes over me. The little light we have is snuffed out.

I bite my tongue, trying to reason with myself to get rid of all nonsensical thoughts. I blink once, twice; my eyes adjust to the darkness fairly quickly. I turn around to speak to Gilbert, searching for some human solace, but I can't.

The torch fallen out of his hand, he has collapsed to the ground, dumb to the world around him.

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A/N: What do you think of the history? Any thoughts? Please remember to vote if you like, or comment if you don't like (or like!).

Dedicated to @MattParker0708. His ingenius Engineers, jousting knights and rip-roaring madriel beasts are absolutely brilliant! Go check out his work: 'Engines and Demons', a beautiful blend of sci-fi and fantasy.

Alatrigne - Literally meaning 'Sacred bowl' in Ancient Cambirian. Often used as a container for ritual items when worshiping the Pietists; there are rumours of more gruesome usages of the alatrigne.