At first, he thought his eyes were deceiving him, that perhaps the flickering light from the sapphire spike created an illusion.
But as he stepped closer, the painting shifted, as though it were alive, its figures moving in slow, deliberate motions like ghosts trapped within the stone. It stretched across the massive wall before him.
The first scene drew his attention instantly. It depicted a battlefield shrouded in shadows. A group of soldiers, clad in sleek black armor, stood at the forefront. Their helmets were faceless, their bodies rigid, as though they were one with their armor. Their formation was strong as they stared at something in front of them.
And that something was a black tower.
A massive black spire loomed over the soldiers like an overwhelming monolith of despair. The tower was impossibly tall, piercing the heavens and disappearing into the swirling storm clouds above. Its surface was jagged and irregular. The base of the tower was surrounded by a creeping, inky fog that spilled outward, coiling and swirling like living shadows, threatening to consume everything in its path.
But it wasn't just the scene's scale that struck him. It was how it moved. The soldiers shifted, their hands tightening on the hilts of their weapons. Their black cloaks billowed in an invisible wind and their armor shimmered faintly under an imagined light.
The storm clouds above churned restlessly, lightning flashing between them in bursts of electric fury. Even the tower itself seemed to breathe, the veins of red light pulsing in time with some unseen rhythm.
And then, there was a woman.
At the forefront of the army, standing apart from the soldiers but commanding their undivided attention, was a figure in black knight armor. Though her back was turned to him, Vastarael could see the contours of her form, her feminine silhouette unmistakable.
The armor she wore was unlike the others. While the soldiers' armor was utilitarian, hers was ornate, etched with glowing crimson runes that pulsed faintly. A long black cape draped behind her, flowing like liquid shadow. Her hands rested on the hilt of a massive greatsword.
Even from the mural, even though he couldn't see her face, Vastarael could feel her presence. Her stance spoke of someone with determination, of someone who had faced countless battles and stood victorious each time.
though Vastarael knew it was just a mural, he didn't expect to hear the rumble of thunder, the metallic clink of armor, or the hiss of the creeping fog.
He stepped back, craning his neck to take in the full scale of the mural. It was massive, larger than anything he had ever seen, stretching upward and outward until it almost disappeared into the darkness of the cathedral-like hall.
His heart raced as his gaze returned to the woman in black, her presence anchoring the entire scene.
Vastarael took another step back, his golden eyes scanning the painting for any clues, any details that might explain what he was seeing. But the mural offered no answers, only more questions.
Who were these soldiers? Why did the tower feel so… alive? And who was the woman leading them?
And so, just like all moving mural tales he saw, he continued walking to the right.
The mural stretched for a few minutes. In fact, it felt that the more he moved, the more he saw the soldiers walking towards the spire. Finally, after walking for a few more minutes, he finally got to the second mural.
And this one made his heart drop.
The mural depicted the same hall he was standing in now.
It was uncanny. Every detail was exact; the towering columns draped in shadow, the untouched tables lined with polished cutlery, the empty dance floor that stretched endlessly...
The mural mirrored his surroundings perfectly, down to the oppressive darkness that seemed to devour all light. The longer he stared, the more it felt as if the painting wasn't just mimicking the hall but was the hall, as though the boundaries between reality and the mural had blurred.
But that wasn't what made his heart drop.
The black knights were inside the painted hall. They were no longer frozen in formation as they had been in the first mural. Instead, they moved in the mural, their boots thudding silently against the painted floor as they spread out, searching for clues.
Their movements were deliberate, almost mechanical, as if they were following a command they could not disobey. They scanned the hall with slow, methodical precision, their empty helmets turning toward shadowed corners and long-forgotten tables. One even bent low, inspecting a discarded goblet on the floor, its armored hand reaching out to touch it.
It was unsettling how alive they seemed. Though they were mere figures on a wall, their presence radiated beyond the confines of the mural, filling the actual hall with a suffocating sense of unease.
Vastarael couldn't shake the feeling that if he made a sound, they would hear him. His golden eyes darted around the real hall as if expecting the soldiers to step out of the mural at any moment.
But what truly made his blood run cold was the woman.
The black-armored knight was there again, standing in the center of the painted hall with her greatsword in hand. Unlike the soldiers, who moved tirelessly through the room, she stood perfectly still, her hands resting lightly on the hilt of her sword, the tip of its glowing crimson blade pressed against the floor. Her cape billowed faintly, even though no wind stirred within the mural.
Her helmet was different this time. Unlike the faceless designs of her soldiers, her helmet was adorned with twisted, thorn-like patterns that spiraled outwards in sharp, menacing arcs. It covered her entire face, leaving no hint of the woman beneath, but Vastarael could feel her gaze.
She wasn't looking at the soldiers.
She was looking at him.
Or at least it felt that way. Her head was tilted ever so slightly toward where Vastarael stood, and though the mural should have been oblivious to his presence, he couldn't shake the sense that she knew he was there.
Her crimson runes glowed faintly, pulsing in time with the rhythmic flashes of lightning that illuminated the hall around her. The glow reflected in the polished surface of the painted floor, casting her figure in an ethereal, almost otherworldly light.
Then she moved.
It was subtle but it was enough to make Vastarael's heart pound in his chest. The movement was slow, deliberate, and unnervingly smooth, like a predator sizing up its prey. Her helmeted head tilted further, the mask's thorned edges gleaming ominously.
Vastarael swallowed hard. He instinctively took a step back but his gaze remained locked on the mural. The soldiers continued their silent search, oblivious to the woman's shift. Or perhaps they weren't oblivious. They simply didn't need to notice. She was the one in control. She was the one who decided what mattered.
The hall depicted in the mural was as dark and desolate as the one he stood in and for a brief moment, Vastarael couldn't tell where the mural ended and reality began. The soldiers moved in perfect silence, yet their presence was deafening. He could almost hear the faint scrape of their armor, the subtle creak of their weapons shifting in their grips.
The woman's glowing runes seemed to reach out, suffusing the air around him with a faint, sinister hum that made his skin crawl. His grip on the spike tightened, the warmth of its light barely enough to stave off the icy dread creeping up his spine.
He glanced back over his shoulder, half-expecting to see the soldiers from the mural stalking him in the real hall.
"Okay," Vastarael whispered to himself, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his heart. "This is fine. Totally fine. It's just a painting. A weird, freaky, moving painting. Nothing to worry about…"
But even as he spoke, his words felt hollow. The mural felt alive. The woman felt alive. And for all his bravado, he couldn't shake the feeling that she was waiting. For what, he didn't know.
But then, the want moved.
At first, it was just a subtle shift. The tiniest step forward, so small he almost thought he imagined it. But then she took another step.
And another.
Each motion was fluid and precise, her heavy armor making no sound as it should have clanged and creaked. The glowing runes on her sword pulsed with each step.
Vastarael froze. His breath hitched and his fingers trembled around the sapphire spike. She was moving closer. Not toward the soldiers in the mural, not toward anything within the painted hall. No, her steps were aimed at him.
His heart thundered in his chest, his golden eyes widening as the entire mural seemed to darken. The soldiers faded into the shadows, their movements becoming blurred and indistinct. The tables, columns and flickering lights of the painted hall dissolved into obscurity, swallowed by the oppressive blackness that consumed the mural. The only thing that remained visible was her. Her armor, her sword, her crimson runes and the ominous helmet that covered her face.
"W-What… the hell…"
She continued to approach, her figure growing larger and larger in the mural until the details of her armor became painfully vivid. The thorn-like patterns on her helmet shimmered with a malevolent gleam, the sharp edges almost seeming to extend beyond the mural's surface.
The closer she came, the harder it was for Vastarael to move. He wanted to run, to scream, to do something, but his legs felt like lead, rooted to the ground.
And then, she stopped.
Her figure now dominated the entire mural. There was no painted hall, no soldiers, just... her. The twisted, thorned helmet filled his vision, its cruel patterns stretching as if they might break free from the wall entirely.
Her head tilted slightly, the motion impossibly smooth for something that should have been static, frozen in paint.
And then she spoke.
"You're alive. Who are you?"
The words hit him like a physical blow, reverberating through his chest and shaking him to his core. Vastarael stumbled backward, his sapphire spike slipping from his grasp and clattering to the ground.
His heart pounded so violently that he could hear it echoing in his ears. His mind raced, grasping for answers, for explanations, but none came.
How could a mural speak? How could it see him?
Vastarael's hands trembled as he tried to reach for the spike again, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to run, to get as far away as possible. But he couldn't tear his gaze away from the mural.
"I… I… I'm…"
He couldn't answer. He didn't know what to say. Who was he, standing in the presence of this impossibly powerful being?
The mural seemed to pulse with energy, the crimson glow intensifying as her figure loomed larger, the thorned mask taking up his entire field of vision. The massive mural was now the woman and it was... horrifying.
"Who… who are you?" He finally managed to choke out, his voice trembling with fear.
"I should be asking you the same thing. Why are you inside a mural?