The moon hung low over the distant mountains of Moonshine, cloaked behind a restless veil of swirling clouds. A hush had fallen over the kingdom—one not of peace, but of apprehension. Somewhere beneath the spires of the crumbling palace, an ancient evil stirred. Tara stood at the edge of the dense mist, draped in a simple earth-toned cloak that billowed softly with each step she took toward the towering gates of the once-great citadel.
Her heart pounded beneath the fabric of her cloak, matching the slow rhythm of her breath. The shadows of night curled around the outer palace walls, blending the broken stone into the surrounding fog. Time seemed to move differently here—heavier, slower, as though the air itself was thick with watchful eyes and lingering whispers.
Beside the gates, where two towering obsidian columns marked the entrance to the Sorceress's stronghold, Neha began her distraction. She had positioned herself not far from the entrance plaza, a low platform tucked into the marketplace ruins, and begun setting up her puppet stage with practiced ease. Despite the danger, her movements were swift, full of grace. Soon, the click of wooden joints and the rising melody of her voice carried into the silence.
A vibrant marionette sprang to life in her hands, twirling to a rhythm only she seemed to hear. Within minutes, voices murmured. The guards on patrol—skeptical, bored, suspicious—turned their attention toward the unexpected entertainment.
Tara watched from a distance, her hood pulled low, face half-shadowed. The rhythmic clicking of the puppets echoed faintly against the palace walls. One of the guards leaned forward. Another laughed at something Neha said. The moment was brief—but enough.
As Neha deepened her performance, weaving in tales and songs of long-lost warriors, their laughter grew. More guards joined the gathering. The torchlight around the entrance dimmed in Tara's eyes as she moved. Her body became a shadow among shadows, slipping through the gap between the columns.
She crossed the threshold without a sound.
Once inside, the chaos of the outside world faded, replaced by the oppressive silence of the palace. The temperature dropped instantly. A chill settled into her bones—not from the wind, but from something older and far more sinister.
The corridors of the palace stretched ahead in endless, winding arcs. Cracked marble tiles lined the floors, their patterns faded with time. Walls once adorned with royal banners and stained glass now bore only grime, claw marks, and the lingering stench of magic. Tara walked slowly, each footstep deliberate, careful not to echo too loudly against the stone.
Jasmine's instructions rang in her mind like a whisper in the dark: *Take the second corridor on the right, follow the serpent carving down the hall. At the end, there's a tapestry with golden threads—pull it aside. There, the hidden passage begins.*
She followed it precisely. The serpent carving wound along the molding like a guide. Its eyes—once jeweled—were now hollow, but the details remained. With each step, she passed crumbled statues, darkened alcoves, and suits of rusting armor that seemed to watch her with empty, dented helms.
When she reached the end of the hallway, the tapestry loomed before her. Faded by centuries, its golden threads still glinted faintly in the dim light. A figure was stitched into the fabric—a bird with its wings outstretched, flames circling its body. A symbol of the kingdom before the fall. Tara's fingers hesitated for a moment before grasping the edge of the cloth.
She pulled it aside.
Behind it lay a narrow crevice between the stone walls, cloaked in dust and untouched by light. A breathless passage. It was just wide enough for her to squeeze through sideways. She stepped in, the air thick and dry. Her shoulders brushed against rough stone as she moved deeper into the darkness.
The narrow passage opened into a stairwell, spiraling downward into unknown depths. Each stair was worn, sloping unevenly, as if carved in haste or desperation. A faint glow, cold and blue, lit the lower levels—a strange, otherworldly light that offered no warmth. As she descended, that light grew brighter.
The sounds above vanished completely. She could no longer hear Neha's voice or the faint echo of music. Just the slow drip of water in the depths below… and the distant hum of magic pulsing through the stone.
Finally, the stairs ended.
She stepped into a wide chamber, its walls slick with moisture. Runes shimmered along the edges, dancing in the dim light. Everything here felt ancient, sacred… and corrupted. At the far end of the chamber stood a towering iron door, its surface engraved with interlocking circles, stars, and jagged glyphs that seemed to shift when she wasn't looking directly at them.
Tara approached it cautiously. There was no handle—only a dark crystal embedded in the center. She didn't know how she knew what to do, but something inside her guided her hand. She reached out and touched the crystal.
The door pulsed beneath her fingers.
Then—without a sound—it began to open.
Cold air rushed out from the gap as the iron slabs slid apart. Beyond them was a hall carved entirely from obsidian. The air was heavy, thick with enchantment. Flickering torches lined the walls, but their flames were unnatural—blue and unmoving.
And then, a voice. Cold. Female. Laced with certainty and malice.
"I've been expecting you."
Tara froze. The words seemed to echo not just in her ears but in her mind. She stepped back instinctively, heart racing. Shadows gathered at the far end of the obsidian corridor. From the gloom, a figure emerged—tall, regal, wrapped in a flowing gown that moved like smoke.
The Sorceress.
Her eyes glowed with a light that wasn't her own. Darkness clung to her like a second skin. Her face was ageless, beautiful in a terrifying way—sharp cheekbones, lips curled into the faintest of smirks. Her long fingers rested on the twisted head of a staff, its shaft blackened and coiled with silver thorns.
Tara could not speak. Could not move.
The Sorceress tilted her head. "So brave," she murmured. "So foolish."
The silence that followed was deafening.
And thus, the battle for Moonshine had truly begun…