The Mysterious Museum

Volume Three

The night is deep,
Silence fills the museum,
And an air of mystery.
History here is written in gold,
Like an enchanting spell.
Even in half-sleep, fear lingers,
For here stand statues holding swords.
One wrong step can bring death.
Ignoring fear, five youths move forward,
Their breaths grow tight.
Piercing the darkness, a blue light appears,
Terrifying like a demon.
Yet they conquer that fear with the sword of courage.

Bavagh Ran
– A member of the Kabu Ankuno group

Chapter Thirteen : The Mysterious Museum

The night sky seems to be opening like a forgotten book.

Above Roham Palace, the sky burns with an extraordinary depth. The stars are woven so densely it feels as though the universe itself has leaned down to listen. Blue-white constellations shimmer within golden and violet clouds, their light soft, falling downward like a glowing curtain. Some stars shine steady and calm. Others tremble faintly, as if breathing.
Beneath all this, the palace lies wrapped in shadow. Its towers and walls glow with royal elegance, pointed roofs covered in golden ornament, ancient stone adorned with radiant patterns. Though parts of its beauty are hidden by shadows and trees, its luxurious presence is clear even from afar. Silent yet awake, alive. The walls carry centuries of history. Smooth stairways bear the marks of countless noble footsteps, and behind heavy iron doors rest hidden wealth and royal secrets. Tonight, no torches are needed. The palace glows by its own splendour, making the sky its only silent witness.

The trees stand like guards around the scene. Their leaves form jagged borders of shadow, branches reaching inward as if trying to grasp the stars. Through their gaps, the sky feels closer, more intimate. Not something distant, but like an entity looking back.

Near the heart of the sky, a pale blue light gathers, where starlight grows dense enough to almost touch. Thin lines of cosmic mist drift slowly, in patient rhythm, sometimes revealing clusters of light, sometimes hiding them. Everything feels deliberate. Ancient. As if this meeting has happened before, and will happen again long after memory fades.

The air is heavy with silent meaning.

No one standing here can escape the feeling that the palace was built for nights like this. Not for war or for kings, but for watching. For waiting. The stones hum faintly beneath the stars, resonating with a truth older than language itself.
This is a moment meant to be witnessed, not interrupted.
Above the dark towers, the universe continues to burn in silence, vast and unshaken. And below, the fortress endures, small yet steadfast, holding its place beneath eternity.

A luxurious chamber of Roham Palace. The walls are wrapped in black marble. From the high ceiling hangs a chandelier, every fragment carved with patterns a thousand years old. The air is heavy with the scent of spiced food — cinnamon, cardamom, and saffron, a fragrance that enters the senses and enchants the soul.

In this mysterious atmosphere, three friends are gathered. Mursalin, Mir, and Yusuf — three young men. Royal grace marks their faces, nobility their clothing, yet in their eyes burns the fire of daring. One sits at the table in deep seriousness, another leans against the bed, lost in thought.

Mir lies at the corner of the luxurious bed draped in silk sheets. Fair-skinned, with mist-grey eyes as mysterious as winter fog, hiding countless plans within. A sharp chin, firm cheekbones, and shoulder-length wavy brown hair.
His fingers trace the rim of a golden cup filled with honey and apple sherbet.

Across from him, Mursalin sits on a carved wooden chair with kingly gravity. His appearance is bright and striking. Tall, muscular, his posture carries the mark of confidence. Large brown eyes sparkle with mischief and courage together, unforgettable at a single glance. Dark brown hair falls across his forehead, making him appear even more youthful. His face is drawn tight in thought. Before him lies an array of food — pilaf on golden plates, meat curry in silver bowls, white bread. Beside it rests a book older than the empire itself, each page hiding secret truths of history. The ink has faded into time, the edges brittle like the knuckles of the dead, as if a single touch would turn it to dust.

On the other side, Yusuf leans back on another chair. A shadow of worry rests on his face, every line of his well-built body a mark of manhood. His deep voice breaks the silence of the room as he says,
“So the Balan bloodline lives in the city of Temonorih.”

Mursalin slowly rises to his feet. Every movement carries a natural, tiger-like grace. He reaches out, takes the book, and begins to turn its pages. In the lamplight, his face looks even more mysterious. The pages are filled with ornamentation — intricate patterns woven with golden thread, sentences written in silver letters that bend in the candlelight, as if resisting understanding, unwilling to reveal their secrets.
Mir speaks in his deep voice, every word carrying a hint of danger. His eyes narrow in thought.
“Stealing the map will not be easy.”

Yusuf lets out a long yawn, stretching his arms wide. Fatigue has dulled his face slightly. He says,
“I’m busy with another task. You two will have to do the stealing.”

Mursalin’s words carry the weight of deep knowledge, as if he is speaking straight from the pages of ancient texts. With a grave expression, he says,
“No thief can break into a museum alone. The guards are not only human — they are ancient, activated by magic. Its walls breathe with a cursed breath.”