Part 50

The Balan Museum is a memory of forgotten glory. A mountain-like fortress carved into the heart of the city of Tenmorih. Its peaks scrape the sky. Every fragment of ancient stone is a witness to thousands of years of history, as if a colossal guardian has stood watch for ages. Its walls are built of black stone, etched with countless mysterious symbols, each mark a fragment of a forbidden phrase, each line a trace of a lost civilisation.

Midnight.

Silver mist coils through the streets of Tenmorih. It swallows sound. It swallows light.
The city dreams. It never truly sleeps.

Moonlight hides behind grey clouds, as if nature itself fears witnessing this night of secrets. The stone roads gleam with moisture, shadows dancing at every corner, spreading a web of mystery.

Mursalin and his team move through the darkness like ghosts. Five of them, all young. Their bodies, from foot to head, are wrapped in Elrulis garments of silence. Black cloth that absorbs their breath, their heartbeat, even their body heat. These garments are woven with the ancient power of Elrul, each thread able to merge with darkness itself. To the guards, they are nothing but air, a sensation that brushes the edge of the mind but never takes shape.

The garments were collected from the caves of Morelis. Though at times they work, and at times they fail.

In Mursalin’s sharp eyes burns the fire of resolve. Every step he takes is measured, flawless, like a warrior advancing through darkness. His companions are each masters of their own skills—Mir and Mursalin in intellect, Halem and Vesha in agility, Narvi in Elrul knowledge.

A sheer wall.
So high that its summit disappears behind clouds. Every stone block is cut with perfect precision, joined so tightly that no gap remains. As if nature itself shaped it from a single stone.

Narvi presses a mysterious triangular stone against the wall. Its surface is carved with ancient designs. At his touch, the stone grows warm, spreading a faint blue glow. Ancient words spill from Narvi’s lips, each syllable sending a tremor through the air. Deep focus marks his handsome face, as if he is communing with the hidden forces of the universe. He whispers several forbidden phrases, his voice trembling with every utterance.

Then? A long silence. Everyone holds their breath.

Narvi places his hand on the wall.
The museum bell does not ring. Not for now. Narvi’s Elrul is working, creating an invisible shield that disables the wall’s alarm Elrul.

Halem kneels before the wall. In his hands, a special rope, finer than spider silk yet stronger than steel. His hands are steady, the hands of a skilled climber. Halem secures the rope to the wall using an Elrulis hook, which binds into the stone as if it were born there. He takes a deep breath, pushes fear from his mind, hesitates for a moment, then slips upward with the flexibility of a snake and the silence of a cat. Every movement shows perfect control, as if climbing walls is his natural gift.

Long, anxious minutes pass.

At Halem’s signal, they all climb the wall one by one.

At last, Mursalin’s team reaches the main entrance of the museum.

Mursalin’s heart pounds like a war drum inside his chest, yet his face remains calm. He looks at the others, making sure everyone is ready.

Resolve burns in Mir’s eyes, a daring smile rests on Vesha’s face, and among the rest there is a silent understanding.

The museum entrance is enormous. Ten feet tall, five feet wide, its lower half carved with scenes of ancient wars, heroes battling monsters. The entrance stands as if judgement has already been written. At the end of a narrow stone path, it rises, built of dark metal and ancient stone, fused so seamlessly that it feels less like architecture and more like a ritual. From a narrow vertical gap at its centre, a faint light spills out. Cold, pale light, as if some vast and restrained power presses from the other side. The surrounding walls climb impossibly high, grooved into angular pillars that vanish into shadow. It feels as though this structure was not made for humans, but for something far larger, far more merciless.

Above the entrance, a crimson symbol watches. Sharp and predatory in shape, like a twisted beast or a war mask. Its eye sockets are empty, yet full of accusation. Red light drips from it, staining the stone below, as if the symbol itself carries the memory of blood. The air around it is heavy, charged, as if this mark is not merely carved, but awake.

The ground leading to the entrance tells its own story. Broken swords lie scattered, some dull, some shattered, half-buried in dust and rubble. Shields lie overturned, pieces of armour split apart, abandoned where warriors once fell. There are no bodies, only the silence they left behind, speaking louder than any scream. Deep gouges scar the stone floor, marks of desperate resistance stretched across long battles.

On both sides of the path, dim red lights burn, drawing the eye forward like a march with no return. Tiny embers drift through the air, rising slowly, lazily, like ash from an ancient fire that never fully died.
Everything here feels frozen at the moment just before revelation. The entrance does not move, yet it feels as though it will open at any second. The light in the central gap sharpens, breathing, waiting. What stands before them is not just an obstacle. It is a threshold. And crossing it does not mean merely moving toward victory or defeat, but facing a truth long sealed and hidden away.