Chapter 15: Lore of the Old Enemy
Corvin scaled the serpentine path winding up the Bleak Vale’s highest ridge, each step crunching obsidian gravel underfoot. At the summit, Proudspire’s lesser layers gave way to a lone monolith of midnight stone: Ravathos the Gray’s tower, half buried in ash and crowned with three spiraling horns of obsidian and silver. Smoke curled from narrow windows and the wind carried the tang of burning parchment
He paused before a shattered balcony festooned with scrolls. Beyond lay a vast hall whose floor groaned beneath mountain ranges of books and scattered parchments. Leather bound tomes lay open, secrets spilled in every direction. The air hummed with raw mana that felt ancient, dense and scholarly
Even cloaked in stealth, Corvin sensed a shift in the magical currents. A voice boomed from the rafters in perfect Elvish:
"If the Synod still sends daggers, they have forgotten my location. Show yourself, young shadow spawn, let us greet before the clash."
Corvin’s heart jolted. Ravathos’s mastery of stealth detection rivaled any Archmagus ward. He shed his cloak in one fluid motion and let the shadows recede
From the tower’s vaulted entrance emerged a towering figure: Ravathos the Gray. Eighteen hundred years of power carved into his massive frame. Broad shoulders draped in ash gray cloaks, every inch of his skin etched with runic scars. Three proud sets of horns spiraled from his skull, each tipped in moonlight silver
Ravathos studied him, amber eyes glowing beneath a heavy brow. After a moment he spoke again, voice calm and amused:
"You are neither High nor Dark Elf, nor one of those Light fools. Yet you bear the features of the Origin Elves I’ve studied. Your eyes and mana bloom as the old tomes describe. Somewhere in this chaos there lies that record"
He gestured to the scattered books. Corvin caught sight of pale leather scrolls inscribed in archaic script