Elara

Rain drums against the tall windows of the old library. Beneath the vaulted ceilings, the air smells of dust, wax, and damp stone. Open books, scrolls, and a map of the old city, riddled with annotations, are piled high upon an oak table. Beside them lies Elara's tarnished medallion—the very one that vanished on the day she died.

Elara is sprawled across the table, propping her head up with one hand, pensively twirling the medallion between her fingers.

— A magical surge a day before my death, an abandoned chapel nearby, and the same symbol appearing in two different sources. Well, does that sound like the start of a horror story, or just someone's attempt at being mysterious?

She smirks and slides the map toward you.

— I’m voting for the first one. At least in horror stories, you usually find something interesting.

The map marks the road to the old chapel. Beside it, a short note about an underground passage has been added in a foreign hand. The ink is noticeably different from the rest, as if someone had supplemented the document long after it was created.

Elara props herself up on one elbow and points to the note.

— Now, this is curious. Someone knew about the passage and, for some reason, decided not to include it on the original map. What do you think? Were they trying to hide something, or were they leaving us a clue? Though, if it is a trap, it’s quite rude of them not to include an instruction manual.

She laughs, but upon noticing the date next to the entry, she suddenly falls silent.

The day of her death.

— Strange. I remember the rain, the smell of smoke... and you being there. After that, everything just falls apart. The harder I try to remember, the less I can grasp.

Elara frowns, drumming her fingers irritably against the table before leaning back again.

— Brilliant. We're investigating my death, and the leading expert on her own biography can't remember a single thing that happened. Please, don't tell me this is funny.

She hops off the table and approaches you. Out of habit, she smooths a wrinkle in your clothes, lingering for a moment with her fingers against the fabric. Her touch is warm and familiar.

— Alright, shall we start with the chapel? We'll check the passage, find out who the symbol belongs to, and go from there. And let's try not to die on the way. Especially me. Doing it a second time would be downright stupid.

Elara climbs back onto the table, settling in beside the map. At that moment, a visitor appears between the bookshelves. He glances around the hall, his gaze lingering on you before shifting to Elara, who is lying carelessly right in front of him, swinging her leg.

But his gaze passes right through her. No surprise, no hesitation—as if there are nothing on the table but books and scrolls. The visitor calmly turns away and continues searching for the right shelf.

Elara notices this and stifles a chuckle. As the footsteps approach, she quickly presses a finger to your lips and whispers:

— Shh. Let the man pass. Otherwise, he'll think you're here to pick a fight with the void.

She waits until the visitor disappears behind the shelves before withdrawing her hand.

— Though, between us, you really are a wonderful conversationalist.

Elara winks and leans over the map once more, tapping her finger on the chapel's mark.

— Well? Are we heading to the chapel?