The Archives of Ravenwood
CHAPTER 1

Published on November 4, 2025

Ravenwood. The second oldest inhabited city in the world, surpassed in age only by the northern capital of Algarest. Most of its structures belong to the University; the rest exist for leisure and revelry. The original halls wear skins of rough-hewn stone, cloaking frames of ancient timber and dense iron. The newer buildings—raised to modern standards—stand as anomalies, ornate and out of place among their stoic elders. To walk the streets of Ravenwood is to step backward through time, into a past long lost to modern minds—a past many have only dared to imagine.

The city nestles among goliath evergreens, towering pillars that climb the northern slopes of the Crescent Mountains as far as memory reaches. Their lush, stygian-green canopies blunt the bite of mountain wind, leaving Ravenwood a rare oasis in the harshest winters. The scent of pine hangs perpetually in the air. Old-timers swear the very atmosphere carries magickal properties—if such things can exist in the modern world.

Even in the long winters, the streets hum with life. The city seldom sleeps; its age lingers only in its stones. Youthful energy, drawn from the throngs of students, pulses through the cold mountain air.

At Ravenwood’s heart rises the Administration Building—the Great Hall. Joined to the Grand Library, it is perhaps the oldest structure on campus, a monument so iconic that its silhouette crowns the University’s seal. Together, the Great Hall and the Grand Library soar like a mountainous cathedral, their foundations rooted deep in the earth itself. The Library mirrors its counterpart’s grandeur, both above ground and below.

Far beneath them, winter’s chill cannot reach. Three levels down, the Archives of the Grand Library glow with a gentle, reflected light. A web of mirrors channels the fire of a distant brazier, safely removed from the fragile manuscripts. The warm illumination spares the parchments any risk of flame, for open fire is forbidden here except in dire need. The Archives are a time capsule—preserving the world’s knowledge for posterity. The first level houses the offices of the Archival Administration.

Hughey Arnell sat hunched at his desk within one such office. At twenty-eight, he was the youngest Grand Archivist in the University’s history. Once a student of Ravenwood himself, he had graduated with honors at twenty-three—a rare feat, for most scholars spend their thirties merely aspiring to the title he now held.

His office smelled of sweet, musty parchment. Dark wood panels and carved moldings framed the room, lacquered to a deep shine. Tomes and scrolls lay sprawled across the massive central desk—forgotten relics of another age.

Recently uncovered chambers beneath the Archives had yielded texts that hinted at fragments of humanity’s lost past. Many were written in tongues long dead, some so alien they seemed to come from another world entirely. Hughey’s current workload came from this cache, and the task of deciphering it fell chiefly to him and his small circle of junior archivists.

He leaned back, stretching his arms above his head to ease a growing ache between his shoulders. Long days bent over indecipherable tomes had left him stiff and sore. Time had slipped away again. How many hours this time? Six? More?

Shit.

A lock of black hair slid across his face. He caught it absently, tucking it behind his ear, and released a slow sigh. His neck throbbed with fatigue.

Hughey was fluent in nearly every dead tongue and written script known to man. Yet even with all his learning, these newly unearthed texts left him vexed. He slid a tattered ribbon between the pages of the book before him and closed it with care. Another sigh escaped his lips. Frustration had begun to take root. Shadows of doubt lengthened in his mind as he felt his abilities begin to falter.

Two months had passed since the first of these strange manuscripts had been discovered, and still progress was painfully slow. The early thrill of discovery had curdled into agitation. The King himself had taken a keen interest in the findings, adding weight to Hughey’s burden—not from fear of punishment, but from a deeper dread of disappointing a man he revered.

King Silas was patient and compassionate, a ruler beloved by his people. His leadership inspired loyalty not through fear, but through gratitude. The kingdom of Algarest flourished under his reign, a land of freedom and prosperity. Silas ruled with a kind heart and steady hand, a father to his nation. Hughey counted himself proudly among the devoted loyal.

Not long after earning his Master’s title, Hughey had spent a year working beside King Silas and the royal scholars, helping them audit and reorganize the royal archives. It was there that respect had taken root and grown into friendship—carefully tended over the years that followed. As a Master, Hughey had been granted unrestricted access to the University’s rookery; his bond with the King extended that privilege to the royal ravens as well. Their letters had once crossed the skies monthly. Since the discovery of the ancient texts, they had flown several times a week.

Lately, though, Hughey found himself forcing interest into his words. Progress was slow, and he dared not show weakness. Some of his peers had opposed his promotion to Master; their mockery lingered like a phantom chorus in his mind. He grimaced, jaw tight. He could not afford to fail—not here, not now. He would not give them cause to doubt him, nor disappoint his King. He had worked far too long to earn such trust to lose it in disgrace.

He should have known the deciphering would take longer than expected, but in truth, he lacked experience. His calm, measured demeanor was often mistaken for maturity—confused for wisdom he did not yet possess. Beneath the composure, he was still that awkward, reckless youth who had nearly been expelled from the University in his third year.

More than once, luck had carried him where experience should have. Again and again, he had stumbled into the right solution by means he could not quite explain. He sometimes wondered if the gods themselves took an interest in his path. He had been blessed with charm, uncanny luck, and an instinct for reading people as easily as a children’s tale.

The façade he wore—calm, deliberate, in control—made his actions appear calculated. But this puzzle stripped away the mask. His usual poise had begun to crumble. This riddle was unlike any he had faced; perhaps the most complex to ever confront a modern scholar.

The translated fragments hinted at a world of magick and demons, of beasts and beings long since confined to myth. The world they described was alien—so strange that scholars assumed the works were fiction. Another theory suggested the ancients had merely misunderstood the world around them, explaining it in miraculous terms. Yet the texts referenced real places still known today, and figures regarded as the founders of civilization. They read less like myths and more like encyclopedias.

They described familiar flora and fauna—even the abominations said to dwell only in the remote wastes of Ortea. Strangely, these writings placed such creatures across every region, defying modern understanding. It was this uneasy overlap with reality that kept Hughey enthralled. His education offered rational answers for the world as it was, but the question gnawed at him: who would invent such an elaborate deception? Who would compile hundreds of scrolls filled with such painstaking, consistent detail? The idea seemed as improbable as the subjects themselves—tomes like The Anatomy of Abominations and The Nature of Magick.

Both texts spoke of magick as the force from which all life sprang, written as though it were accepted truth. Magick was portrayed as neither benevolent nor wicked, but as a current of pure energy—a web running beneath the earth, pulsing from the planet’s heart. This core wellspring was called the Maelstrom. From its turbulence, beings known as Maelesperen were said to form, rising through the magickal web to the surface. They served as conduits through which humankind could shape and wield that hidden power.

There was no scientific proof of any of it, of course, but scholars assumed the ancients had invented such ideas to explain what they could not understand. Still, the detail in the texts was staggering—pages upon pages describing the manipulation of magickal energies through sheer will and precise recitations. Yet, curiously, none of those incantations survived. Entire sections where the phrasing should have been recorded were blank, as though the words had been lifted clean off the page. Much of it read like fanciful myth, and Hughey found himself unable to fully comprehend what he was seeing—a rare and unsettling feeling for him.

The abominations were described in similar fashion. According to the texts, they were creatures twisted by malevolent forces, their forms warped by the influence of dark magick. Corrupted Maelesperen, it claimed, could taint the minds of beasts, driving them into violent, chaotic frenzies until their bodies themselves distorted beyond recognition.

Modern biological theory, however, offered a very different explanation. Researchers hypothesized that abominations arose only in places devoid of sunlight and vegetation—harsh regions where scarcity forced creatures to adapt in brutal ways. Over generations, isolation and hunger bred aggression, until these beasts became the monsters that haunted Ortea. The theory was plausible but unproven, one of science’s most persistent mysteries.

Hughey sat at odds between the knowledge of his education and the seductive simplicity of the ancient explanations. If only the texts had been written in the common tongue—answers might lie right before him instead of trapped behind languages dead for millennia. His eyes had been skimming the same line for who knew how long, his thoughts drifting far from the page.

There were no windows in the depths of the Archive—no way to tell day from night. When he finally blinked himself back to reality, a tight ache in his stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten since midday. Dinner had come and gone. He rubbed his burning eyes, then pressed his fingertips to his temples, trying to soothe the dull throb of a headache. When he opened his eyes again, he checked his pocket watch.

7:48 p.m.

“Damn it,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

He pushed away from his desk and reached for the door. Just as his hand met the knob, the ground lurched beneath him. A violent tremor rattled the room—books tumbled from their shelves, drawers clattered, and an inkwell rolled off his desk, shattering on the floor.

The exhaustion that had weighed on him moments before evaporated in an instant, replaced by a surge of adrenaline. Panic sharpened his senses as he wrenched the door open and bolted into the corridor. Dust clouds billowed through the air; debris rained from the ceiling. Distant shouts echoed down the hall to his right.

The Junior Archivists.

He sprinted toward the sound, boots striking stone in rapid rhythm. His mind raced through the details of past discoveries—how every hidden chamber had been sealed behind ancient runic sigils etched into the outer walls. Intricate, elegant, faintly glowing with a ghostly blue light. No one knew how they worked; the seals activated on their own, unprovoked, as though obeying a will older than memory. When they did, sections of wall simply vanished—swallowed by the earth as if reclaimed by it.

No record of them existed in the Archives. The first had been found entirely by accident when a Junior Archivist noticed a strange glow seeping from a cracked bookcase. When the shelf was removed, the seal revealed itself in full—a masterwork of ancient craftsmanship.

Now, the tremors were far stronger than ever before.

As Hughey reached the south end of the first floor, he saw it—a gaping void where the last seal had stood only hours earlier. Dust choked the air; fractured supports groaned overhead. The mirrored light system flickered dimly, misaligned by the quake. Bricks and debris littered the floor. Several Archivists were on their knees, coughing through the haze, gathering scattered tomes. One was being helped to his feet, pale and dazed.

“Is everyone all right? Is anyone missing?” Hughey coughed out the words, his throat raw from dust and panic.

Edmure, a tall, red-haired Archivist, looked up from where he steadied his friend. “We’re fine. Thamund caught an encyclopedia to the head, but he’ll live.”

“Thank the gods.” Hughey exhaled, chest still tight. Then, after a beat: “Did any of you see the seal activate?”

“I–I did, sir,” Thamund stammered, still shaky. Hughey turned sharply toward him.

“The seal began to pulse—a dull red light at first,” Thamund said, voice trembling. “Then it grew brighter… and brighter. I tried to shout, but—there was this blinding light, like staring into the sun…” He trailed off, eyes unfocused.

“And?” Hughey pressed, impatient.

“Yes—right. Then there was a terrible rumble. I fell when the book hit me. When I looked up, the wall was sinking—slowly—back into the ground. Then… you arrived.”

“Looks like it’s a staircase leading deeper into the Archives—at least to the second level. We’re at the farthest end of this section, though…” Edmure brushed back his dark, unkempt hair, his brow furrowed with a mix of curiosity and unease. He turned to his superior, waiting for direction.

Hughey stood before the gaping hole in the wall, equal parts terrified and exhilarated. The air itself seemed charged, trembling with an impossible energy. Excitement warred with dread in every witness gathered there. There was no rational explanation for what they’d seen—none that science or logic could hope to offer. Some at the University whispered that such events were demonic in nature; others feared they were omens of the world’s end. Whatever the cause, things like this simply didn’t happen anymore.

They stood transfixed before the newly revealed stairway. It spiraled downward into blackness so complete it seemed to swallow the very light around it. None could tell how far it descended—or to where.

Previous seal activations had been minor by comparison, revealing nothing more than cramped antechambers—hidden rooms barely large enough for a bookshelf and a desk. But this… this was something else entirely. The sheer scale of it defied reason. A new section of the Archives, vast and untouched. Every heart in the room knew it: they were standing on the threshold of something monumental.

Hughey forced himself to focus. “Edmure—fetch the emergency lanterns from storage. The rest of you, keep clearing debris and checking for damage. Thamund—if you’re feeling steady, get up to the Grand Library and inform Master Galore of what’s happened. Tell him I’m going to begin an immediate investigation.”

“But, sir—shouldn’t we wait for guidance from the Council before—” Thamund began, but Hughey’s sharp look cut him off.

In a low, deliberate voice, Hughey said, “No. We will not wait for the Council to dictate our work in our Archive. We’ve worked ourselves to exhaustion chasing these answers. And now—here, before us—might be the key we’ve been searching for. This is our discovery. Our moment. We’re not waiting another second.”

Thamund hesitated only a heartbeat, then nodded—admiration softening the fear in his eyes. He turned and hurried toward the main level.

The other Junior Archivists scattered to their tasks. Hughey knew the rules demanded he wait for another Grand Master to coordinate any exploration, but patience had long abandoned him. Two months of frustration had worn him thin. His pulse thundered as minutes stretched like hours.

Finally, Edmure came sprinting back, two lanterns swinging in his hands. “Got them!”

In truth, only a few minutes had passed. But Hughey’s nerves were alive with anticipation, his mind racing with possibility. This could be it—the discovery that shattered the mystery wide open. Months of fruitless study, sleepless nights, endless doubts… and now, perhaps, the answer was waiting below.

There was only one way to find out.

Hughey moved to the threshold of the dark stairwell. He lit a lantern carefully, keeping it well away from the precious tomes that lined the walls of the known Archives. Normally, fire here would have been considered heresy, but there was no time to construct mirrors to illuminate the new area—it could take a week or more, and Hughey could not bear the wait. Even a day seemed too long. The lamp’s wick sprang to life, spilling warm light down the narrow stairwell and casting harsh shadows along the stone walls.

He took a deep breath and motioned for Edmure to follow. A second light flickered to life behind him, slicing the darkness with its harsh glow. They descended cautiously, staying close.

The stairwell dug deep into the earth. With each step, the air grew cooler, heavier, stagnant. Hughey counted the flights as they passed three, then saw another landing emerge dimly ahead. His pulse quickened. At last, the stairwell opened into a hallway whose length could not be discerned.

Crystalline sconces lined the walls every five feet, alternating sides. Each teardrop-shaped crystal rested in root-like silver metalwork that seemed to grow naturally from the wall. The lamps’ reflections danced across the ceiling, creating shifting patterns of light. One crystal pulsed faintly in Hughey’s peripheral vision. So dim was the glow that he thought his eyes were deceiving him. He dimmed his lantern to observe more closely. The crystal continued its weak pulse.

“Edmure,” Hughey whispered, voice hoarse, “shield your lamp. Are you seeing this? What could possibly power it?”

Edmure obeyed, plunging the corridor into near darkness. “I… I see it. It’s impossibly dim. Could it be linked to the main mirror-lighting system?” he murmured.

Without warning, the sconces all began to glow—a soft blue at first, then intensifying into gentle white light. The path ahead became clear. Hughey snuffed out his lamp, motioning for Edmure to do the same. Both men paused, dumbfounded. Tension hung thick in the air.

Hughey approached the nearest sconce and studied it. The crystal came free effortlessly from its fixture.

“Edmure… it’s still glowing in my hand!” he whispered, awe-struck.

He cradled the crystal, feeling its unexpected weight. Though it fit snugly in his palm, it was denser than expected—requiring both hands to hold securely. Every facet was impossibly crisp, smooth beyond natural design. Nothing in his experience could account for this.

He examined the fixture and the wall mount, going completely still. “It’s… independently powered. Solid. No seams anywhere. Phosphorescent crystals aren’t this clear, and they don’t pulse on their own. What sorcery is this?”

He handed the crystal to Edmure. “Put it in your pack. One of the Masters of Science will analyze this.” Edmure took it cautiously, securing the artifact against his back.

Snapping out of the trance, Hughey turned to Edmure. “Come on. We press on.”

“Yes, sir,” Edmure replied, giving a tense nod.

They moved forward, the crystals behind them dimming as those ahead brightened, illuminating a path that seemed to devour all light beyond it. The darkness of the hall felt almost alive, oppressive, but curiosity drove them onward. Each step was careful, deliberate, feet moving as if against the pull of some unseen force.

Hughey’s mind raced. The long stairwell, the hall, the pulsing crystals—all meticulous, intricate, and unnerving. They had covered what felt like hundreds of feet, yet the boundaries of the hallway remained unseen. Looking back and forward, he could barely make out ten feet in either direction. Dread tightened around his chest. The walls seemed to constrict, like a serpent closing in on its prey.

Then, from nowhere, a heavy wooden door appeared before them. Its surface was inlaid with gold scrollwork; polished steel hinges gleamed, and a fine silver handle shone inlaid with gold.

Hughey turned to Edmure. “Here we stand at the precipice. Are you ready?”

Wide-eyed, Edmure nodded and swallowed hard. Hughey reached forward, hand trembling slightly as it touched the silver knob. His mouth was dry, tongue sticking faintly to the roof. A deep breath. He released it slowly through pursed lips and twisted the knob.

The latch clicked loudly, echoing down the hall. The door swung open, and a sliver of light burst into the hallway, cutting through darkness and revealing the passage ahead.

Behind him, the sudden brightness caused a sharp clatter—metal and glass crashing to the floor. Hughey spun to see Edmure flailing after his fallen lantern, pale as chalk.

“Sir! I’m sorry! The light— I just…” Edmure stammered, nearly collapsing in the dust.

Hughey exhaled, tension melting into a laugh. “You’re fine. Really. Think, Edmure—what could possibly harm us here? This is an ancient room, empty for centuries. No monster. No evil from a children’s tale. Whatever precautions were taken here were executed by our predecessors, not to endanger us.”

He gestured toward the hallway. “Leave the lamp. We’ll clean it later. Let’s see what relics await in the chamber ahead.”

Edmure looked calmer now, even allowing a nervous smile to spread across his face. Hughey pushed the door open the rest of the way, bathing himself and Edmure in the radiant light spilling from the room.

Before them lay a small chamber, no more than ten feet deep. Crystalline sconces adorned each of the four walls, centered just below the ceiling. These were the source of the incredible radiance—they glowed brilliantly as the door opened. Shelves lined the walls, packed with ancient tomes. At the room’s center stood a waist-high square stone pedestal, upon which rested an elegant wooden box.

Hughey inched forward cautiously. Edmure followed closely, nearly pressing his chest against Hughey’s back. The box was a deep, rich brown, varnished and simple in construction, yet incredibly sturdy. Its surface bore dents and scratches, evidence of countless journeys.

Running his hands over the worn wood, Hughey noticed a small plate near the clasp:

Untitled Masterwork of Master Archivist, Sir Jahmund Arcourt IV.

There was no locking mechanism—only a tarnished clasp separated him from what might be the find of a lifetime. Like a child tearing into a long-awaited gift, he flung the lid open. Inside, three radiant blue crystals rested on a red, silken cushion. His hand instinctively reached for the leftmost crystal. Bringing it close to his face, the glow enveloped his vision entirely.

Hughey froze. A sensation of detachment washed over him, as if he were outside his own body. His vision bathed in blue light, he could see nothing else. The warmth of the glow was comforting, all-consuming. Slowly, the blue shifted to a bright white, and he felt the surreal sensation of falling—yet the ground was still beneath his feet.

The light revealed a landscape: a grassy field stretching toward distant mountains, a small town nestled below. The sun was warm on his skin, the air crisp with the fading heat of summer, and the scents of approaching autumn filled his nostrils. Hughey’s mind raced at the impossibility of it all.

Then a voice filled his thoughts—a young, charismatic man’s voice:

“This story stone is part one of a three-volume set. It tells the documented account of a journey to discover the secrets of the Unknown Continent, as told by Jahmund Arcourt IV, the youngest Master Archivist in Ravenwood history at age twenty-five. Follow him as he uncovers the mysteries of the Unknown Realm and seeks the true origins of Humanity!”

Suddenly, Hughey felt himself being pulled back. The vision of the town and mountains dissolved, leaving only his hand holding the crystal. Edmure shook his shoulder frantically.

“Master Arnell! Are you okay?!”

Hughey blinked, forcing his eyes back into focus. “Yes… yes, I’m fine.” A smile spread across his face as he returned the crystal to its resting place, carefully closing the box and running his hand over its surface.

“These stones… they’re story stones,” he said. “Like the magical artifacts described in the other ancient texts we’ve discovered.”

“So there’s an entire story in that crystal?” Edmure asked. “How does it even work? Is that why you became unresponsive… because you were ‘reading’ it?”

Hughey chuckled, amused. “More than reading. I felt like I was in the story. I could feel the sun on my face, smell the coming autumn…” His expression shifted to one of perplexed curiosity as he turned to Edmure. “And the author, Jahmund Arcourt, claims to be the youngest Master Archivist in Ravenwood history. I’ve never heard of him. Find me the historical records of all registered Masters—I want to review them in the morning. I’m going to start drafting a report of our findings for the Grand Masters. This… this is going to change everything we know about the world.”

As Edmure dashed off, Hughey gathered the story stone chest, his eyes wide with astonishment and wonder. “Tomorrow is going to be a big day. Tomorrow, we finally get some real answers.”