It had been one hundred years, Four months, forty three weeks and twelve days since Rithenvar Museum was first constructed.
Yet not once had the foundation cracked, nor had the walls leaked or withered. No creaking ceilings. No sign of age. It stood still — as if time itself had agreed to let this place rest.
Elian wandered the marble corridors for the hundredth time — perhaps thousandth. The air was always still, the dust thin. Silence draped over the world like a velvet shroud, soft and solemn with the moon watched in silence while the stars refused to speak.
A war relic, The fractured blade of Virelith, The ancient stone, Stone of the Ordis Eclipse held no more secrets for him. He'd read every inscription, translated every script. Still, he walked.
Heir to the Rithenvar line, firstborn of once — revered aristocratic bloodline. Elian had long grown tired of the same repeating hours. Alone, on his own.
Born in the year 1074 of Kaelrithian Calender, now standing at the end of the century, the world outside was changing — but this place stood still, like him. He seeks more — not power but truth.
But even genius cannot cure curiosity. Especially the kind passed down in blood.
"Elian."
A voice interrupted the deafening silence. It was soft — almost warm. Like his mother's voice had returned from silence, brushing gently against his name. But the halls were empty. And he was alone. Perhaps, an intruder? But what fool would dare to trespass the Rithenvar's territory?
"Curiosity kills the cat," he whispered, almost amused at the irony. But still, his feet moved. At the end of the hall, draped in velvet curtain, long untouched painting awaits him as if it has been waiting for his arrival.
His mother was gone. And the memory of her mentioning the painting was faint — like a dream half-forgotten. The painting — hidden for years — still stood, waiting.
As he reached for the curtain, a hollow sadness swelled in his chest — not from grief but something deeper. A weight. A warning. He blinked. He had forgotten the face of the portrait — yet somehow, it remembered him.
A sudden, sharp pain pierced his chest — violent, inescapable. His knees buckled. The museum, the light, the walls — all spun into darkness.
And as the ground rushed up to meet him, he realized it: it wasn't calling him, it was bringing him home.