CHAPTER 5
EXT. STONEVALE – MORNING
The sun crests over the horizon as the trio approaches Stonevale. The grand city rises like a crown from the mist — a fortified jewel perched atop sloping stone terraces, ringed by towering walls of pale granite that catch the morning light like silver. Spires gleam above the battlements, and high above it all, looms the Stonevale Keep, its banners fluttering in the breeze.
At the city’s base, the Merchant’s Quarter hums with restless life. Vendors shout over one another peddling silk, spice, steel and secrets. Coins change hands quickly. In the shadows between stalls, eyes linger too long and deals are struck with no words at all. The Noble Quarter climbs the hill, serene on the surface, coiled beneath. Road’s wind past marble estates behind tall iron gates. Polished stone gleams in the sun, but every door holds a story — of ambition, betrayal, or quiet scandal. Above them all, the Cathedral of Saint Varros rises, its golden dome casting holy light over sins long buried.
Down at the harbor, the sea breathes and bargains. Ships groan at their moorings. Sailors curse and call as crates are loaded and unloaded with practiced chaos. Salt hangs in the air, mingling with fish, tar, and sweat. Day and night, coin flows — not always above the table. Deeper still lies the slum quarter — the part of Stonevale that no one speaks of. Its alleys twist through crumbling stone and sagging rooftops. Smoke clings to the air, thick with hunger and hardship. Guards pass rarely, and when they do, they keep their hands near their hilts. Here live the desperate, the cunning, and the unseen.
As the trio approached Stonevale’s main gate, the towering stone walls loomed overhead, casting long shadows across the road. A pair of guards stood watch, breastplates polished to a mirror shine, blue-and-silver cloaks draped across their shoulders. Their swords gleam with ceremonial etchings, and their eyes are alert beneath polished helms. Eyes scanning the travelers with weary suspicion. One stepped forward, hand resting on the pommel of his sword.
GUARD (voice edged with routine authority)
“State your business in Stonevale.”
Lucius met the man’s gaze calmly.
LUCIUS
“We’re here to see Captain Roland. He requested our presence at the barracks.”
The guard’s expression shifted subtly—surprise, then recognition.
GUARD (muttered, straightening)
“You’re the ones from the rift...”
GUARD
“He said you’d be coming. He’s asked to see you urgently. Follow me.”
Without another word, the guard turned on his heel and led them through the gate, down stone streets alive with murmurs and motion. They passed market stalls shuttering for the evening and nobles’ carriages rattling uphill, until at last they reached the barracks—a squat, fortified keep where the Noble Quarter pressed against the Merchant’s edge. Flags bearing the Valmore crest flapped in the wind as the guard pushed open the iron gates.
GUARD
“This way.”
He gestures them inside.
INT. STONEVALE BARRACKS – LATE MORNING
The trio steps through heavy oak doors into the barracks — a stone hall filled with the clatter of steel, shouted drills, and the scent of oiled armour. Soldiers of Stonevale move with precision. At the center stands Captain Roland — tall, broad-shouldered, armor scuffed from the battle earlier. His presence commands the room before his voice does.
CAPTAIN ROLAND (to Lucius, nodding)
"You came quickly. Good — the King’s asked for you. He's waiting in the Royal Hall."
He pauses, eyes scanning their travel-worn faces, noting the fatigue behind their eyes.
CAPTAIN ROLAND (cont’d)
"Chambers have been prepared for you in the eastern wing. Hot food, fresh clothes, and a bed. You won’t have to share with your sword, you’ll be safe there. Be ready in the hour… I’ll escort you to the King myself."
INT. EASTERN WING – GUEST CHAMBERS – LATER
The trio enters a quiet stone corridor lit by golden sconces. Servants bow and step aside as they’re shown to their chambers — modest by noble standards, but clean, warm, and quiet. Steam curls from silver basins. Plates of hot food rest on oak tables. Fresh linen and clean tunics wait at the foot of each bed. Cassian drops into a bed with a groan. Serena pulls off her cloak, eyes scanning the room. Lucius stands in silence for a moment before finally letting his shoulders fall.
CASSIAN (rubbing his shoulder, smirking faintly)
"Feels like the first civilized thing we’ve seen in weeks.
SERENA (softly, with a trace of gratitude)
"We should make the most of it. We may not get many chances to breathe like this.”
INT. EASTERN WING – OUTER HALL – SHORTLY AFTER
Rested, fed, and dressed in clean attire, the three regroup in the outer hall. Their steps echo softly as they approach the main chamber.
Captain Roland waits in full armor, hands behind his back. He nods once in approval.
CAPTAIN ROLAND
"This way."
Without another word, he turns and leads them down the marble corridor.
INT. ROYAL HALL – STONEVALE KEEP – LATE MORNING
The marble corridor opens into a vast, domed chamber lit by stained glass and suspended brass lanterns. The air is cool and heavy with incense. At the far end of the hall, beneath a towering banner of House Valmore, the Throne of Stonevale rises — carved from pale stone veined with gold, its edges etched in ancient runes. Seated upon it is King Aulric Valmore — cloaked in blue and silver, a circlet of tempered steel upon his brow. His face is lined by war, but his eyes are sharp and unyielding. A quiet intensity surrounds him. To his right, a scribe murmurs notes into a scroll. To his left, a pair of elite Stormguard stand motionless, plate armor catching firelight like mirrors.
CAPTAIN ROLAND (low, to the trio)
“Speak plainly, and only when addressed. This is a man who values truth over polish.”
He steps forward, voice raised with formal authority.
CAPTAIN ROLAND
“Your Majesty — Lucius of the Celestial Order, Serena Voss of the Thornsworn, and Cassian Blackwood, formerly of Halrath, as you requested.”
The King’s gaze settles on the trio — measuring, unreadable.
KING AULRIC (coolly)
“So. You are the ones who stood against the rift.”
A long pause. Then he steps down from the dais — not rushed, but deliberate. His voice remains steady, though something flickers beneath it: curiosity... or calculation.
KING AULRIC
“Captain Roland spoke of what transpired near Greyharbor. He tells me you closed it — sealed the wound in the sky.”
He studies them — not just their faces, but their posture, their silences. As though measuring weight not yet spoken.
KING AULRIC
“That is no small feat. Nor one I take lightly. The Captain spoke highly of you — and his trust is not given lightly.”
LUCIUS (quiet, resolute)
“Then we won’t waste it.”
A flicker of approval crosses the king’s face — a barely visible nod. He ascends no further, but stands tall, speaking now as one addressing peers, not pawns.
KING AULRIC (cont’d)
“Word has reached us from across the Valespire Mountains. House Redwyn — our sworn ally — is under siege. Their fortress, Mournehold, lies buried deep within the peaks. Isolated… but essential to the eastern defense.”
The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
He lets the words settle like dust on stone.
KING AULRIC (cont’d)
“They reported a surge of rifts. Creatures spilling through in numbers we’ve never seen. Their ranks are thinning… and if Mournhold falls, the east lies exposed.”
LUCIUS (grimly)
“If the rifts are like Greyharbor, their walls won’t hold.”
The King’s gaze sharpens — not surprised, but now fully invested.
KING AULRIC (cont’d)
“Captain Roland says you sealed one. That may make you the only ones capable of stopping another.”
He takes another step down, and the silence deepens — heavy, expectant.
KING AULRIC (cont’d)
“I name you protectors of this realm. From this day forth, your blades serve not only this house — but all who live beneath our banner.”
The scribe near the dais scrawls the decree into the royal ledger with hurried strokes. The weight of formality settles over the room.
KING AULRIC (firm, resolute)
“I ask — and command — that you ride to Mournhold. Aid House Redwyn. Discover what fuels these rifts. And stop it.”
LUCIUS (after a beat, voice low)
“Titles don’t close rifts.”
He steps forward, eyes meeting the King’s.
LUCIUS (cont’d)
“But if there's another one out there — we’ll end it. Not because you ask. Because someone has to.”
A silence stretches, dense and heavy. The King regards him, face unreadable at first — then nods slowly. A gesture of genuine respect.
He turns toward Captain Roland, who has stood silent by the hall’s edge.
KING AULRIC (cont’d)
“Captain. See them to their quarters. Ensure they have what they need — provisions, supplies, Whatever the road to Mournhold demands.”
CAPTAIN ROLAND (bowing his head)
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
LUCIUS (as they turn to go, quietly to himself)
“Let’s hope we’re not too late.”
LUCIUS, SERENA, and CASSIAN each offer a respectful bow — not exaggerated, but measured, a gesture of recognition more than deference. Captain Roland steps forward, gesturing toward the arched corridor behind the throne.
CAPTAIN ROLAND
“This way.”
Without another word, the trio follows him — their footsteps echoing across the stone as they exit the throne room, the heavy doors swinging slowly shut behind them.
CASSIAN (low, to Lucius, with a crooked smirk)
“Well... we’ve been called worse. 'Protectors of the realm' almost sounds respectable.”
LUCIUS (quietly without looking at him)
“We’ll see how long that lasts.”
INT. STONEVALE KEEP – GUEST CHAMBERS – MOMENTS LATER
Cold stone walls and muted torchlight greet the trio as they enter their chambers. No words are spoken at first — only the quiet rustle of cloaks, the clinking of gear, the slow, practiced motions of warriors preparing for the road. Lucius fastens his gauntlets. Cassian checks the straps on his satchel, ever the pragmatist. Serena runs a hand along her bow before glancing toward the others.
SERENA (softly)
“We should find Elias and Brother Merrin. If anyone knows more about these rifts… it’s them. They did close one after all.”
Lucius nods, slow and deliberate — already thinking ahead.
CASSIAN (hoisting his pack, tone firm but lighter)
“Then let’s go. For once, it’ll be nice to run toward the truth — not away from whatever’s behind us.”
EXT. STONEVALE KEEP– MOMENTS LATER
They step out from their chambers, cloaks drawn tight against the sharp morning wind that sweeps through the stone corridors of Stonevale Keep. The air smells of wet stone and distant sea — a reminder of how high the city sits above the waves. The Nobles’ Quarter stirs as they pass. Carriages creak across cobblestone roads, their wheels polished, their banners trailing like silk ribbons.
The Cathedral of Saint Varros crowns the upper district, perched above the rest like a sentinel in prayer. Its spires reach skyward, carved in reverence and resolve, with gargoyles and angels perched like watchful ghosts along the eaves. The great bell, long dormant, hangs silent above — as if waiting for a final hour to toll. As they approach, a pair of solemn wardens in blue robes and polished breastplates part the towering doors, offering only a curt nod — no questions asked. Elias had sent word. They were expected.
INT. CATHEDRAL OF SAINT VARROS – MAIN HALL
They step into stillness. The Cathedral’s great hall is breathtaking — a sanctum of both awe and sorrow. Rows of towering stained-glass windows pour colored light across the flagstone floor, painting their faces in shifting hues of crimson, gold, and blue. The light dances across murals of angels and saints locked in battle against beasts that resemble demons — some eerily familiar.
Vaulted ceilings stretch high above, held by ribbed columns etched with runes — each one an ancient prayer, half-worn by centuries of whispered faith. The scent of incense clings to the air, sweet and faintly metallic. Lucius leads them down a side aisle, toward a curtained alcove just left of the high pulpit — exactly where Elias had said it would be. Behind the velvet curtain, a narrow stairwell descends into the earth — each step carved from cold stone, worn smooth by centuries of passage. Torches flicker dimly along the wall, casting a ghostly glow downward. Without a word, they descend — into the secret sanctum where Elias and Brother Merrin await.
INT. HIDDEN LIBRARY – BELOW THE CATHEDRAL OF SAINT VARROS
The stairwell opens into a chamber bathed in amber light, its air still and warm with the scent of old parchment and candle wax. Shelves line the walls from floor to vaulted ceiling — scrolls, tomes, relics, and ancient manuscripts, some bound in leather so old it flakes at a glance. A single arched window, high and narrow, spills in a shaft of golden light, illuminating dust motes like falling stars.
At the centre of the room stands a long oak table, cluttered with open books, maps, and arcane diagrams — the detritus of deep study and darker revelations. And at the far end, waiting like they’ve been standing there for hours in thought rather than minutes in time, are Elias and Brother Merrin. Elias turns first — his long robes rustling faintly. His expression is calm but sharp, eyes filled with a quiet storm of knowledge and weariness.
ELIAS (warm, but weighted)
“Lucius. You made it.”
pauses, glancing to the others
“And not alone. Good. The storm ahead won’t be weathered by one man.”
Lucius steps forward and clasps the older man’s forearm — a gesture between soldier and sage. There is a flicker of respect there, but also history unspoken. Before Lucius can speak, a deep voice cuts through the room.
BROTHER MERRIN, tall and broad-shouldered despite his age, steps into the light. His beard is streaked with silver, but his presence is commanding — like a knight wrapped in a scholar’s robes. His eyes soften as they land on Lucius.
BROTHER MERRIN (grinning with formality)
“Still standing, boy. I told them you’d outlast the Order’s blunders and this cursed world alike.”
He strides over, claps a firm hand on Lucius’s shoulder, then looks him up and down with the discerning eye of a man who helped train him — once.
BROTHER MERRIN (continued, proud but stern)
“Lucius Hart. Inquisitor no more… but still a damn thorn to whatever crawls out of the dark.”
(softer)
“It’s good to see you, lad.”
Lucius allows the briefest smile — rare, but real — before glancing to the table and the grim array of knowledge spread across it.
LUCIUS
“Then let’s not waste this meeting. The rifts are spreading.”
Elias nods gravely, gesturing for them to gather around.
ELIAS
“It’s time you knew what we’ve uncovered — and what’s still to come.”
He steps forward, producing a weathered scroll wrapped in silken cords. The parchment gleams faintly with celestial script.
BROTHER MERRIN (cont’d)
This scroll has been safeguarded by the Order for generations. It's written in the tongue of the heavens — words older than the mountains. Speak it right, and it can seal a lesser rift once its guardians are slain. He places it firmly in Lucius’s hand. The parchment hums faintly, as if aware of its purpose.
CASSIAN (mutters, half-smirking)
“So we recite these holy words and the gates to hell close up?”
ELIAS (sharp, but not unkind)
“If only it were that simple. What you witnessed in the Velwyn plains — that was but an echo. The true tear lies in the Elvern lands. A greater rift. One that’s spreading like rot beneath the skin of the world.”
Brother Merrin strides to the war table, his hand gliding over the worn parchment before coming to rest atop a jagged mark nestled deep within the mountains.
BROTHER MERRIN (gruff, but measured)
"Hadric passed through Karzak-Dum two weeks ago. Said he was heading for the Veil — chasing answers tied to a relic they'd uncovered. Something ancient. Dangerous."
SERENA (frowning)
"Then Hadric’s walking straight into it."
BROTHER MERRIN
"He always was the bold one. Foolhardy, maybe. But never without cause."
LUCIUS (grimly)
"Then we follow him. To the Veil."
"A heavy silence settles over the room. The candle flames waver, as if stirred by the weight of the decision."
ELIAS (grave)
"There are three paths to the Veil, each with its own perils."
He points to the first route.
ELIAS
“To the north lies Highmarch—a Valmore stronghold guarding the border. Beyond it, the mountain path is a treacherous ascent, but it’s the most direct route. The winds howl without mercy, and the passes are perilously narrow.”
His finger moves to the second path.
ELIAS
"Eastward, through the dwarven city of Karzak-Dum. The halls of stone may offer shelter, but the city's allegiance is uncertain, and its depths are riddled with ancient dangers."
Finally, he indicates the third route, his expression darkening.
ELIAS
"And then there's the Verdant Maw. A secret way, known to few. The forest there is alive in ways that defy understanding. It's a place where the trees whisper, and the shadows watch. We consider this path only as a last resort."
SERENA (softly)
"I've heard tales of that forest. None end well."
BROTHER MERRIN (stern)
"The Maw is no mere forest. It's a living entity, and it does not take kindly to intruders."
CASSIAN (firmly)
"My vote’s for the mountain pass. We only just set foot in civilization—let’s not stray from it so hastily."
Lucius pauses, his gaze fixed on the map as the weight of the decision settles in.
LUCIUS (decisive)
"We take the mountain path to the north. It’s the most direct route. Mournhold lies beyond Highmarch—we can show House Redwyn how to close the rifts."
SERENA (nods)
"Agreed. The sooner we reach Mournhold, the better prepared we'll all be."
CASSIAN (smirks)
"Mountain winds and narrow passes? Sounds like a delightful journey."
BROTHER MERRIN (serious)
"Stay vigilant. The path is treacherous, and the rifts may have a way of reaching even the highest peaks."
ELIAS (calmly, with resolve)
"Brother Merrin and I wish to accompany you through the pass. If what lies ahead involves the Umbral Shards, then our place is with you."
LUCIUS (nodding)
"You’ll be most welcome. We could use steady hands and wiser eyes on this road."
ELIAS (grave)
"Then it's settled. Prepare yourselves. The journey ahead will test us all."
The group exchanges solemn glances, the weight of their decision pressing upon them.
