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Chapter 13: THE FIRST ROOM
🕑 Added 2025-08-24 15:46:19 +0000 UTCRisens cursed as the sting of the flames stabbed through his hand for the last time. He clenched his fingers, squeezing his fist for a momentary distraction from the throbbing. Nearly half of the flames floating in the bowls of water had been extinguished in the process but at long last, all of the shadows within the portals on the first floor had been banished. Each contained a similarly sculpted stone door, though each was marked by a unique Brand.
All were unfamiliar except the Brand of the Avowal, which he now recognized. Once the darkness was removed, the panel remained exposed as if a dull spotlight was focused on its stony face.
Several of the ravens perched atop the pedestals on the aisle glared at him as the flames that illuminated their majestic poses was diminished. Many were now only lit by a single flame. Something about snuffing out the light in its entirety felt wrong, so he was diligent to leave at least one remaining.
Though the darkness of the doorways had been eliminated, his momentary success was countered by its underwhelming nature. He spent a brief moment observing each of the panels as the light melted off the darkness. His cursory inspection noted that none possessed a handle or ny other obvious mechanism to provide egress. Having traveled the hidden passageways throughout the castle and city, he was well versed in the use of disguised, secretive buttons or latches, though nothing immediately stood out.
In total, he had revealed twelve doors, six per side, leaving a substantial surveying ahead of him. With a sigh, he rubbed his hands together in preparation before getting started on the first.
Risens was curious about the other Brands, though familiarity drove him to the door with the symbol matching his own. He traced the polished lines of the minimalistic design of the raven’s beak before moving in to the rest of the panel. Rubbing his hand over the smooth marking, he traced the features for anything that felt out of place while his vision trailed just behind. A solid, rounded trim—a thumb’s width wide—followed the curvature of the opening cut into the wall. He inspected the barely noticeable seam where the stone met the frame, his thoughts questioning whether or not the slabs were merely decorative.
Beyond the beveled Brand, there was little of note in the elaborate embellishment in the door. He stepped back, frowning furiously at the aggravating puzzle. It wasn’t until be retraced the Brand of the Avowal that he noted the discrepancy. At the bottom edge, where the beak came to a point, a tiny circular hole was tucked into the design.
If there was one thing he understood definitively, it was locks. Risens had remembered picking locks since his early childhood and understood the inner workings of the mechanisms as if he had developed them himself. Removing a set of the picks he perpetually secreted on his person, he started on the lock.
For the first few moments, the process—one that had become intimately natural to him—progressed as expected. With pokes and stabs, he tested his way through the mechanism. As if the lock itself rejected the attempt, his tools were forced back out of the aperture. The peculiarity was startling, yet it was the heavy sounds of flapping wings behind him that demanded his focus.
His hands naturally fell to the handles of his blades as he wheeled around. One of stone ravens perched atop the pool moved with a fluid grace that defied its solid construction. With wings outspread it flapped again, extinguishing the remaining candles in the pool beneath it as it took to the air.
Risens watched it circle chamber as it ascended before vanishing into the darkness. The remaining ravens still glared at him with their lifeless eyes and at once, the room fell back into silence and solitude. He returned his attention to the lock, though his mind continued to rattle over the unexpected event.
He rarely took timing and coincidence for granted, and even less so with the unexpected changes that had occurred. That there were connections between every peculiarity and uncertainty he now predicted well before the proof of the event was revealed. Shaking off the thought, he inspected the lock picks before returning to work on the stubborn lock. With a fluid and practiced motion, he slid the lock pick into the hole and felt it crack between his finger and thumb.
He swore, then carefully extracted it, thankful that the pick had remained in one piece. He examined the hairline crack in the thin metal, then tossed it down to retrieve a new set from the folds of his cloak. Controlling his breathing, taking measured, deep and steady breaths, he worked to slow a heart that raced like a spooked stallion since the stone raven had taken to flight. His failure was repeated again as if the door itself rejected them.
Behind him, another stone raven took to flight.
Another set of flickering flames went out with a hiss.
There seemed to be no method to which bird abandoned its pedestal, the first being directly behind him, the second on the opposite aisle, closer toward the looming statue. That they were connected to his continued failure, he was certain. Inspecting the picks, he found another pair wasted as he tossed them aside.
Instinctively, he reached into his pocket to retrieve another set. Failure, especially when it occurred on tasks he had mastered, only served to irritate him. To push him to reject the disappointment. To redouble his efforts toward success.
He would not be defeated by a lock, no matter how challenging.
He shook his head. “Though you may break my tools, you will not break me.”
As his hand reached to retrieve the picks from his outer pocket this time, it brushed against the fine, smooth features of the feather he’d collected in the Raven’s Court—the one left behind when Mother Raven transported herself, as if by magic, from one side of the courtyard to the other. He almost laughed off the idea that flashed into his mind before giving it a second thought. It seemed wholly nonsensical.
Why not? he thought.
Carefully removing the raven’s feather from his pocket, he inserted the hollow stalk into the hole in the door. The quill fit the opening like it was specially tooled for it. The near immediate rejection he had felt when using the steel lock picks was thankfully absent. His heart rate increased again. This time with hopeful anticipation.
As gently as he could, he turned the feather like a key. As it reached a quarter turn, the delicate structure stiffened in his hand, the soft barbs turning rigid and sharp. He jerked his hand back as it stabbed into his finger like little needles.However, it continued turning under its own power. Upon its full rotation, it stopped abruptly, a hollow thump echoing through the Roost. The noise was powerful, ringing in his ears loud enough that he could feel the percussive impact in his chest. Under the thundering sound, his ears picked out the hints of rapid motion.
He turned in preparation, though when the echoes faded, it was clear he was still alone in the room. The whispered disturbances that had drawn his focus were from the ravens. Where their hollow, stone eyes had followed him, judging his actions, they all now had their feathered heads bowed. The gestures were significant, heads dipped in a sense reverent respect or appreciation.
A quick groan preceded the scraping of stone against stone. Risens watched as the feather slipped fully into the hole in the door. The stone barbs, sheared off from the stalk, fell in tiny clatters to the floor, and the panel slid to the side, disappearing into the wall. He took a cautious step back, as he had no way of knowing what, if anything lurked beyond.
