The city of Vaelthwyn was a place of layers, where history pressed itself into the cobblestones and whispered in the narrow alleyways. Built on the bones of older civilizations, it sprawled outward in a chaotic tangle of districts, each shaped by centuries of growth and decline. In the wealthier quarters, grand avenues of polished stone gave way to markets bustling with artisans and merchants hawking their wares .The air here was thick with the scent of perfumes, exotic spices, and the acrid bite of alchemical tinctures. Yet, beyond the grand fa?ades and bustling thoroughfares, the city grew darker, stranger.
Deep within the older parts of Vaelthwyn, where the streets twisted unnaturally as if shaped by forces beyond mere city planning, there lay an alley that never saw the sun. It was a place that maps often failed to mark properly, a nameless passage where lanterns burned low, and the damp air clung to the skin like a second shadow. The stones of the buildings here were ancient, their surfaces worn smooth in places, elsewhere cracked and crumbling. Faint symbols—some forgotten, others merely ignored—etched themselves into corners, carved into wooden beams, lurking just beneath notice.
Among the half-abandoned structures and shuttered shops that lined this shadowed alley stood a single doorway that had not seen a customer in years—perhaps decades. The building itself was neither grand nor ostentatious, its architecture belonging to no single era. A faded awning sagged above the entrance, the fabric long discolored by time and soot. The wooden sign that once might have declared its purpose had been reduced to an unremarkable scrap of warped timber, its letters scoured away by wind and rain.
Yet, for all its neglect, the shop remained. The glass panes flanking the door, coated in layers of dust, seemed impossibly dark, absorbing the dim light rather than reflecting it. And above the entrance, barely catching what little glow remained, was the sigil.
A triangle, yet not—a shape that both existed and did not, its illusory edges forming something the mind could not quite grasp. Within this paradoxical shape sat a single eye, neither painted nor carved, yet undeniably present. Its pupil emitted a low, steady glow, a pale blue ember in the gloom, and as one moved, it moved with them. Watching. Judging. The effect was subtle, yet inescapable, a quiet violation of natural law that set the teeth on edge.
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Encircling the sigil coiled a serpent—a thing both alive and frozen in time. The oroboros formed an impossible loop, its scales etched with words that seemed to shift when glanced at too quickly. "Credendo vides." The phrase twisted itself into the mind, refusing to let go. Believing is seeing. The meaning settled uneasily in the gut, as though it were less a statement and more a warning. The serpent itself was an enigma, its body contorted into a shape that defied the eye, a single endless motion that suggested movement where there was none.
The door itself bore its own marks. The handle, though tarnished, bore a single inscription: "Superae aude." Dare to know to act to transcend. A challenge, a whisper from the past. Those who reached for it would feel a subtle jolt—nothing painful, just enough to send a thrill through the fingers, a whisper of something beyond the ordinary.
Inside, the darkness pressed close. Shelves lined with unplaceable objects filled the space—things that might have once been mundane but had lingered too long in the wrong kind of silence. Among them perched stone gargoyles, nestled in corners and atop bookcases. Their gazes never wavered, their carved expressions unreadable, yet somehow... attentive. Even from the outside, through the dust-coated glass, one could just barely glimpse their forms, lurking, waiting.
The shop had no name. No owner anyone could recall. It was not open, nor was it closed. It simply was.
And the rumors followed.
They spoke in hushed tones of what the shop once was, of what it had sold, and of those who had entered and had not come out the same. Some claimed it was an old curiosity shop, a place for collectors of strange things. Others whispered that it had once been the domain of an alchemist, a scholar, or something worse. They said the eye in the sigil had belonged to someone once—someone who had seen too much. And that the glow in the pupil was not a trick of glass or paint, but something still watching, still aware.
Superstition and half-truths layered over it like dust, yet for all the whispers, none could say with certainty who had last set foot inside. Only that, on occasion, when the alley was still and the city beyond felt impossibly distant, the door would creak open on its own. Just a crack. Just enough to tempt the unaware to enter.
