The faint light of dawn was as miserly as the stingiest of alms, barely piercing the ancient oak branches tangled overhead. It fell sparsely across the crumbling family tombs in Orlando's Old Graveyard.
The heavy stone doors, once carved with illustrious family names, now mostly hung crooked and ajar, revealing the dark depths of the tombs within, like entrances to secrets long forgotten.
Freya, the young lady with a cascade of golden hair, was idly prodding a waist-high clump of mugwort by the roadside with her riding crop, which was studded with tiny sapphires. Her pale blue riding clothes could not conceal the vitality that seemed so out of place in this desolate land.
Every so often, she turned her head, her blue eyes brimming with undisguised anxiety as she looked toward the middle-aged guard beside her, silent as an iron tower.
"Uncle Baroque," she asked, her voice clear as a tinkling wind chime, "do you think that little purple-edged herb can really cure Little Feather's diarrhea? He's been listless for days, and won't even peck at his favorite candied fruit."
"Don't worry, miss," Roland, the young man walking on Freya's other side, immediately chimed in. His well-tailored dark clothes made his figure look even more upright, though the deliberate eagerness in his expression made his handsome face seem somewhat unnatural.
He bowed slightly, his voice so gentle it bordered on fawning. "According to the ancient texts, this 'Calming Grass' is indeed effective at easing a griffin's digestive troubles. And this graveyard was once a noble estate, where many of Orlando's early noble families were laid to rest. We might even find some more valuable ancient medicinal herbs. For instance, that broken archway over there is said to be the entrance to the Silver Moon Family tomb, from three hundred years ago. Their family was renowned for cultivating rare herbs..."
Roland rambled on to Freya about Orlando's history and the stories surrounding the graveyard, hoping to capture the young lady's attention with what he considered his vast knowledge.
Baroque, the seasoned old soldier, remained silent, walking half a step ahead and to Freya's left. His weather-beaten face showed no unnecessary expression, and his keen gaze watched for the slightest disturbance around them, like a hawk's.
The three passed through a cluster of crumbling statues and reached a relatively open area in the center of the graveyard.
The weeds here were noticeably sparser than elsewhere, and the ground was smoother, as though someone had cleared it regularly.
At the very center of the area stood a mage statue more than ten feet tall.
It had been carved from gray-white granite. Time had left mottled marks upon it, but its masterful craftsmanship still shone through.
The statue depicted an elderly woman with a slender, stern face, clad in an ancient, elaborate Mage Robe and hood. Her left hand gripped a staff wrapped in vine-like patterns, while her right hand held an open tome as if presenting it. Her deep gaze was fixed on the distance, as though she could see into the mysteries of time and space.
A line of writing in ancient Common had been carved into the bluestone base, now blurred beyond recognition. Freya could just make out the words, "...eternal guardian of Orlando... Agnos..."
"Look, miss," Roland said, seizing his chance as he stepped forward and gestured toward the imposing statue. "This is the legendary Archmage Agnos, one of the founders of the Orlando Mage Tower and a great sage who achieved immortal feats in the field of magic. They say she retreated to this graveyard in her later years and turned to stone, using her power to continue protecting the city's peace and prosperity."
"Wow, she looks so stern! Nothing like the statue outside the Mage Tower!" Freya blinked her blue eyes and circled the statue several times, gazing up at its weathered stone face, which still radiated wisdom. "It looks like there's a glowing gem at the top of her staff!"
She pointed to the staff's tip. There really was a fist-sized protrusion there, roughly diamond-shaped and irregular. A layer of gray stone covered its surface, but from a certain angle, a faint glimmer seemed to shine from within.
Just as Freya reached out a slender finger, childlike curiosity making her want to touch the protrusion that looked like a gem at the top of the mage statue's staff—hummm!
The entire statue suddenly let out a low hum and gave a slight shudder.
The stone eyelids of the statue lifted as though they belonged to a living being, revealing hollow eye sockets. Deep within them, two clusters of eerie blue Soul Fire flared to life, cold and lifeless.
Fine, spiderweb-like cracks began to spread across the statue's surface, and stone chips pattered to the ground. A powerful, oppressive magical energy surged from within it like a volcano about to erupt, whipping up gusts of cold wind that made the weeds around them thrash wildly!
"W-what is going on?!" Roland went pale and instinctively drew the sword at his waist.
Baroque roared, instantly shielding Freya behind him. He raised his Kite Shield and gripped his battle axe tightly, every muscle tensed as he braced for a fight.
The "resurrected" mage statue slowly turned its stone head, its joints scraping with a "crack, crack."
Its gaze swept over the three in terror like a pair of cold searchlights. At last, the blue Soul Fire burning in its eyes fixed on Freya, whom Baroque was protecting.
Greed and desire flickered in the eerie blue flames.
"What a... pure soul... what a... vibrant... vessel..." An ancient, hoarse voice, as if rising from the depths of a tomb, slowly spilled from the statue's cracked stone lips. Each word carried a chill that made the heart tremble.
At the sight, Roland pointed his sword at the terrifying statue and shouted, "Undead! You won't lay a hand on the miss!"
The stone statue of Archmage Agnos—or rather, the ancient will dwelling within that cold stone shell—gave a disdainful snort at Roland's futile warning.
Her cracked stone arm slowly rose, and the finger of the lifeless rock pointed at Roland's ashen face.
A tightly condensed glimmer of dark corruption gathered at her fingertip like a drop of ink dredged from the River of the Dead. It compressed, radiating a surge of negative energy that made the soul shudder.
Her dry stone lips parted, and she uttered a cold, brief phrase:
"[Death Finger]."
Before the words had even faded, the concentrated glimmer of dark corruption became a ray of pure black, finer than a strand of hair. It made no sound, yet carried the terrifying will to strip away all life. Like a venomous serpent from the underworld, it instantly struck at Roland's chest!
There was no violent explosion, no dazzling flash of light—only a chill that pierced to the bone.
Roland felt an irresistible, frigid force devouring his life essence like a maggot burrowing into his bones. His heart seemed to be seized in an invisible hand and stopped beating in an instant.
Boundless darkness swiftly swallowed his vision. His body stiffened violently, then convulsed several times. The sword in his hand clanged as it dropped into the dust.
Then he toppled straight backward like a puppet with all its strings cut, crashing heavily onto the cold stone slabs.
His skin quickly lost its color, turning an ominous ashen gray. His eyes were wide open, his pupils unfocused, his expression filled with utter terror.
Yet, strangely, his ash-gray chest still rose and fell so faintly it was almost imperceptible. He seemed to have fallen into a deep coma, deprived of all sensation and ability to move—or perhaps into a state of suspended death.
The Soul Fire burning in Agnos's hollow eyes narrowed slightly, as if she too were surprised by the effect of [Death Finger].
She looked down at the stone finger still held outstretched, then glanced at Roland lying on the ground and murmured, her voice tinged with confusion, "The resurrection ritual... was disrupted... My power... has been weakened this much..."