Du Wei grasped a candelabrum, its flickering flame casting restless shadows. After a moment's thought, he reached for a weapon hanging on the wall. Mindful of his frail physique, he chose a short sword, its weight balanced for swift, precise strikes. Hesitating briefly, he tucked a few spare candles into his cloak.
With measured steps, he entered the secret chamber hidden within the wall.
The candle's feeble glow illuminated a mere two or three paces around him, but Du Wei's innate mental acuity—sharper than most—honed his awareness of the unseen. The passage, carved into massive stone walls, stretched into darkness. Its age was palpable; dust cloaked every surface, stirred into choking clouds despite his cautious tread, forcing sneezes he could scarcely stifle.
His boots crunched against scattered pebbles, the candlelight wavering as he advanced with painstaking care. Yet the air, though stale, flowed enough to keep the flame alive—no suffocating stillness here.
The passage soon gave way to a spiral of narrow stone steps, descending into the earth. Rough-hewn but sturdy, the stairs twisted downward. Du Wei counted silently—thirty-some levels—until he reached a small door.
The metal handle was encrusted with rust. He gripped it, twisting hard, but the door refused to yield. Locked. A sigh escaped him as his mind flicked back to the cryptic phrase etched on the bookshelf: "The ladle is the key…"
Raising the candle, he scanned the doorframe. Above, on the ceiling, he spotted an intricate carving. The pattern, though worn, resembled a star chart. Astronomy wasn't his forte, but the clue about the "ladle" sparked recognition. There, unmistakable, was the shape of the Big Dipper—seven stars forming a celestial spoon.
"The ladle is the key…" Du Wei muttered, squinting upward. At thirteen, the ceiling was just beyond his reach, even on tiptoe. The candle's dim light forced him to lean closer, studying the design with care.
One candle burned low. He lit another, and as the fresh flame steadied, a realization struck him.
A key? Absurd.
If someone found this passage, would a locked door stop them? A determined intruder could pry it open or smash it down. The emphasis on a "key" hinted at deeper meaning. Brute force wouldn't suffice—this lock demanded cunning.
The key wasn't literal.
Du Wei sank to the floor, pondering. Rising, he leaped, short sword in hand, and rapped the blade against the Big Dipper's stars. A hollow thunk echoed back. His pulse quickened.
Abandoning the door, he knelt, probing the floor's stone slabs. Finding a seam, he jammed the sword in, wedging it upright. With a steadying hand on the wall, he climbed onto the hilt, wobbling but gaining enough height to graze the ceiling.
Dust coated his fingers as he traced the constellation. The stars felt distinct—raised, grooved. He tapped, twisted, turned. At last, one star shifted under his grip, grinding with a low clack. A slab in the corner sank, revealing a dark passage beneath, its steps descending into shadow.
"Got it!" Du Wei crowed, hopping down with a grin.
He'd been right. The rusted door was a decoy—a trap for the careless. The true secret lay here, in this hidden stairwell. Without the clue of the Big Dipper, even breaking through the door would lead nowhere.
He edged to the opening, narrow enough for only one to pass. Lighting a candle, he dropped it in. The flame fell, revealing a short drop—two or three meters—to a chamber below. No movement, no sound. After a cautious pause, he descended.
The room was a sealed vault, its stone walls unyielding. Iron cabinets lined both sides, their locks rusted shut. At the center stood a massive stone table, waist-high, etched with arcane patterns—a great arc encircled by stars.
Du Wei studied the table briefly but found its symbols impenetrable. Turning to the cabinets, he tugged at their handles. Most were sealed tight, their locks fused by time. Frustration crept in—until he found a single drawer, miraculously unlocked.
Inside lay a stone box, its surface bearing the Rowling House crest.
Straining, he hauled it to the floor and pried it open. A parchment scroll rested within, and as he unfurled it, a hexagonal green crystal—gem-like—tumbled out.
Lighting his third candle, Du Wei began to read.
To the Reader, with Reverence:
Dear reader, you must be a descendant of the Rowling House. Know this first: I am your ancestor, Semel Kila Rowling, wife of the seventh patriarch and an astrologer.
Du Wei paused, startled. Semel? The famed astrologer?
He knew of her. The Rowling House annals spoke of a patriarch obsessed with the stars, who wed a female astrologer and built a white tower for her to chart the heavens. This castle's tallest spire was her legacy. That this letter came from her hand was unexpected.
He read on.
…As you hold this letter, understand that what lies ahead is a perilous venture. You may unlock a gate sealed for countless ages, one that guards a forbidden realm beyond mortal reach. This is the culmination of my life's work.
If you are ready to brave the unknown, take the gem enclosed with this letter. Search the stone table for a slot. Insert the gem, and let a drop of your Rowling blood fall upon it. Our bloodline will guide you to my full message.
May the Rowling House endure, for through my husband, I came to cherish it.
Your ancestor, Semel Kila Rowling
Du Wei's heart raced. Semel Kila Rowling wasn't just an astrologer—she was a legend. His tutor, Mr. Rosia, himself an astrologer, had spoken of her with awe, calling her the empire's greatest in two centuries. Yet what struck Du Wei most wasn't her skill, but her devotion. When her husband, the seventh patriarch, died at fifty, Semel ended her life three days later in that white tower, leaving a final etching: "Through love, we live eternal."
That passion, that resolve, had burned her name into his memory.
Without hesitation, he crouched, fingers probing the table's underside. He found the slot—perfectly sized for the gem. Slicing his finger, he let a bead of blood fall onto the crystal, then pressed it into place.
He stepped back.
The chamber erupted in light. The table's carvings blazed, flooding the room with a brilliance that rivaled daylight, forcing Du Wei to shield his eyes. The glow coalesced into a pillar, and within it, a figure took shape.
Not flesh, but a phantom woven of light—vivid, lifelike.
Du Wei's jaw tightened. Semel wasn't merely an astrologer. This was sorcery. The figure before him, conjured by a spell enduring centuries, marked her as a master mage.
The light softened, revealing a woman in a crimson robe, her silver hair cascading like snowfall. Her face was striking, her dark eyes gentle yet tinged with an eerie intensity.
"I am Semel Kila Rowling," the phantom intoned. "This is my final spell, preserved by a crystal infused with my magic and unlocked by Rowling blood. If you see this, you are my kin, worthy of my secrets."
Du Wei stared, awestruck. A spell sustained for generations? Her power was staggering.
"I know not how many years have passed, nor how much magic lingers in the crystal. Listen well—there may be no second chance."
Despite knowing she was but an echo, Du Wei nodded.
"My legacy may bring fortune or calamity," she continued. "My life's work, known only to my husband, lies here. If you've reached this place, you grasp the stars' patterns. Hear me now: every astrologer is mistaken. All of them."
Her voice grew firm. "Astrology is no mere prophecy, no shallow reading of celestial shifts. It is magic—profound, potent. Astrologers are not mere scholars or charlatans. We wield power to rival any mage."
"Why should mages alone summon wind, rain, or flame? Why not the stars' might? I found what mages cannot—what they may never grasp: the Law."