An Archmage Among Adventurers

In the quiet halls of the Valquinn estate, where shadows were long and whispered things often lingered, the servants gathered in small groups. The marble floors, cool beneath their feet, carried faint echoes of their murmured words, lending weight to the otherwise idle conversation.

It had been awhile since Elnora Valquinn’s carriage had been found overturned near the ravine. The absence of a body—no sign, not a single trace—had left the household in a kind of suspended disbelief, like air drawn in but never released.

The staff spoke in hushed tones, careful not to let their voices carry to the ears of the Valquinn family, who moved through their days like statues—unbending, untouched by the messiness of uncertainty. But the servants, unburdened by nobility’s stiff formalities, allowed themselves to speculate.

“She was kidnapped,” one servant whispered, with the gravity of someone stating a fact, though it was nothing more than a theory. “By a rogue mage. Someone powerful—desperate to steal the Valquinn bloodline’s magic.”

Several heads nodded, faces solemn with the thrill of imagining such a fate. The Valquinn name carried weight, and to be the daughter of that line, even the weaker, less magically adept daughter, was not without its risks. A rogue mage, wild and untethered, was a reasonable enough explanation.

“No,” another servant said, cutting through the murmurs with the tone of one who knows better. “No mage took her. She faked her own death. Think about it—no body found, no trace of blood or struggle. A girl like Elnora, always in her sister’s shadow, probably couldn’t stand it any longer. She’s run off to live in hiding, somewhere far from here, where no one knows her name.”

The thought stirred something in the group, and a ripple of agreement passed through them. Elnora, quiet and timid, always seemed more a ghost than a girl, slipping through rooms with barely a word. Perhaps she had finally slipped away for good.

"But where could she go?" someone asked, eyes wide with the enormity of the mystery.

The murmurs had started to die down, but the faint crackle of tension remained, lingering in the air like the smell of old woodsmoke. Someone shifted their weight, the creak of a floorboard punctuating the silence. It was always in the quiet moments that things felt more eerie, as though the house itself was listening, waiting for the truth to be spoken.

"Maybe she really did perish in the accident," came a voice from the back, quieter, more reluctant, but firm enough to draw the attention of the group. The servant who spoke—tall, thin, with a smudge of flour still on their cheek—looked uneasy, glancing around to ensure no one from the family was lurking nearby.

The words hit like a cold wind, cutting through the theories of rogue mages and secret escapes. A few of the others shifted, uncomfortable. There was something too final about that idea. Death was the only explanation that couldn’t be undone, the one that made all other whispers seem childish in comparison.

"Don’t say that," muttered another, shaking their head, as though the very utterance of it could summon something dark. "There was no body. You don’t just vanish like that."

The tall servant didn’t back down. "Maybe. Or maybe she’s lying at the bottom of that ravine, lost beneath the brush, where no one’s thought to look."

The conversation faltered, teetering on the edge of silence again. No one wanted to admit how plausible it sounded, how the idea of Elnora Valquinn, quiet and pale as she was, could easily have been swallowed by the land without so much as a struggle.

It was then that the kitchen maid, a stout woman with hands red from scrubbing, spoke up. She had been listening to the conversation with a knowing look, arms crossed over her chest. Now, she leaned in, lowering her voice, though the mischief in her eyes was unmistakable.

“There might be a way to know for sure,” she said, drawing curious glances from the others.

"Oh?" someone asked, intrigued, though the hint of suspicion was clear.

The maid wiped her hands on her apron, as though preparing for something important. "I've got something in the pantry. Been using it as a cutting board for years now," she said, a strange smile tugging at her lips. "An old spirit board. Belonged to my grandmother. Reckon we could give it a try. Ask her ourselves what happened."

A collective pause followed her words, the idea hanging in the air like a challenge. A spirit board? Of course, they'd all heard stories of such things—old legends of the dead speaking through objects—but none had ever thought to believe in such nonsense. And yet...

“Wait,” one of the servants said slowly, “you’ve been chopping vegetables on an ouija board?”

The kitchen maid nodded, seemingly unfazed. “A bit of oil and grime's nothing that’ll stop a spirit, far as I know.” She gave a small, conspiratorial shrug. “You want to find out if she’s truly gone, or if she's still out there... well, maybe we can give her a chance to tell us.”

A murmur of nervous laughter rippled through the group, but it was edged with something else—curiosity, a touch of fear. For all their speculating, none of them had expected to be faced with the prospect of real answers.

"What if—what if something else answers?" one servant asked, their voice barely above a whisper.

The maid smirked. "Then I guess we’ll be having quite the conversation tonight."

The tension in the kitchen hung thick as the servants exchanged glances, weighing the gravity of what had been proposed. The flickering candlelight cast elongated shadows across their faces, amplifying the uncertainty that brewed among them.

Finally, one of the younger servants, a curious girl with wide eyes, broke the silence. “I say we do it,” she declared, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and excitement. “What’s the worst that could happen? It’s just a bit of fun.”

But as the words left her lips, a chill swept through the room, and deep down, each of them knew she shouldn’t have said that.