The Waters of Shadow

Certainly. Here's the full English translation of your text, rendered with accuracy and attention to tone, emotion, and dramatic effect:

⸻

At the highest peak of the castle, where the sea bordered it from the back and the sound of waves reached only as distant whispers, lay a grand magical library—towering, vast, and breathing wisdom from its ancient walls. The books stood lined as if they were the very pillars of time, and the air was saturated with a deep stillness, broken only by the turning of pages.

Among the shelves walked a tall woman—two meters in height—dressed in a royal blue robe. Her face looked as though it hadn't passed thirty, though she was fifty-eight. Her skin was as white as moonlight, and her steps were quiet, steady, as if she walked on threads of magic itself.

She was Lady Naryth Elonis, Dean of the Grand University of Magic in Lumanrea, and Mistress of the upper floor of Astraval Castle, seat of the High Magic.

In a soft, resonant voice void of emotion, she spoke as she stopped before a wide window overlooking the sea:

"You often gaze out from the balcony, sister… were you expecting someone?"

The young woman sitting silently before the window turned slightly. Her robe faded from deep blue to black, her black hair laced with glowing blue strands, and her eyes—completely white, with no irises—shone with a strange purity that unsettled those who stared too long.

She was Serena Elonis, the younger sister, daughter of the legendary seer Elorin Elonis.

Without looking at her sister, Serena replied in a tone laced with mockery:

"And since when does the Grand Lady of Magic care for others' feelings?"

Naryth stepped forward, her gaze never leaving her sister's face. In a deeper calm, she said:

"Or perhaps… you miss someone?"

At that moment, Serena's lips quivered slightly, as if she wished to smile but was afraid. Then she said:

"Well then, is this magic… or have you learned to read eyes now?"

She tilted her head slightly, gesturing with her blank gaze:

"Or have you forgotten? There's no darkness in my eyes."

Naryth stepped closer, her voice lowering just a touch, yet laced with cold sarcasm:

"You're waiting for Raelon Meris… son of Merek?"

(She said it with a faint mocking tone.)

"You know he'll only return if he bears a message… or faces something he can't resolve alone."

She turned away slightly, letting her eyes scan the spines of the books as if searching for a cold reply among them.

"Yes… I'll admit, he was interesting. Learned gravitational magic in just three years—something that usually takes ten. But he didn't finish. Left us a year ago, no goodbyes, no explanation. Like all the reckless ones do."

Silence followed for a moment, before Serena whispered, almost more to herself than to her sister:

"I know… but it's Raelon. I just wanted to see him coming through the gate, waving to me from afar… just once."

She stood quietly, gazed one last time from the balcony, then turned and walked out of the room—her footsteps soft, yet steeped in a gentle disappointment.

Naryth remained standing in the center of the library. For a moment, an unusual trace of displeasure crossed her face, then she closed her eyes slowly and sighed—like someone bearing a burden unspoken.

At that very moment, a massive black raven descended from the wooden pillars above and landed steadily on her shoulder, its feathers glinting under the blue magical light.

She opened her eyes and said, without looking at it:

"Well… hello."

The room fell silent again, as if all that was said—and all that remained unsaid—was waiting to be translated into events yet to come.

⸻

The scene shifts to a dark underground corridor, untouched by sunlight, echoing with moans and sobbing… and a faint, distorted music, origin unknown, as if the sound seeped from the walls themselves.

Heavy footsteps descended the damp, mold-covered stone stairs. A man appeared, standing 185 centimeters tall, clad in dark golden armor that reflected the flickering torchlight. His helmet shone with fiery eyes, as if a flame blazed within.

He walked steadily—neither hurried nor slow—until he reached the prison cellar.

A massive iron door creaked open, revealing a horrific sight: dozens of prisoners—some chained to the walls, some with deformed faces, others whispering unintelligible words or laughing for no reason. A few still wept, eyes shut, lips trembling.

A guard approached and whispered:

"Commander… the prisoners say they hear music… from the walls. Strange music that makes them hallucinate. With the constant torture… some of them aren't human anymore. Sir… they're changing."

The commander remained silent for a moment, then turned to the guard slowly, his voice deep and sharp as a blade:

"And you… why are you listening to their nonsense?"

He drew a black dagger from its sheath, its edges glowing faintly red, like old blood set aflame, and approached one prisoner—curled in a corner, sobbing quietly, trying not to be heard.

But it was too late.

The commander grabbed him by the hair, lifted his head, stared into his terrified eyes for a heartbeat… then dragged the blade across his throat in a slow, decisive motion.

Blood splattered on the ground, mixing with the groans of others yet unseen.

He raised the dagger to his mouth, licked its edge, closed his eyes as if tasting fine wine, then opened them with a fiery glare and roared:

"Anyone who utters another irritating sound—cut off their heads. Before I cut off yours."

A heavy silence fell among the guards. None dared respond. Even the music from the walls faded… or perhaps stopped choosing who could hear it.

⸻

Vaerun Drelhart continued walking through the high corridors of the upper castle. His steps were quiet, yet uneasy—the scent of prison and blood still clinging to his nose, as if refusing to leave.

But as the light bent through the tall windows and pierced the wide shadows, a figure appeared at the end of the hallway…

Someone walking toward him.

Each step from that figure echoed—not from their soles, but from their very presence.

He stood 194 centimeters tall, with a massive muscular frame. His chest and shoulders were covered in golden armor that resembled dragon scales, forged from a rare material called Durmthal, known to only a few. His eyes… deep crimson red, burning like eternal flame.

That man was:

Kaelar Varneth

The illegitimate son of the kingdom's High Minister, and Deputy Governor of Dravonar Crest.

His father… was:

Lurian Varneth—the High Minister of the Golden Throne, one of the closest men to the Lord of the Throne himself, and a figure whose influence frightened even nobles.

As Vaerun Drelhart saw him, his breath caught. Sweat beaded on his brow. His heart raced without permission, as if his body remembered every rumor about this man…

How he once defeated a commander from Arvendore in a single duel.

How, despite being a "bastard," some whispered he might be the strongest warrior in all of Elarion.

The hallway was narrow. They walked toward each other.

They approached… then passed each other in silence.

Neither spoke a word.

But within Vaerun… something cracked.

As if he had just walked past a mountain… no, past something that should only ever be seen from afar.

Vaerun Drelhart continued on his way after passing Kaelar Varneth, tension still wrapping around his soul, though his steps tried to convince the earth of his confidence.

He muttered to himself while ascending the stone steps toward the administrative wing:

"Why did I tense up? We're on the same side… same division…"

"But… no. He's different. If you don't flinch from him… you're not human."

When he reached the door to his office, he found it open. Soft laughter drifted from inside.

He entered to find a young man standing before the bookshelves, flipping through old documents. He was tall, dark-skinned, with snow-white hair falling smoothly down his shoulders, and eyes the color of faded ash.

It was:

Theren Durell

Son of Lord Almarin Durell, one of the noblest and most powerful families in Aurinaris—a name forever tied to the High Court and ancient magical research.

Theren smirked and said:

"How are our charming prisoners, Vaerun?"

Vaerun replied as he set his gloves on the desk:

"They've started rambling… say they hear strange music that drives them mad. Hallucinations. Some of them bashed their heads against the walls until they bled. Superstitions!"

Theren laughed.

"Of course they've gone mad… our torture sessions weren't exactly gentle."

Suddenly, a girl's voice interrupted them from behind the bookshelf.

She was young, dressed in a light cream library gown. Her eyes were wide, and her hair was neatly tied up.

She said quietly:

"That reminds me of a legend I once read… about a nation beneath the earth. A living kingdom no one knows about. They say their music is powerful—traveling through walls not by air, but through a liquid medium… a substance called Miralyon."

She paused, then added:

"A thick black liquid, capable of carrying vibrations through stone and iron…"

Theren chuckled sarcastically:

"Really? Do violinists with bone teeth live there too? What nonsense is this, little librarian?"

But Vaerun… suddenly frowned.

He remembered…

Yes—back in one of the cells, he'd noticed a thick black liquid seeping from the walls. He hadn't paid it any mind—thought it moisture or poison. But this description…

Miralyon…?

A moment of silence passed. Vaerun's eyes locked on her, unblinking.

He stepped toward her slowly, looking directly into her eyes. His voice was soft—but saturated with threat:

"Are you done?"

She dared not answer.

Then he added:

"Because if you're not done… I will finish you myself."

He stepped back, then said in a colder tone:

"And if a single word leaves your lips about what you heard here… know this: prison isn't just for men."

He looked at her one last time, then turned his back and walked away as if nothing had happened—while the air around her grew unbearably heavy.