Castle Shadowgate C64 〈AUTHENTIC ◎〉

“Why?”

You hold up the torch.

You are the last. The final descendant of the Loftbringer line. The prophecy said you would come, and the prophecy, it seems, has a cruel sense of humor. The heavy oak doors of Castle Shadowgate grind shut behind you, sealing you in with a groan that sounds like the castle swallowing.

Deeper. The air grows colder. You find a library where books whisper seditious secrets. You find a kitchen where a roast chicken sits on a platter, steam rising, and the moment you reach for it, the table lurches and tries to bite your arm off with a mouth full of splinter-wood teeth. You starve. That is part of the test. castle shadowgate c64

Behind you, the Warlock Lord opens his eyes.

The first thing you notice is the dark. Not the gentle dark of a countryside night, but the hungry dark of a tomb. The second thing is the smell: wet stone, old rust, and something sweetly rotten beneath it all.

In your hand, a torch. It crackles, the only living thing in this hall of the dead. “Why

The puzzles begin.

Your quest is simple in its impossibility: find the Staff of Ages, hidden somewhere in the labyrinth, and cast it into the Great Fire below the citadel. Only then will the Warlock Lord, who has slept for a thousand years, remain asleep forever. Fail, and the eclipse tomorrow will wake him. And you do not want to wake him.

A room with four suits of armor. They are not empty. As you cross the threshold, their visors snap down. Halberds rise. You have three seconds. The solution is not to fight—you would be mincemeat. The solution is to remember the riddle from the village elder: “That which stands guard but cannot see, blind them with what they cannot be.” You blow out your torch. The prophecy said you would come, and the

The first corridor is a lie. It is grand, vaulted, lined with banners depicting beasts that never existed. You take three steps and the flagstone dips . A click. You throw yourself sideways as a blade the size of a dinner table swings from a hidden slit, shaving a hair from your ear. First lesson , you think, heart hammering. Trust nothing.

A locked door with no keyhole. Only a brass plate etched with a single word: . You think of your mother, dead of the plague. Your father, who rode east to fight the Orcish horde and never returned. You place your palm on the plate and mean it. The lock clicks open. The castle feeds on sorrow.