Chapter Fourteen: Roots Beneath the Stone

The next morning, dawn crept over the battlefield in silence. No horns, no songs, no ceremony—only the slow grinding of recovery. Soldiers dismantled broken siege carts, gathered fallen weapons, and began the grim process of burying the dead. The once-dead creatures, now little more than twisted carcasses, had melted into black sludge before sunrise, leaving behind only scorched craters and a lingering foul scent.

Althar stood atop a low hill overlooking the war-torn plains, his cloak fluttering lightly in the morning breeze. He hadn't spoken to anyone since waking from the dream—the throne, the statues, the voice.

Return to the heart.

What did it mean? And more importantly, why did it sound like a command?

He felt something stir again in his chest—a hum, faint but steady, as if the power within him was trying to point him somewhere.

Behind him, Rorek approached, helmet tucked under one arm. "The scouts have returned."

Althar turned. "And?"

"They found something. Not another army—something older."

Rorek handed him a weathered scroll, the edges still damp from travel. Unrolling it revealed a crude map, sketched in haste, with one spot circled in dark ink.

"An ancient ruin?" Althar asked.

"More like… the remnants of a buried city," Rorek said. "The scouts found stonework and symbols. Not from our age. Possibly pre-Empire."

Althar studied the symbols inked along the sketch. His eyes stopped on one. A curved line intersected by three vertical strokes. A mark he had seen before.

In his dream.

The chill ran deeper this time.

"Prepare an expedition," he ordered. "I'm going."

Rorek didn't argue. He just nodded. "How many men?"

"None." Althar looked past him. "Too many will draw attention. I'll take three. Quiet. Fast. This is not a battle."

Rorek hesitated, clearly uneasy. "You'll be vulnerable."

"I'll be fine," Althar said. "The battlefield told me enough. If something out there wants me dead, it doesn't need armies to do it."

Later that day, they set out—Althar, Rorek, and two trusted warriors: Kael, a silent ranger with eyes like a hawk, and Idria, a mage whose ice magic could freeze a charging warbeast in mid-stride. They traveled on horseback, cutting across forgotten trails and hunting paths, avoiding the roads and outposts.

The land grew stranger the further west they rode. Trees with bark as black as iron. Streams that ran with shimmering water, cold to the touch but sweet to taste. Wildlife watched them from the shadows, eyes glowing faintly with quiet intelligence.

"Magic is thick here," Idria murmured one night, as they camped beneath a crooked stone arch twisted with moss. "Old magic. The kind that doesn't like to be disturbed."

Althar didn't sleep that night. He couldn't. The dreams came even when his eyes were open—visions of that throne, the whispering statues, and a heartbeat that wasn't his own.

On the fourth day, they found it.

Nestled in a valley hidden by thick mist and steep cliffs was the ruin. Ancient pillars half-buried in moss. Broken towers leaning at impossible angles. An entrance—circular, rune-etched, yawning like the mouth of a beast—waited in the center.

As they approached, Kael's voice was hushed. "This wasn't made by men."

The symbols along the arch glowed faintly as Althar stepped closer, his presence seemingly recognized by the ruin itself. The pulse in his chest grew louder—faster.

Something in there wanted him to come closer.

Idria muttered an incantation and extended her palm. A small orb of pale light drifted forward, illuminating the entrance. "I'll go first," she said.

"No," Althar replied. "I have to."

He stepped inside.

The passage descended deep underground, carved into smooth stone that defied time. The air grew warmer with every step, tinged with the scent of old incense and iron. Murals lined the walls—depictions of kings with burning crowns, armies made of flame and crystal, and great serpents circling mountains.

At the bottom, they found it.

A vast chamber. Silent. Undisturbed.

In its center stood a plinth. Upon it, a crown—not gold or silver, but shaped of deep black stone, veins of crimson pulsing faintly through it like blood.

Althar walked toward it, drawn like a moth to flame.

Behind him, Idria whispered, "That crown… it radiates life and death at once. It's not just an artifact. It's alive."

He reached out, hand hovering just inches from it. The moment his fingers brushed the stone, the room ignited.

A flash of light.

A roar like a storm inside his head.

And a voice—no longer a whisper, but thunder.

"You have returned, bearer of the Old Flame."

His body arched, pain surging through every vein. Visions struck him—of battles long past, of a world ruled by kings not of flesh, but of fire and soul. He saw himself—not himself, but something like him—leading a war against a sky that bled gold.

He collapsed to his knees.

Rorek grabbed him. "Althar!"

But the pain was already fading. The vision faded, too.

He stood slowly, eyes wide.

Something had awakened.

The crown still sat on the plinth. Unmoving. But now it pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat.

He didn't take it.

He didn't need to.

It had already chosen him.