Dreams and Scholars & The Kidnapped Rose
The night had grown restless.
Arthur's dreams twisted into shadows and flame. He stood at the edge of a field littered with broken swords and scorched banners, a sky choked by swirling black smoke. Shapes moved through the haze—some faceless, others cloaked, their voices whispering in a language he almost understood.
At the center of it all burned a rose—petals blackened and curling in silent fire.
"Arthur," a voice called, though he could not see who spoke. "Find the rose… before they do."
He reached for it—but the petals turned to ash, crumbling through his fingers.
He awoke with a start, sweat clinging to his brow despite the chill of dawn. Fenrix lay near the dying embers of their campfire, ears perked but eyes closed. Umbra sat silently on a branch overhead, black eyes glinting with quiet watchfulness.
Arthur wiped his brow, heart pounding. The nightmare had come for three nights now, each more vivid than the last.
Was it a warning? A memory of something yet to happen?
He rose, breathing slowly, and tried to calm the lingering dread. Morning mist curled around the clearing, thin as breath. Somewhere beyond, he heard Lyris, the elf scout he had saved, sharpening an arrowhead against stone.
They had traveled together for several days now, each step revealing more of what hunted them both—and what tied their fates together.
---
At midday, Arthur reached the outskirts of a small trading town nestled between rolling hills and mossy stone walls. Merchants hawked their wares from carts and stalls; travelers in worn cloaks haggled over bread, cloth, and charms said to ward off curses.
Yet his purpose here was not trade.
Through Lyris's contacts, he had learned of a group—a party of wanderers, mercenaries, and scholars—recently arrived in town. They called themselves the Ember Seekers. Unlike simple sellswords, they hunted secrets buried in ancient ruins, and word had it they sought the same crest that haunted Arthur's nights.
The serpent and black rose.
He entered the common room of a weather-worn inn, the smell of burnt ale and damp wood heavy in the air. Near the hearth sat four figures: a towering man in battered armor, a young mage in blue robes, a cloaked woman whose eyes missed nothing, and a pale scholar hunched over a yellowed scroll.
"Arthur," Lyris murmured beside him. "Those are the ones."
The man in armor looked up first. Scars mapped his face, and one eye was clouded white.
"You lost, boy?" he rasped.
Arthur stepped closer. "No. I'm looking for answers—and I think you are too."
The cloaked woman's lips twitched faintly. The scholar's quill paused mid-scratch.
"And what answers would those be?" the mage asked, voice calm but edged.
Arthur drew a breath. "The serpent and the black rose. And the one they call the Kidnapped Rose."
At that, silence swallowed the table.
---
They spoke in hushed voices. The Ember Seekers had tracked rumors of a noble family whose crest bore the serpent and rose—same as the assassins Arthur had faced. But darker stories spread behind the sigil: a daughter, taken from the palace under shadow, known to some as the Kidnapped Rose.
A bargaining piece—or a sacrifice.
No ransom had ever been claimed, no body returned.
Some said she lived, hidden by captors in the untamed forests or sealed away by magic.
Others whispered she was lost to darker forces entirely.
Arthur listened, pulse quickening with each revelation.
A noble's greed had cost him his mother. Now, he discovered they had stolen yet another innocent life.
"Why do you care, lad?" the scarred man asked at last.
Arthur met his gaze. "Because the same crest took everything from me. And I won't let them keep taking."
---
They agreed to travel together, at least for a time.
The Ember Seekers were wary of him at first—a lone wanderer, with eyes too old for his years and a magic none could name. But around the campfire that night, they exchanged stories.
Arthur spoke little of Anti-Heal, but shared what he had learned: the hidden temple, the ancient order that wielded magic not to heal but to strip power from tyrants.
In turn, the scholar, named Aldren, revealed fragments of old lore. The Kidnapped Rose, he believed, was not merely a pawn—but possibly an heir to a secret bound by blood.
A secret someone wanted buried.
---
That night, as they camped by a winding brook, the nightmare returned.
The blackened rose burned brighter, and voices pressed closer.
"Find her, Arthur… before they do…"
He woke with a gasp, hands trembling.
This time, Lyris sat beside him, moonlight softening her features.
"You saw it again?" she asked quietly.
Arthur nodded, swallowing the dread. "Every night. And every time, the rose burns faster."
She rested a hand on his. "Then we find her. Together."
For the first time in days, Arthur felt the nightmare's grip loosen.
---
In the days that followed, the party traced rumors and hidden roads: a dying merchant who spoke of masked riders traveling north under moonlight; a half-burned letter found in a ruined watchtower, speaking of a "precious flower" to be moved before the solstice.
Each clue drew them deeper into danger—and closer to the truth.
Arthur trained each dawn, refining his control over Anti-Heal. The nightmares had taught him something too: fear could be a teacher, if he dared listen.
By the seventh day, the party stood on the edge of a forgotten road, staring into a forest so dense the sun barely touched its floor.
Beyond lay the trail of the Kidnapped Rose.
The whispers returned, soft but urgent.
"Go, Arthur… and remember who you fight for."
He looked at his new companions. They nodded silently, blades and staffs ready.
For the first time, Arthur was not alone in his pursuit.
And though nightmares haunted him still, they no longer felt like chains.
They felt like a call to action.
And Arthur was ready to answer.
---
To be continued...