General Morgan moved ahead, his steps slowing as he approached what remained of the grand entrance hall. Once a place of majesty and light, it now stood in shadow, its vaulted ceilings fractured, the once-gleaming chandeliers now blackened husks swaying gently in the breeze.
A sudden shuffle echoed from beyond the broken archway.
All four readied themselves, Khezly with a narrowed gaze, Darion gripping a stone shard, and Xenric tensing beside the general.
Then, from the gloom, a figure emerged.
An old man in scorched robes, soot smearing his face, and weariness lining his every step. His once-straight posture now stooped, but in his eyes flickered recognition, then a breathless gasp. "Morgan…"
"Calthar?" Morgan stepped forward in disbelief.
The old man's lip trembled. He stumbled, half-falling into the general's arms. "You live." he whispered, voice cracking under a storm of grief.
"We thought all were lost," Morgan said, gripping the frail advisor tightly. "Tell me, what happened? What of the King?"
Calthar staggered to a stone bench, clutching a cracked pillar for support. He closed his eyes, as if the act of remembering weighed heavier than his age.
"Kargrosh's forces... they came like a plague," he began hoarsely. "There was no warning. No mercy. The sky turned black with ash before the first blade fell. They did not fight to conquer, only to destroy."
Darion clenched his fists. "And the King?"
Calthar nodded slowly, tears welling in his tired eyes. "King Arren refused to leave. He stood on the ramparts, sword in hand, shouting to rally the last of the defenders. But I, I begged him. We all did. Aeronberg was lost. And the king, he finally, he fled. Took a small band with him. Said if even one spark of hope could live on, Aeronberg might rise again."
Khezly lowered her gaze. "He escaped…"
Calthar's face twisted in pain. "But not without cost. The orcs gave chase. I saw it, those cursed beasts tearing into our soldiers. Devouring them alive. Blood flooded the corridors. Screams, gods, the screams still echo in these halls."
The old man wept openly now, broken by memory. Xenric looked away, jaw clenched as the fire in his own heart dimmed to quiet resolve.
"They hunted the King," Calthar said through sobs. "Not just to kill him, but to erase him. To make sure no light remains."
General Morgan knelt beside him, placing a hand over the old man's. "You survived, Calthar. That means something."
"I only survived because I hid," Calthar whispered. "I watched friends burn while I crouched in the dark like a coward."
"No," Xenric said, stepping forward. "You lived. And now you're telling us the truth. That takes more courage than most."
The ruined throne room stood still once more, but the silence had changed, it no longer smothered, but mourned. They now knew the King lived. But he was out there, alone, and hunted.
And the war was far from over.
Xenric, Darion, Khezly, General Morgan, and the weary advisor Calthar stood in a loose circle, the silence between them heavy after the revelations.
It was Darion who spoke first, pacing with a sharp edge to his steps. "We can't just leave him. If the King is alive, we have to follow. We owe him that."
"We owe him nothing if it costs us our lives," Khezly said, arms folded tightly. "You heard Calthar. The orcs are hunting him. If we follow, we're walking into a deathtrap."
Darion shot her a glare. "You were the one who said we needed to return, to see what was left. Well, now we know. And we also know the King's still out there. He needs help."
"He needs an army," Khezly countered. "Not four broken warriors and a half-starved advisor."
"We might still be enough," Xenric muttered.
All eyes turned to him.
Morgan took a deep breath, leaning heavily against the edge of a cracked stone table. "If King Arren is alive, if he's still out there, he'll be trying to rally what remains. He's too proud to fall into hiding for long."
"But where?" Khezly asked. "And how do we find him before the orcs do?"
"That's what we have to decide," Morgan said, his voice rough. "Do we go after him? Or go our separate ways and survive in the shadows like the rest of the broken?"
Calthar stirred from where he sat, face pale and drawn. "He spoke of the Highlands before he fled. The old watchtowers, places untouched by war. If I had to guess, he would seek shelter there."
Xenric stood still, silent in thought. His fists clenched, then loosened. "We started this journey chasing something impossible, the Crown of all Kings. But now… we're caught in something bigger. Helping the King might be the only way forward."
"I'm not dying for a lost cause," Khezly said sharply. "We barely made it out alive once. Don't ask me to walk into fire again."
"Then don't," Darion snapped. "No one's forcing you."
Khezly's gaze flared with fury, but she held her tongue.
Morgan looked between them, torn. "Enough. We decide together."
A heavy silence followed.
Finally, Xenric spoke, voice calm but certain. "I'll go."
Darion stepped beside him. "So will I."
Morgan straightened, pain still in his eyes, but strength returning to his voice. "And I. I will not let my King face this alone."
All eyes turned to Khezly.
She looked at them, these companions born not of friendship, but of fire, blood, and survival. Then she looked away, staring out the shattered window toward the mountains on the horizon.
"I'll go," she said at last. "But when it gets worse, and it will, don't expect me to stay out of loyalty. I'm here because I have unfinished business."
No one spoke further. They didn't need to.
The choice was made.
And with the ruins of Aeronberg behind them, and only a thread of hope ahead, the four once more took to the road, this time not for glory or escape, but for something far rarer: a second chance.