The wagon wheels ground to a halt.
By the time Altheron's boots touched stone again, torchlight and banners loomed above him, and the vast shadow of the palace swallowed the night. He barely remembered passing through the gates—everything blurred in a haze of steel, torchlight, and whispers.
Then the throne room opened before him.
It was vast, lined with towering pillars that climbed into vaulted arches, every stone carved with the history of kings long dead. Golden braziers burned with steady flame, chasing shadows into corners. The air smelled faintly of incense and iron, as though prayers and wars had seeped into the very stone.
At the far end, raised high upon marble steps, sat the throne. It was not merely a seat, but a monument to burden—cold, unyielding, carved with the weight of crowns past.
And upon it, the King.
His father's boyhood companion. His uncle in all but blood.
The King rose as they approached, his cloak trailing like storm clouds across the dais. For a heartbeat his eyes softened—warmth, relief, the look of a man greeting a brother long-estranged. But when his gaze fell upon the bundle in Altheron's arms—the egg—that warmth withered, replaced by something colder. Something wary.
"Bring him forward," the King said, his voice heavy with command, yet laced with something almost like dread.
Altheron was guided closer. The weight of the egg pulsed faintly, as though it, too, felt the scrutiny of the throne.
"Altheron," the King murmured, his tone strange—gentle, yet edged with caution. "So the whispers were true."
Altheron looked up, confused. But his father bowed low, the kind of bow not to a friend but to a sovereign, his voice solemn.
"He is chosen, my king. The Keeper itself bore witness."
The King's eyes darkened. "Then the tales return to haunt us sooner than we dreamt."
He turned, speaking not to Altheron, but to the shadows where armored figures lingered—the Sentinels of the Throne. Their helms gleamed like faceless steel, and though their gazes were hidden, Altheron felt their weight upon him.
"Leave us," the King commanded.
The guards obeyed without question. The vast chamber fell silent, save for the hiss of braziers and the echo of closing doors.
Only then did the King descend from the throne. His steps echoed like tolling bells, each one carrying both authority and exhaustion. His cloak trailed behind him, heavy as night.
And as he drew near, Altheron saw it—a faint sigil etched into the breastplate beneath the King's robe.
The moment his eyes touched it, something surged through him.
A flash—red runes burning in a circle. Chains coiling like serpents around something vast. A roar muffled, yet pressing against the walls of his skull until his breath hitched.
Then it was gone. The sigil stood quiet, nothing but carved metal. But Altheron's heart still thundered, as if he had glimpsed a memory older than himself.
The King stopped before them. His eyes were shadowed, the weight of years and crown etched deep within them. For a moment, he seemed not only a ruler, but a man cornered by truths too sharp to name.
"Seven dungeons… seven gates of ruin," he whispered, voice low and grim. "And the Sealed One is the first. If that child has touched it—then the Forgotten One stirs."
Altheron stiffened. His father's bow deepened, but a tremor rippled through his shoulders.
"It was neither fate nor folly," his father said firmly. "The dungeon chose. As the Keeper once swore it would. This is no myth, Your Grace. No story for firesides."
The King's jaw clenched. His gaze bore into Altheron—the boy, the egg, the fragile thread of destiny balanced in trembling hands.
"Chosen…" he muttered. "Do you even grasp what that means, boy?"
Altheron swallowed hard. "I… I saw it. The seal. The chains. The—"
"Enough!" The King's voice boomed, crashing against the stone like thunder. The flames in the braziers seemed to waver at the sound, shadows recoiling.
Silence fell heavy.
When the King spoke again, his tone was lower—yet sharper. His hand fell upon Altheron's shoulder, firm, unyielding.
"Forget what you saw. Forget those words. Speak them to no one—not to the court, not to the Sentinels… not even to her."
Altheron's breath caught. The warning stung sharper than the command.
The King's gaze lingered, and for a fleeting instant the hardness wavered. Beneath the steel, there was the echo of the man who had once laughed beside Altheron's father, before crowns and wars carved them into stone. But the softness lasted only a moment—buried beneath the iron of rule.
"There are stories older than kingdoms," the King said, softer now, though no less grim. "They were written in blood, not ink. And such history has a way of clawing back when men are foolish enough to awaken it."
He let out a long, tired breath. "You will rest now. And you will remember my words: some truths are chains, not keys. Let them bind, lest the world burn again."
With a flick of his hand, the doors opened. Guards emerged as if conjured from the dark.
"Take him to his chambers. See that he is tended."
Altheron opened his mouth to protest, but the words failed him. The King's eyes—shadowed, weary, unyielding—held him still.
And then he was led away, his footsteps fading into the labyrinth of stone halls, the egg heavy in his arms, and the King's warning heavier still in his heart.
The palace gates fell behind them before dawn's first light. Altheron barely recalled the ride home—his body was weary, his thoughts heavier still. By the time their carriage rolled to a stop before the high-arched gates of their manor, torches burned low in their sconces, and servants waited in uneasy silence.
The great doors opened, and there she stood.
His mother.
Her robes of deep violet swept across the marble as she hurried forward, eyes sharp with worry yet softened by relief the moment they fell on him. She cupped his face in both hands as though he were still a boy, not the son who had just braved the trial of the dungeon.
"You return with breath in your chest, and that is enough for me," she whispered. "Though I had prayed… for more."
Altheron managed a weary smile. "The dungeon did not break me."
His father's shadow loomed behind him, but he offered no words. Only a nod to his wife, and together they guided Altheron through the familiar halls. For all their grandeur, the manor's corridors had never felt so heavy, each step echoing like a reminder of the secrets now chained to his chest.
In the warmth of the family chamber, his mother pressed again. "Tell me, Althy… how did it go?"
Altheron hesitated. He remembered the King's command, his father's silence, the Keeper's words still carved into his thoughts. In the end, he lowered his gaze.
"It… was unlike any trial I imagined. But I endured. That is enough for tonight, Mother."
She searched his eyes for more, but when she found only exhaustion, she softened. A kiss to his brow, a hand brushing back his hair, and she released him. "Rest, my son. Tomorrow is a new day."
He did not argue. His legs carried him to his chamber as though made of stone. The moment he touched the bed, the weight of sleep claimed him, dragging him into dreams filled with whispers, fire, and the pulse of the egg.
Morning's light broke through his window before he stirred again. By midday, the manor hummed with quiet routine, servants bustling, carriages coming and going. Yet Altheron's mind remained elsewhere, still tangled in the dungeon's shadow.
It was then, in the courtyard, that she found him.
Emilienne.
Her gown was simple for a princess, pale silk that caught the sunlight. No attendants trailed behind her—just the boldness in her stride and the sharpness in her gaze.
When she reached him, she did not greet him with courtly words, nor even a smile. Instead, she stopped before him, eyes narrowing ever so slightly.
"How was the dungeon?" she asked.
The question struck sharper than a blade.
Altheron froze. He felt again the weight of the King's hand on his shoulder, his warning: "Not even to her." Yet Emi's stare cut into him, demanding truth, refusing silence.
Finally, he drew a slow breath. "…The dungeon did not give me treasure, nor blade. It gave me this." He shifted the bundle at his side, letting the edge of the egg's pale shell catch the candlelight.
Emi's lips parted in surprise. "An egg?"
"A test… and a burden both," Altheron murmured. His thumb traced its smooth curve, the warmth of it pulsing faintly against his palm. "The Keeper called me chosen, and placed this in my hands. I do not yet know why."
For a moment, Emi said nothing. Her eyes lingered on the egg, her expression caught between wonder and unease. At last, she whispered, "Then it is alive."
"Yes." He lowered his voice, as though even walls might listen. "Alive—and waiting."
Their gazes met, the silence between them heavy with questions neither dared to voice.
At last, Emi only said, "Then guard it well, Altheron. For if the dungeon entrusted it to you… the world may yet demand its price."
Altheron offered the faintest smile, though his chest felt heavy. He lay back, cradling the egg close.
And as sleep finally pulled him under, one thought remained: this was only the beginning.