The blinding light faded.
Altheron gasped as his boots scraped stone once more—he was back at the dungeon's mouth. The egg pulsed faintly in his arms, warm and alive.
"Altheron!"
His father's voice rang out, raw with panic. A pair of strong arms caught him before his knees buckled. The boy blinked up, dizzy, vision swimming.
"F-Father…" he whispered.
"By the gods—you vanished! One moment you were there, the next—gone! I thought…" His father's voice cracked, the fear in it unlike anything Altheron had ever heard.
Altheron tried to speak, but his tongue felt heavy. The warmth of the egg comforted him, but the weight of the Keeper's words pressed harder still.
"I… tried… the blade…" he murmured. "The Keeper said… I was chosen…"
"What?!" His father's face drained of color. "Chosen by—?"
But Altheron's lips barely moved. His eyes fluttered, the world spinning around him, darkness pressing close. His father shook him gently, desperation filling his voice.
"Altheron, stay with me!"
But the boy had no strength left. His vision tunneled, light slipping away, and the last thing he felt was the desperate clutch of his father's arms before the shadows swallowed him whole.
When his eyes flickered open again, the ceiling above him was not stone but weathered wood. The rhythmic creak of wheels groaned around him, and the soft thump of hooves echoed against the dirt road outside.
A wagon.
He shifted, the straw mat beneath him rustling, and felt the sway of motion carry his body. His limbs were heavy, drained, yet… uninjured. Not a single ache remained from the Shadow Wolf's fangs, nor from the impossible strain of the blade. His father's cloak was draped across him like a blanket, warm with the faint scent of smoke and iron.
The pendant at his chest glimmered faintly. And in his arms—resting against his side—was the egg. Smooth, warm, pulsing gently with a rhythm that felt almost like a heartbeat.
"Altheron."
His father's voice pulled his gaze upward. The man sat across from him, his face cast in half-shadow, worry lines etched deep into his brow. Relief softened his sternness for a fleeting moment, but it did not erase the storm hidden behind his eyes.
"You're awake."
Altheron swallowed. His throat was dry. "…Father… what happened?"
His father hesitated, glancing at the egg, then back at his son. His jaw tightened. "You fainted. The dungeon… it rejected you—or perhaps tested you. I carried you out. You've been unconscious for only a few hours. We are already on the road—another hour, maybe two, and we'll reach the palace."
The word palace stirred a strange unease in Altheron. He glanced down at the egg again, almost afraid of the weight he carried.
"The Keeper…" he whispered. "The Sealed One… It said—"
"Enough." His father's voice cracked like a whip, too sharp, too sudden. The wagon rattled as silence swallowed them both. Then, softer, his father continued: "There are names you should not speak so freely, even to me."
Altheron's chest tightened. "So you do know."
A long pause. Then, with a weary sigh, his father leaned back, the candlelight flickering across his scarred face.
"To most, aye," he muttered. "A fireside tale, a bard's song meant to thrill children. But among kings, and the Sentinels who guard their thrones, it is whispered still. Not as myth… but as history. And history written in blood never truly fades."
Altheron's breath caught. "Then… the Forgotten One is real."
His father did not answer.
Instead, visions bled into Altheron's mind without warning—
A citadel engulfed in flames, towers crumbling beneath a storm of fire.
A sky split open by jagged cracks of light and shadow, tearing reality apart.
Armies of shadow marching in silence, their faceless ranks endless.
A towering figure striding across the earth, each step leaving ruin in its wake.
And there—always there—a lone silhouette gripping the very sword he had tried to draw, standing defiant against the tide.
The visions came in a flood, so vivid he could smell smoke, hear the thunder of war drums, feel the searing heat of the sundered sky. His heart pounded, his body trembling beneath the weight of it.
Altheron gasped, clutching his head. The visions slipped away like water, leaving only dread in their wake.
The egg in his arms pulsed suddenly, once, twice—its warmth stronger, as though it had felt what he had seen.
"The Keeper spoke to me," Altheron whispered, trembling. "It said… seven dungeons… seven gates of ruin. That the seal is breaking."
His father's hands froze. His eyes darkened with something beyond fear—recognition.
For a heartbeat, Altheron swore his father would speak. He saw the man's lips part, his gaze flickering with secrets buried too deep.
Finally, his father exhaled slowly. "Those tales… are older than this kingdom itself. Older than the throne, older than the bloodlines that rule it. They were passed down long before I was born—before even my father drew breath." His eyes softened faintly. "Even the king himself and I… we grew up with those whispers, like brothers raised in shadow."
The wagon wheels groaned, carrying them into silence. The forest outside stretched dark and endless, moonlight glinting through gaps in the leaves. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called, its cry echoing like a warning.
At last, Altheron asked, hesitant: "And the dungeon? The one I entered… what will become of it?"
His father's gaze turned toward the canvas flap at the back of the wagon, staring at the forest road beyond as if it hid the answer. When he finally spoke, his voice was grim, edged with finality.
"I sealed its entrance. With my own hands. None will step foot there again."
Altheron's heart clenched. "But—"
"No more." His father cut him off, sharp but pained. His eyes lingered on his son, heavy with unspoken truths. "You've seen enough for one lifetime, Altheron. Do not seek what is best left buried."
Silence weighed heavily between them. Only the creak of wheels and the steady rhythm of hooves filled the night.
Through the thin gap in the canvas, Altheron glimpsed a faint glow on the horizon—torches, distant and small, the first sign of the palace awaiting them. Yet as the egg pulsed in his arms, steady as a heartbeat, he could not shake the feeling that he was carrying something no kingdom, no throne, no king was truly prepared for.
The wagon rolled on. The forest seemed to watch, its shadows deepening with every mile, as though the world itself conspired to keep its secrets hidden.
And Altheron, clutching the egg, felt the path of his life bending—toward something vast, ancient, and inescapable.