The King wasted no time.
By dawn, scribes had already been summoned, their quills scratching furiously across fresh parchment. The record was written as it had always been: another dungeon, another trial. No mention of chains carved into ancient stone. No whispers of the Forgotten One. And certainly no word of a boy who had walked out cradling an egg that pulsed like a living heart.
What the realm was told was simple:
Altheron had entered, endured, and emerged.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
The truth—the dangerous truth—was smothered beneath ink and decree.
The egg was hidden away in the manor of House Deyvre, locked not behind iron or wards but within silence itself, a silence as heavy as the crown. Altheron's father obeyed the King's will without hesitation, though the obedience carried its own weight. His mother saw the strain in her son's eyes, saw how his hand often drifted toward the hidden bundle, but she did not press him. She only offered warmth at the hearth and words that never reached too far.
And Altheron… he carried the secret as though it were a brand upon his soul. Sometimes, in the quiet hours, he asked himself whether he had been chosen or cursed. The egg was more than a secret—it was a tether. Each time he touched it, it was as though a second heartbeat echoed faintly beneath his skin, binding him to a fate that refused to speak its name.
The egg did not hatch. Yet it did not wither. It lingered—warm, sometimes faintly glowing in the night, pulsing against his palm whenever he touched it, as if it shared his heartbeat. At times it felt like a flame struggling to breathe. At others, like a storm coiled tightly inside glass.
Three Years Later
Seasons turned. Snow yielded to thaw, fields to harvest, and the wheel spun again.
Three years passed.
Altheron was no longer the trembling boy who had staggered from the dungeon's maw. His frame had stretched, shoulders broadening into the beginnings of manhood. Training at blade and bow had carved a steady rhythm into his days; duty and lineage honed his mind sharper than steel. The boy who once clutched at shadows now carried a sword at his hip, moving with the quiet assurance of someone who knew its weight.
But some things never changed.
The egg remained. Always at his side, wrapped in silk or bound beneath cloak. Silent, yet never lifeless.
And Emi—no longer just the sharp-eyed princess who had once doubted him—was now his closest confidante. They spoke often, laughed easily, argued sometimes, but beneath all of it ran something unspoken. She never demanded to see the egg, yet she always noticed when his hand lingered near it. She never asked questions she knew he could not answer. That, more than anything, bound them together in a way oaths never could.
Still, the King's warning echoed even after the years: Some truths are chains, not keys.
Altheron had learned to live with chains.
But fate does not slumber forever.
On the eve of spring's third bloom, whispers of change stirred. It began not with fire or thunder but with the faintest tremor—a shiver through the egg as Altheron brushed his hand across it by lamplight. Heat rippled against his skin, fleeting yet undeniable. Something inside had moved.
The same week, word reached him: the Princess wished to travel.
Officially, nothing was said. No decree was read, no banners unfurled. But Emi's will was iron beneath her smiles, and when she appeared at his family's manor—cloak drawn, eyes alight—he knew it was decided. They would leave the palace walls. They would walk the kingdom not as heir and princess, but as wanderers.
The King gave no blessing. He gave no refusal either.
So they went.
Two horses, a pair of cloaks, and coin enough for the road. No guards at their side, no fanfare of trumpets. To the world, they were simply a young swordsman and a silver-haired girl chasing stories of the road. Only Altheron's father knew otherwise. And perhaps, in the far distance, the King as well—for eyes lingered unseen.
A pair of figures trailed them, never close, never interfering. Spies in plain garb, watchers in the crowd. The boy and princess never noticed, but their steps were rarely as free as they believed.
The kingdom unfurled before them, vast and varied.
They passed valleys where orchards bloomed, their blossoms scattering pale petals in the wind. They crossed rivers where washerwomen sang in chorus, their laughter carrying with the spray. Villages welcomed them with wary stares at first, then smiles when coin jingled for bread and ale.
At night, they camped beneath skies streaked with starlight, the crackle of firewood filling the quiet. Emi told stories from old tomes—half fable, half history—her hands painting shapes in the air.
One night she laughed softly, leaning back against her saddlebag. "Do you ever wonder," she asked, "if the world is bigger than the maps say? Or if we're the ones too small to see it properly?"
Altheron only smiled faintly at the flames, fingers brushing the egg through his satchel. Bigger than maps… perhaps bigger than fate itself.
The days sharpened them both.
Emi, though a princess, was no stranger to hardship; she walked without complaint, wielded a short blade when needed, and once even bartered with a trader sharp enough to cheat most adults. Altheron watched her with something between pride and caution, aware that she was both more fragile and far stronger than she let on.
Their bond grew in the silences between words. In the shared glance when danger stirred. In the laughter that burst unexpectedly when things went wrong—a horse refusing to move, a cloak caught in a thornbush.
And yet, beneath it all, the unspoken truth lingered. The egg. The dungeon. The warning of chains.
After weeks of wandering, their path curved toward the city of Deynrith, one of the kingdom's beating hearts.
Its walls rose like jagged stone teeth, banners fluttering above, markets spilling out even beyond the gates. The air was thick with smoke and spice, clamor and chatter. Merchants shouted prices, children darted between carts, and above it all, bells tolled the hour.
But it was not the market that drew them.
Their steps carried them deeper, through winding streets where cobbles cracked beneath their boots, past crooked houses that leaned like tired old men. The smell of roasted meat tangled with the tang of iron from a blacksmith's forge. A drunk sang off-key near a tavern door, his voice clashing with the squeak of a fiddler somewhere inside.
The street narrowed, curving like a bowstring, until at its end rose a hall unlike the others. Timber beams blackened with age framed its walls, while its stone foundation stood broad and unyielding, as though it had outlasted fires, wars, and storms alike. Lanterns swung on iron hooks, their glass panes fogged with soot, casting restless shadows across the door.
A scent of smoke, sweat, and stale ale drifted even here, faint but undeniable. From within came muffled voices—laughter, argument, the clatter of mugs against wood.
And there, carved deep into weathered oak above the threshold, was a crest: two blades crossed over an open book. The mark was worn smooth by countless hands pointing, countless eyes seeking.
The Adventurers' Guild.
Altheron felt Emi slow beside him, her eyes reflecting both curiosity and determination. She smirked, tugging her hood lower. "So," she murmured, "shall we step into the stories we've only heard told?"
Around them, the noise of the city seemed to dim, replaced by the steady creak of the sign swaying in the wind.
Altheron tightened his hand briefly over the satchel at his side—the faint pulse of the egg warm against his palm. It throbbed once, harder than usual, as though answering some unseen call.
Fate stirred again.
And with a single step forward, the door of the Guild loomed before them.