Morning broke gently over the village.
Dew clung to the grass like tiny stars, and smoke curled from hearths as the first fires of the day were kindled. The adventurers awoke one by one in the guesthouse where the villagers had insisted they stay after the feast.
Kaelen was first to stir, stretching stiffly, wincing as her bruises reminded her of the previous night's battle. Lyra was sprawled across her bedroll like a collapsed puppet, muttering groggily when Kaelen nudged her. Emi rose quietly, already tying her hair back with practiced ease, while Altheron lingered last, sitting upright only when the smell of bread drifted in from outside.
The villagers welcomed them again that morning, offering food, flowers, and heartfelt gratitude. Children brought small garlands woven from wildflowers, pressing them shyly into the adventurers' hands. Hunters bowed their heads, calling them saviors. Even the elder of the village, frail and bent with age, came to bless them for driving back the dungeon's corruption.
It was a warmth the group had not felt in weeks—yet beneath the smiles and thanks, a weight remained. Each of them carried it in silence, though none spoke of it aloud.
---
The journey back through the forest revealed signs of change.
Where the trees had once dripped with shadow, now their bark looked cleaner, their leaves brighter. The foul mist that had plagued the undergrowth had thinned, leaving a freshness in the air. Birds returned to their perches, their calls echoing softly.
And yet… there was unease.
The animals, though returned, were restless—squirrels darted nervously, deer started at the slightest sound. The wind carried whispers through the canopy, not of corruption but of something unsettled. Emi glanced often into the trees, her bow close at hand, while Kaelen muttered under her breath that the woods felt "half-awake, half-dreaming."
In the distance, towering above all else, stood the Millennia Tree. Its colossal trunk gleamed faint silver in the daylight, branches stretching endlessly toward the heavens. To Altheron, it seemed unchanging, eternal. But the memory of the dungeon's shadow slipping away—of the strange ache in his chest—kept his gaze fixed upon it longer than he admitted.
---
By the time they reached Caelburn, the streets were alive with the usual bustle. Merchants shouted their wares, children darted through the crowds, guards patrolled lazily. To the city, nothing had changed.
But to the adventurers, everything had.
They stepped into the Adventurer's Guild, boots echoing against polished stone. The great hall was lively—newcomers boasting about minor quests, veterans exchanging laughs over mugs of ale, clerks at the counter shuffling papers.
The receptionist, a sharp-eyed woman with tied-back hair, looked up as they approached. "Back already? Didn't see a quest posted under your party yesterday. What's your report?"
Lyra smirked, dropping heavily into a chair. "We cleared a dungeon."
The hall went still for a heartbeat, then erupted in laughter.
"A dungeon? Where?" someone scoffed.
"Quit joking," another called. "No dungeon near Caelburn was posted."
Even the receptionist frowned, her pen pausing. "If this is some kind of prank, it won't end well. State clearly what you mean."
Kaelen's jaw tightened. "It wasn't listed. It was a hidden dungeon. Beneath the lake, east of the village."
Murmurs rippled through the guild hall. A hidden dungeon—dangerous, uncharted, often dismissed as rumor. The receptionist raised a brow. "That's a bold claim. Where is your proof?"
Kaelen glanced at the others, but Altheron spoke first, voice low. "The dungeon collapsed when its lord fell. The corpse was swallowed with it. We have no remains to show."
A wave of skepticism rolled through the hall. Scoffs, mutters, even chuckles filled the air.
"Convenient," someone muttered.
"Then you've nothing."
The receptionist folded her arms, unimpressed. "Without evidence, I cannot record this claim. Do you have any proof?"
For a moment, silence. Then Lyra slammed her pack onto the counter. "Proof? Fine. Look at this."
She pulled free a vial of liquid that shimmered faintly even in the dim light—its glow soft but unmistakably potent. A high-grade potion, the kind only ever found in hidden dungeons. Gasps spread through the onlookers.
"And this," she added, tossing a bundle of scales onto the desk. Dark, jagged, humming faintly with residual corruption. "Scales from the Dungeon Lord itself. I picked them up when the altar was crumbling. Don't tell me these are nothing."
The guild hall fell into hushed silence. Even the most skeptical adventurers leaned closer, eyes wide. The receptionist stared at the items, her professional calm cracking for the first time.
"…I will need to verify these," she said finally, her voice steadier than her expression. "If these are genuine, then you will not only be rewarded, but your party may qualify for a significant promotion. Perhaps… even beyond B-rank."
She gathered the items carefully, her hands almost reverent. "I will bring this to the Guild Leader. Return tomorrow for confirmation. Until then, your claim will remain under review."
With that, she departed toward the upper chambers, leaving a stunned silence in her wake.
The four adventurers exchanged looks. For once, even Lyra was quiet.
Kaelen sighed, running a hand through her tangled hair. "Well. That's that."
Emi's voice was calm, almost too calm. "So… what now?"
The weight of the question lingered. Finally, Kaelen gave a small, tired smile. "We've had a good run. Better than most. But… I think it's time. Our paths diverge here."
Lyra exhaled sharply, though her grin returned in softer form. "Guess even the best stories end. At least for now."
Kaelen extended her hand. "If the winds wish it… let us meet again. Take another quest. Raise a mug together."
Lyra slapped her hand on top, laughing despite the sting in her eyes. Emi added hers silently, her touch light but steady.
After a moment, Altheron placed his hand atop theirs, gripping tightly.
Kaelen pulled her hand back first. "We will meet here again tomorrow—then let's see."
The others nodded.
And just like that, the circle broke.
Kaelen and Lyra stepped out into the streets together, their voices already fading into the noise of the city. Emi lingered at Altheron's side, her presence quiet but unwavering.
Together, the two turned toward the inn.
That night, beneath the looming shadow of the Millennia Tree, something awaited Altheron.
The inn they chose was modest—timber walls, a stone hearth, and the faint smell of stew lingering in the air. Compared to the ruin of the dungeon, it felt almost too ordinary.
Emi and Altheron entered together, sharing a quiet look. The exhaustion in their eyes was mirrored silently between them. Emi slipped her bow from her back, letting it rest against the wall, while Altheron set down his sword carefully.
He sat at the edge of his bed, armor and weapon aside, staring into the small lantern flame flickering against the wooden walls. His body still ached, though the healing potions had closed his worst wounds. It wasn't the pain that unsettled him, but the memory—the weight of the Dungeon Lord's blow, the impossible strength that had risen inside him, and the faint burning sigil that none but he could even feel.
He pressed a hand to his chest. The skin was warm, the ache dull but constant. Something lay beneath the surface, silent yet restless.
He whispered to himself, almost absentmindedly, "Egg… when are you going to come out and reveal your mystery?"
For a moment, the egg stirred faintly , moving like a pulse . Then it was still again, silent, leaving only the weight and warmth beneath his hand.
Sleep did not come easily.
Midnight drew near.
Altheron finally slipped from the inn quietly, careful not to wake Emi, and made his way outside. The streets were empty, silvered under the moonlight. The air smelled faintly of dew and forest, a calm contrast to the chaos of the day.
He walked toward the heart of Caelburn, toward the Millennia Tree. As he drew closer, the immense trunk rose like a mountain, reaching toward the moon. The silver leaves shimmered softly, catching the moonlight and scattering it across the clearing.
Fireflies danced in the air, glowing in shades of deep amber, soft teal, pale violet, and gentle emerald, their tiny bodies weaving between the branches like living stars. The sight eased him, the calming colors blending into a gentle rhythm with the rustling leaves.
Altheron found a large root at the base of the tree and sat, letting his back rest against it. He lay down, letting the moonlight spill softly across his face. The wind stirred slightly, brushing through the leaves, carrying a faint, calming scent of sap and night-blooming flowers.
For a while, he let his thoughts drift. The exhaustion tugged at his eyelids, and sleep began to take him.
---
Then, the wind shifted.
A voice rose, low and broken, as though carried on the groan of ancient wood. It pressed directly into his heart, bypassing ears altogether.
"Now begins the end of thy tree…
Thee shall wither, thee shall hollow…
And in thy death, a dungeon shall be born."
Altheron stiffened. His eyes shot open. His chest throbbed with a slow, steady burn, pulsing in rhythm with the words.
"Hero of the Sword Sigil…
Wilt thou save this tree?
Or shall the end begin early,
and thy land fall into darkness?"
The wind rushed across the plain, bending grass and rustling rooftops. Brown and black leaves fell from the highest branches, twirling like dancers in the moonlight, tracing slow arcs before settling onto the ground. Twigs and smaller branches joined them, as if the tree itself were performing a final, haunting ballet under the silver glow.
Altheron watched, awe-struck and uneasy, as the dance of withered leaves and twigs settled around him.
The lanterns from the village below flickered faintly in the distance. Fireflies continued to shimmer, but the beauty of the night was tinged with dread, a subtle warning in the tranquility.
The wind died, leaving only the quiet rustle of the tree's remaining silver leaves. Altheron slowly rose, brushing away the scattered debris. His chest still carried the echo of the words, heavy and pressing.
He glanced once more at the towering Millennia Tree, reaching toward the moon, as though aware of the gravity of the warning.
With a slow breath, he turned back toward the inn, carrying the image and memory of the tree's dance with him. He slipped quietly inside, closing the door behind him, and finally let sleep claim him in the safety of his room.