Morning light crept gently into the inn, pale and cool, brushing across Altheron's face. His eyes opened slowly, though there was no rest in them. The memory of the voice beneath the Millennia Tree still clung to him, echoing like the groan of ancient wood.
His movements were sluggish as he sat up. Emi, already awake, was adjusting the string of her bow. She glanced at him, sharp eyes catching the pallor in his expression.
"You look like you wrestled a bear in your sleep," she said lightly.
Altheron gave a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Something like that."
She studied him for a moment longer but let it go, her silence speaking of trust rather than ignorance. If he wished to speak, he would. Until then, she would wait.
Together, they gathered their things and stepped into the brisk air of Caelburn. The streets bustled with the life of early trade: carts rolled, merchants barked their wares, children wove through crowds. To the city, it was just another morning. But to the two of them, it carried weight—the verdict of the Guild awaited.
The Adventurer's Guild was already alive when they arrived. Inside, the great hall echoed with chatter, clinking mugs, and the scratch of quills across parchment.
Whispers trailed them as they entered. Word of their claim had spread overnight—hidden dungeon, lake, collapsed altar. Most scoffed, some doubted, but all were curious.
The receptionist from the day before straightened as she saw them approach. Without a word, she disappeared through the heavy door behind her counter. A hush rippled through the guild hall.
Moments later, she returned—flanked by a tall, broad-shouldered man with steel-gray hair and eyes as sharp as polished blades. The Guildmaster.
Every voice in the hall dropped to silence.
He studied the adventurers in a single sweep, gaze settling on the items laid upon the counter: the faintly glowing vial, the dark, jagged scales. His hand hovered above them for a moment before lifting one between his fingers.
"Undeniably genuine," he said, his tone carrying the weight of judgment. "High-grade potion—rare. And these scales…" He turned them over, their corrupted sheen catching the light. "The signature of a Dungeon Lord, without question."
A ripple went through the onlookers. Some gasped, others muttered.
The Guildmaster set the items down carefully. "You four not only discovered but conquered a hidden dungeon—something that eludes even seasoned adventurers. Such feats shift the balance of our records."
His eyes swept the group, lingering on Altheron. "For this, your party shall be recognized. As of today, you are officially promoted to B-Rank."
The hall erupted.
Some clapped, others gawked in disbelief. Whispers filled the air: jealousy, admiration, resentment. "B-Rank already? After one quest?" … "Hidden dungeons aren't even supposed to exist near Caelburn." … "Luck. That's all it is."
But above it all, the Guildmaster's declaration stood unshaken.
"You've proven yourselves. Few will believe it, but history records facts, not opinions. Enjoy your new station… and the responsibilities that come with it."
The guild hall remained tense with murmurs even after he left, but the mark was made: the four of them were now B-Rank adventurers. Official. Immediate.
The adventurers exchanged glances. Emi's face was unreadable, Kaelen's stern features softened for once, and Lyra—Lyra grinned like she had just stolen the crown jewels.
"Well," Kaelen said at last, exhaling. "That settles it."
"Settles what?" Altheron asked.
"Our adventure," Kaelen replied simply.
Lyra leaned back against the counter, smirking. "Don't look so grim, boy. It doesn't mean forever. But the winds say it's time we part ways."
Altheron blinked, caught off guard. Emi's expression barely changed, though her eyes flicked between the two older adventurers.
Kaelen extended her hand toward Altheron first. "Thank you. For fighting beside us. Strength without direction is dangerous—don't lose yours."
He clasped her hand firmly.
Lyra dug into her pack, pulled free a dagger, and twirled it once before tossing it to him. He caught it awkwardly.
"Keep it," she said. "For when the odds look so stupid you'd laugh. Think of me when you stab something twice your size."
Emi, at last, broke the silence. "If the winds will it," she said softly, "we'll meet again."
Kaelen's smile was small but real. "Then let's see what tomorrow brings."
And just like that, the circle broke.
Kaelen and Lyra strode off together, their voices fading into the guild's noise. Altheron and Emi remained side by side, the quiet between them steady but not heavy.
After a long time, it was just the two of them.
The guild's clamor slowly faded behind them as Altheron and Emi stepped out into the city streets. The midday sun lit Caelburn in golden hues—stone walls gleamed, banners fluttered lazily, and the usual bustle of merchants and townsfolk filled the air.
And yet, Altheron felt the weight of unseen eyes. Not the villagers' gratitude from before, but the sharp envy of fellow adventurers, jealousy simmering beneath polite facades. Their sudden rise to B-Rank had shaken more than records. A few adventurers muttered under their breath; a tanked mug clattered in frustration on a nearby table. The hall's tension lingered like smoke.
Emi walked quietly at his side, bow slung across her back, her steps measured. She, too, noticed the glances that followed them. Not awe. Not respect. Something sharper.
"They'll talk," she said simply.
"Let them," Altheron muttered. But in truth, he didn't like it. Not the whispers, not the stares, not the sense that something had shifted beyond his control.
What he didn't know was that not all eyes belonged to guild members. Among the crowd, cloaked figures slipped away—watchers who bore no guild crest, only silence and purpose. They moved swiftly, reporting their findings, until their parchments were carried into the castle.
As the day waned, they wandered through Caelburn's heart. The Millennia Tree loomed above the city, its vast boughs shading entire districts, its silver leaves glowing faintly in the afternoon light. Children played in its shadow, priests offered blessings, couples strolled beneath its canopy.
Yet beneath the beauty, subtle unease stirred.
A pair of priests whispered near the base of the trunk, one pointing at a faint line in the bark. "It wasn't there last week. A crack?"
"Natural," the other dismissed quickly. "The Tree has stood for ages. Old wood shows its years."
Further off, an old man swept brittle leaves into a pile, muttering that autumn had come early. No one else questioned it. The citizens laughed, traded, prayed as always.
But Altheron's eyes lingered. The voice beneath the Tree haunted him still, its words heavier in memory than even the Dungeon Lord's roar. He felt it in his chest again—an echo, faint but persistent.
Emi noticed his far-off gaze. "You're quiet again."
He forced a small nod. "Just… thinking."
"About the Tree?" she asked.
His silence was answer enough.
Elsewhere, deep within capitals castle, the cloaked spies knelt. Their report was swiftly written and carried into a private chamber.
King Eryndor sat not upon his throne, but in a simple chair beside a polished oak table, a parchment already in hand. Across from him stood Lord Kaelmourn—Altheron's father.
Both men were no longer the fierce youths they had once been, but the bond of their shared childhood still lingered in their eyes. Tonight, it was not a King and subject who spoke—it was two old friends, fathers of children walking paths greater than themselves.
"The boy has grown," the King murmured, scanning the report. "Hidden dungeons… B-Rank already. Just like his mother's fire, but steadier. More grounded."
Kaelmourn's lips curved faintly, though pride was tempered with unease. "He is stubborn. But his heart is true. Too true, perhaps."
"True hearts bear the heaviest burdens," Eryndor said softly. His gaze drifted toward the parchment again. "And this Emi—quiet, but unwavering. The report says she stays close to him. I wonder if fate weaves more than just camaraderie."
Kaelmourn chuckled softly. "He used to chase fireflies in the courtyard as a boy, never feared the dark… and now the dark itself hunts him."
The two men exchanged a glance, the weight of years between them. Not as King and knight, but as fathers who had once dreamed, fought, and bled together.
"Let us hope," Kaelmourn said at last, "that the world does not demand too much of them too soon."
Eryndor set the report aside, eyes shadowed. "Hope, yes. But prepare as well. Shadows stir in Caelburn, old friend. And our children stand at the heart of it."
That night, sleep did not come.
Altheron lay in the inn, staring at the ceiling while the steady rhythm of Emi's breathing filled the room. He pressed a hand to his chest, where a dull ache pulsed like a second heartbeat.
The voice returned in fragments, sharper now than when he'd first heard it:
The roots bleed…
Shadows rise…
If thou dost not act… Caelburn shall fall.
He sat up, restless, and slipped quietly from the room. The city was hushed under moonlight. Lanterns flickered low, and the distant hum of night creatures stirred at the edges of the streets. His boots carried him almost of their own accord—toward the Tree.
When he arrived at the clearing, the Millennia Tree towered above like a mountain of silver and shadow. Its branches reached toward the heavens, leaves shimmering faintly beneath the moon. "Fireflies drifted in slow arcs—golden, emerald, violet, and blue—glimmering like scattered stars, their tiny wings flickering in the gentle night breeze."
"Moonlight drifted through gaps in the canopy, illuminating the silver leaves with a soft, quivering glow."
"The Tree was majestic, quiet, yet unsettling, a beauty that carried a weight beyond calm."
Altheron stood there, breath caught in his chest. It was beautiful, eternal, calming. And yet—wrong.
A low crack echoed.
The brittle branch whispered against the wind as it fell, scattering smaller twigs and leaves. The faint scent of damp earth rose as they settled, a hauntingly graceful fall beneath the moonlight."
Most of the city slept, unaware. But to Altheron, it was a warning.
The Tree's earlier words thundered in his mind:
"Hero of the Sword Sigil… wilt thou save this tree? Or shall the end begin early, and thy land fall into darkness?"
He clenched his fists, jaw tight, staring up at the wounded giant.
"If this is just the beginning…" he whispered to the silent night, "…how much worse will it grow?"
The wind carried no answer. Only the slow rustle of leaves and the faint glow of fireflies dancing in defiance of the coming rot.
And under the moonlight, Altheron turned back toward the inn—knowing that fate would not let him rest for long.