Dawn broke not in gold, but in gray.
A pale mist clung to the earth like breath on glass, curling around the roots and stones of Rivenbrook. The village stirred slowly, unaware of what was to begin. Of the path about to open, not just for Aleron, but for the world itself.
He waited at the edge of the tree line, where the village thinned into shadow. Behind him, chickens clucked, a dog barked, and the scent of wet earth filled the air. But ahead—nothing but stillness. The forest towered, ancient and solemn, every tree a silent sentinel.
Lira arrived without a word, wrapped in a threadbare shawl, her boots damp with dew. She did not meet his eyes right away. Her fingers clutched a small pendant around her neck, the metal dulled with age.
"This is where I stop," she said, voice low.
Aleron nodded.
She pointed through the trees, toward a faint, barely visible path swallowed by thorns and hanging moss.
"Follow that trail until you see the archstone," she whispered. "Past that… the ruins begin. I never went further than that."
Aleron didn't ask why. He already knew.
There were places in the world that whispered not with words, but with memory. Places where blood had been spilled for reasons long forgotten—where time did not move forward, but inward. This was one of them.
"I won't be long," he said.
"You will," she replied. "Even if you return tonight, something in you will stay behind."
He didn't answer. Just turned and walked into the trees.
The forest swallowed him whole.
It wasn't like the forests he once knew—those carved by roads and patrolled by soldiers. This one was wild. Primeval. The air hung thick with rot and damp, the scent of old rain and older roots. Sunlight struggled to cut through the canopy. What little reached the ground came in scattered beams, like reluctant blessings from a hesitant god.
The path twisted and narrowed, barely a path at all, more memory than trail. Thorns scraped his cloak, moss clung to his boots, and birdsong was replaced by silence.
And then, he saw it.
The archstone.
It rose from the earth like a tooth, broken and half-buried, carved with runes so weathered they looked more like wounds than language. Ivy coiled around its base, as if trying to pull it back into the soil.
Aleron stepped closer, hand brushing the worn stone. It vibrated faintly, not with sound—but something deeper. A hum in his bones. A memory not his own.
He walked on.
Beyond the arch, the forest changed. Trees twisted unnaturally, their bark darker, their limbs bent like they had grown in pain. Stones dotted the ground in strange patterns—too perfect to be natural, too ancient to be recent.
And then, the ruins revealed themselves.
They weren't grand. Not anymore. Just remnants—fractured columns, a collapsed dais, fragments of what may have once been a temple or gathering place. But the air around them shimmered faintly. As if the place remembered what it had been.
He stepped into the clearing.
Suddenly—the wind stopped.
The trees didn't move. Birds didn't call. Even his breath sounded distant.
And then—
A whisper.
No louder than a thought.
No clearer than smoke.
But it spoke.
"Return…"
Aleron turned sharply. No one there.
Again:
"Return to the circle."
His heart slammed in his chest, not in fear—but recognition.
There were secrets here.
Secrets meant for him.
He knelt near the collapsed stone dais, brushing aside layers of dirt and vines. His fingers touched something—cold and smooth. He pulled.
A symbol.
A carved disc of black stone, etched with an insignia long buried by time.
His insignia.
His royal crest.
His hand trembled—not from weakness, but from clarity.
This was no coincidence.
Someone had brought it here.
Someone wanted it to be found.
His past hadn't just been erased.
It had been buried.
And now?
Now, it was beginning to rise again.
As he stood, the wind returned—but this time, it carried more than just air.
It carried voices.
Dozens. Hundreds. Too many to count.
Not screaming. Not moaning.
Chanting.
Softly.
"Return. Return. Return…"
Aleron did not run.
He smiled.
The dead were not done with him.
And he was not done with the living.
The chanting faded like smoke in the wind.
Aleron stood in the clearing, his hand clutching the black disc tightly. The runes carved into it pulsed with a cold heat—faint but undeniable. His crest. His legacy. Buried not by time, but by intent.
This place wasn't forgotten.
It was sealed.
The weight of it pressed against his chest—not fear, but truth, slowly blooming like a dark flower. Whatever happened to him, whatever hand had twisted fate and dragged him from throne to dirt—it started here.
This forest.
These ruins.
This silence.
The chants had not been of this world. They echoed in a language older than kingdoms, spoken not by lips, but by the ground itself.
He crouched again, examining the moss-covered floor. His fingers traced a pattern in the stones, worn almost smooth. A circle within a circle—ancient sigil work. Ritualistic. Familiar.
He closed his eyes.
Let memory bleed.
Let it return.
And it did.
Visions—flashes behind the lids of his eyes. A moonless night. Cloaked figures gathered here. Torches crackling with unnatural blue flame. Voices—real voices—chanting in rhythm. His name carved into the stone with a blade. His blood offered. Not in death—but in betrayal.
One of them had worn gold.
The others bowed to him.
Then the pain—sharp, hot, endless—and the scream that tore from his throat as his soul was ripped from body and cast into ash and silence.
He opened his eyes, chest heaving.
The betrayal wasn't from an enemy.
It was from within his own court.
They were here.
They did this to me.
Aleron rose slowly, body trembling with fury held in check only by will.
But as he turned to leave, something shifted.
The air grew colder.
And the ruins began to stir.
Stone grated against stone.
A slab near the center of the clearing slid back, revealing stairs descending into utter blackness. Cold, ancient air seeped up from below. Aleron didn't hesitate. He descended.
Each step groaned under his weight, not in weakness—but as if protesting his presence.
The descent was long. Far longer than the ruins above would suggest. The passage narrowed, walls pressing in with damp stone. And at the bottom—light.
A flickering blue flame floated in midair, casting shadows against a circular chamber. The walls were covered in glyphs—runic spirals that seemed to move if stared at too long. At the center, a pedestal. Upon it, a small box, sealed with gold and bone.
Aleron approached.
There was no keyhole.
Only a single rune etched across the lid. His eyes narrowed.
The Rune of Oaths.
Ancient. Binding. Impossible to open without…
Blood.
His blood.
He pressed his thumb against the symbol.
The box shuddered.
Clicked.
Opened.
Inside lay a folded piece of parchment—preserved perfectly. He unfolded it, hands steady despite the storm within him.
A letter.
Written in a hand he recognized instantly.
His own.
If you are reading this, then the veil did not hold. That means they failed to erase me completely. Which means you survived... somehow.
I cannot explain everything now. Memory is fragile. But know this: You were not the only one betrayed. You were not the only one who died.
There were others. Bound to you. Killed with you. Scattered to the wind.
Find them.
They remember more than you do.
And when you are ready—come to the capital.
Where your crown still bleeds.
—A.
The chamber began to shake.
Dust fell from the ceiling.
The flame blinked out.
Aleron turned and bolted up the stairs as stone cracked behind him. The ruins above shuddered and groaned as the ground swallowed the entrance once more. The earth closed like a mouth sealing a secret.
But the truth had already escaped.
He stood in the forest, heart pounding, breath sharp in the cold morning air.
There were others.
Survivors.
He wasn't alone.
And somewhere—his kingdom still bled.
Aleron looked toward the rising sun, light filtering through branches like spears of gold.
The hunt had truly begun.
And he would not stop until the world remembered the name they tried to erase.
Not a peasant.
Not a corpse.
A King.
Returned.