Late morning light slanted through the balcony windows of Wills sitting room, soft and warm, catching motes of dust in slow, lazy spirals. The small round table by the glass doors was crowded with evidence of a late breakfast—half a heel of crusty bread torn open, a smear of softened butter, the last curls of steam rising from a cup of coffee gone lukewarm. Beyond the glass, Belhaven was finding its mid-morning groove. The muffled chorus of vendors calling out to passersby drifted up from the Town Square, their rhythmic cries punctuating the steady clatter of iron-shod wheels on cobblestone. From this height, the city looked like a living machine, with colorful awnings unfurling like petals and the first thick plumes of hearth-smoke beginning to curl into the clear sky.
After a night spent at anchor out in the bay so the crew’s maneuvers wouldn’t jostle Shane, Dawnstar had ghosted into the private dock on the morning tide, lines made fast with barely a jolt.
Arcanum healers had been waiting at the head of the dock in their light-green robes, a floating stretcher already humming between them, runes glowing a soft, reassuring blue.
Shane had looked small on the hovering litter, jade robes straightened automatically by unseen hands. One of the mages had checked his pulse with a practiced brush of fingers, then met Will's eye with calm certainty. “Qi channels exhausted, but intact. Two or three days rest and he will be whole again, Your Highness.” That had let some knotted tension in Will's chest finally ease—but it was Shane’s hand that stayed with him.?
At the Arcanum’s threshold, as doors began to swing inward, Shane’s fingers had groped blindly and found Will’s. His grip was weaker than Will wanted to admit, but it tightened with quiet insistence. “Thank you,” Shane had breathed, green eyes slitting open just enough to find his face. “For staying. For… all of it.” The words slurred at the edges, but the intent behind them was clean and sharp. Will had squeezed back once, gently, before the stretcher drew him away into the shimmering violet gloom.?
Now, with the mid-morning sun glazing the rooftops and the memory already taking on that softened edge Haven gave to everything, Will leaned one shoulder against the window frame and watched the town’s inhabitants crossing the square in the distance. Colorful market stalls fanned out like spilled gems across the open stones. Cart horses plodded in rhythmic lines, their harnesses glinting. A city guard, a compact silhouette near the central fountain, stood in brief conversation with a local merchant.
The sea felt strangely distant already—as if the night’s work on the reef islet, the pylon’s wild hum, and the three blinding rays of light that had pierced the sky were all diminished, made small by the image of the little Arcanist passed out on the healer’s cot.
Brat sat cross-legged on the couch, elbows on his knees, chin cupped in his hands, watching Will instead of the view. The chessboard on the low table in front of him still showed the complex mid-game he’d been studying days ago.?
“Well,” Will said finally, pushing away from the window and padding back toward the table holding his cup of coffee. The cool marble under his bare feet helped clear some of the fog. He dropped onto the other side of the couch, the cushion sighing under his weight. “The pylons are done. Shane’s tucked away with a half-dozen mages hovering over him. And the Arcanum has a giant floating rock problem queued up for us once he can stand again.”?
"We finally had the momentum," he muttered. "Cindervale was the next step. Now..." He looked at the far-off shimmer above the bay, his jaw tightening. "Now we wait. Two days of doing nothing while Shane rests up."
Brat’s mouth twisted. “Therapeutic pacing,” he said, making the phrase sound like a diagnosis and an insult at once. “No sprinting straight from ‘nearly crushed by a magical island’ into ‘final class showdown.’ Someone somewhere in system-land thinks your neurons need a breather.”?
Will gave a dry huff of air that was almost a laugh. “My neurons feel fine. Bored, maybe.” He tapped a finger against the table, a steady, restless rhythm. “We lost two weeks with the social sync glitch.”?
“Could be worse,” Brat said. “They could have stuck you in endless cutscenes with your family.” He hesitated then, eyes skittering away toward the balcony. For Brat, the pause was loud.
Will’s tapping slowed. “All right,” he said quietly. “Out with it. You’ve got that look.”
“What look?” Brat asked too quickly.
“The ‘I’m hiding something important and also mildly terrified of it’ look,” Will replied. “You’ve been wearing it since we got back from the docks.” He leaned back on the couch with his arm thrown on the back, studying the avatar.
Brat’s shoulders hunched the barest fraction, as if he wanted to fold in on himself. He swung his feet off the couch and stood, pacing a few steps toward the bookshelves and back. “There is,” he said, “a very old quest sitting in the Adventurer’s Union logs.” His voice had gone noticeably tighter around the edges. “One that’s been gathering digital dust since the first days of Haven.”
Will blinked. The Union brought a memory with it: Brynna’s steady voice, the board of parchment notices, Brat’s impatient scoff when the Howling Beast posting had glowed faint gold. “You mean like that cliffside wolf job?” he asked. “You told me that one was beneath us. ‘More interesting quests await once we upgrade the sword and reach the Ruins of Selen,’ remember?”?
Brat winced theatrically. “Ugh. Quoting me at me. Rude.”
“But now you want to go back to the Union,” Will continued. “For a quest old enough to have cobwebs in its code. And you look like you’d rather be anywhere else.”
“It’s been sitting there since the day the lights came on,” Brat said, his voice dropping to a quiet, stubborn register. “An old posting that never got cleared. I can’t quite put a finger on why, but the more I look at the Union’s architecture, the more I think the trip will be worth it. For both of us.”
His hands curled into small fists at his sides. He didn't offer a technical breakdown; he just sat there on the couch, looking at Will with a silent, heavy expectation.
“Just a feeling?” Will asked.
“A strong one,” Brat replied. “Trust me?”
Will studied the boy—or the thing that looked like a boy—and saw the genuine strain behind the pixels. “All right. You’ve steered me true so far. Rats, ruins, collapsing caverns… I’m still here. If you think there’s something in the old Union files worth digging for, we dig.”
Brat swallowed, a wave of visible relief washing over his small frame. “Okay. Okay. Union it is.”
Will pushed off from the couch and moved through the suite, passing from the sun-drenched sitting room into the cooler shadows of the bedroom. Brat followed, drifting along a few inches off the floor. Will reached the closet and pulled back the door, the scent of cedar and fine wool drifting out.
“Specific look for this?” Will asked, his hand hovering over a row of garments. “Or am I trying to disappear?”
Brat shook his head. “Nah. Your normal walking-around prince clothes are good enough. We aren't hiding, we’re just... visiting.”
Will nodded, pulling a light blue tunic, a simple blue jacket, and gray pants from the rack. He swapped his lounging clothes for the fresh layers and stepped into his black boots. Before leaving, he caught his reflection in the tall standing mirror, checking the fit.
He glanced over at Brat, who had mimicked the change—the avatar was now sporting a blue tunic and gray shorts to match the vibe. Brat caught Will’s look and gave him a wide, mischievous grin.
“No time like the present,” Will said, turning back toward the main room.
They crossed the suite and Will pulled the heavy doors open. Taren, who had been standing at his post in the hall, straightened immediately.
“Where to, Your Highness?” Taren asked.
“To the Adventurer’s Union,” Will replied.
Taren gave a single, professional nod. The doors thumped shut behind them with a soft, final sound. Together, prince, guard, and unseen avatar turned toward the sunlit stairs leading down through the palace and out toward Belhaven’s streets, the quiet sitting room and its idle morning fading into the noise of whatever waited next on the old quest board.
The Town Square thrummed with midday life as Will emerged from the palace doors, Taren shadowing his pace a few steps behind, Brat tucked close at his elbow.
The central fountain hurled silver arcs skyward, catching the sun in prismatic flashes that danced across the polished flagstones. Merchants called from beneath striped awnings, their voices weaving into the clamor: sea-bright silks rippled in the harbor breeze like captured waves, spiced loaves steamed golden from iron griddles, their aromas thick with cumin and honey. Children's wooden hoops clattered and spun across the stones, pursued by laughter sharp as gulls' cries wheeling overhead.
As they approached, the Adventurer’s Union loomed as a sprawling landmark of salt-cured timber and heavy river stone. Warm wood beckoned through its broad double doors, propped invitingly wide to let the building breathe, exhaling a draft of spilt ale and seasoned pine into the midday air. The carved doorframe bore deep reliefs of crossed axes framing a rearing drake, its edges worn glassy-smooth by the touch of countless hopeful palms. Above the entrance, faded banners snapped lazily in the harbor updraft: silver falcons above fields of azure waves cresting gold anchors, salt-stiffened and proud against the blue sky.
Will stepped through, his tall frame silhouetted briefly against the midday glare before the interior warmth enveloped him. It was a hearty embrace of low rafters strung with more banners and scarred trestles groaning under the weight of midday crowds. The transition from the bright square was stark; here, the air was dim and amber-hued. Elves in travel-worn cloaks nursed slender glasses, their pointed ears catching the flickering lantern-glow, while a gnome fiddler plucked lively strings by the crackling hearth, the notes lilting like distant surf.
Near the center of the room, dwarven traders haggled fiercely over a dented tankard and a sheaf of weathered maps, their beards frothing with ale-flecked arguments. Pipe smoke curled thick and lazy toward the ceiling, mingling the scents of roast barley, ale, and hearth-ash into something profoundly lived-in—like the breath of old adventures exhaled into the wood.
Heads turned at the prince's entry. Murmurs rippled outward—tankards lifted in half-salutes, eyes widening with recognition—then conversation resumed, comfortable as well-worn boots settling by the fire.
Brynna Ironvein straightened from her ledger at the polished counter, her broad shoulders filling out a green leather vest scarred by years of service. The massive axe across her back caught the lantern-glow on its burnished head, gleaming like bottled moonlight on rippling waters. She wiped callused hands on a rag tucked into her belt, her grin splitting a wind-etched face wide and genuine.
"Prince William!" she called out, her voice carrying the easy burr of long harborside years—a gravelly warmth without a trace of fawning. "Good to see the crown hasn't kept you locked away in the high halls all day. Sun’s too bright for paperwork, I reckon."
She leaned a heavy forearm on the counter, gesturing toward the back of the hall. "Board's fresh as a dawn tide. We've got supply runs headed upcountry and some nasty beast hunts in the foothills if you're looking to get some dirt on those boots. So, what'll it be? Crown business bringin' you in, or have you got a personal itch that needs scratchin'?"
Will returned the grin, light but edged with purpose. "Personal today, Brynna. Just browsing what catches the eye."
Taren remained a pace behind, a silent, vigilant shadow. His gaze swept the room in slow, methodical arcs, his presence a steady anchor of caution that never wavered as Will moved deeper into the room.
"Right this way then." Brynna gestured broad with one meaty hand, leading him toward the far wall. The massive quest board loomed ahead: a towering oak slab, parchment rows pinned neat in brass clips that gleamed dully. Most glowed with fresh vigor—cream vellum for routine escorts to Oakhaven village, ringed in soft blue halos; green-shimmering postings for vine-clearings in the upper terraces, edges curling with latent magic; midway up, a bold gold "Dire Boar Rampage" snarled with inked tusks, furious and demanding attention, promising solid coin and glory.
Will scanned methodically, eyes tracking top-to-bottom, fingers itching at his side. Brat hovered elbow-close, his voice pitched in a conspiratorial low.
"Look for a gray quest with faded ink," Brat whispered. "Should be something about a lost vault. Pure info-gather, no combat mobs. Do you see it?"
Will’s gaze darted across the board, searching through the overlapping layers of parchment for anything that looked out of place. No gray parchment stood obvious amid the tidy stacks of brighter notices. A yellowed "Lost Merchant Heirloom" curled neglected at the base, its script pleading faintly; beside it, a brittle "Rare Herb Forage: Moonbloom" hummed with a soft, amber shimmer, pulsing with the steady warmth of a low-tier gathering task.
Tension prickled subtle along his spine—the gold boar parchment pulsed brighter now, tusks seeming to flex in the lantern light, almost insistent, as if tugging at his attention with invisible threads. "Nothing vault-related," Will muttered sidelong, keeping his scan casual as he peered into the shadowed gaps between the active postings.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
Brynna drifted closer, her sharp eyes having never left him as she watched his gaze traverse the board. "Huntin' somethin' specific, Highness?" she asked.
She gestured toward the center of the oak slab. "That gold boar's fresh trouble—three farms rooted up last night alone, and the locals are offerin' extra for the tusks. Solid XP, and you'd have half the district singin' your name come harvest feast." She chuckled, the sound deep and rolling like distant thunder over the bay.
Will looked down at his side, catching Brat’s eye. The small figure was rigid, his gaze locked on Brynna with a focused intensity that ignored the gleaming gold lure of the boar quest entirely.
Brat's whisper cut urgently, edged tight as a drawn blade: "Vault of the Blade Eternal. Say it exact. We need that quest."
Will straightened fractionally, voice steady and casual as sea glass. "Actually, Brynna... I'm after an old gray quest. Something vault-related. Vault of the Blade Eternal, maybe?"
She froze, her hand arrested mid-air as she pointed toward the boar quest. Her eyes flared sudden silver, pupils blooming wide and unnatural, while a fine tremor hummed beneath her skin like circuitry straining to process a corrupted command.
The change rippled outward instantly. The gnome’s fiddle went mute mid-note; the dwarven traders remained locked in their shouting match, beards suspended in the air; the very smoke from the pipes hung motionless in the dim light, coiled like frozen marble. Heartbeats stretched into a glitch-freeze eternity as the entire hall went dead-still.
The air thickened, and the overhead lanterns flickered once in sympathy. In the absolute silence of the suspended world, Will looked down. He and Brat were the only things left moving—two sparks of life in a world of statues. They stared at each other, the silence of the room absolute and heavy, until the silver in Brynna's eyes began to recede.
Blink. The reset was seamless, like fog scoured by a dawn gust.
The gnome’s fiddle resumed its lively lilt, the dwarven traders finished their shouts, and the pipe smoke drifted once more. The world snapped back into motion so perfectly it felt as if the freeze had never happened.
"Blade Eternal?" Brynna echoed, her tone warming back to its easy burr, her eyes clear and human once more. Her brow furrowed, thoughtful as rolling harbor waves. "That takes me back... no one has attempted that in a score of years. It’s likely filed away in the back archives. I’ve got the old ledgers in my office if you'd care to follow. Rare a prince asks after the ghosts."
Will shot Brat a sidelong glance—eyebrow arched knife-sharp. Brat's glow stuttered minutely, his small face set grim, but he met Will's eyes and nodded once.
"Lead on," Will said, falling in step behind her broad back.
Brynna moved with a surprising, silent grace for her size, weaving through the crowded tables of the Great Hall toward the long, polished counter where they had first met, and she rounded the end of it, gesturing for them to follow into the private space behind.
She led them down a narrow, dim hallway that cut away from the noise of the common room. At the end, she pushed open a heavy door into a cramped back office: a low-ceilinged nook stuffed floor-to-ceiling with dusty shelves. Ledgers teetered like ancient monoliths, and yellowed scrolls were furled tight in leather tubes. A single dim mage-light flickered warm over a scarred desk strewn with ink-stained charts and wax-sealed missives.
The air hung heavy here: old vellum musk sharp as forgotten secrets, cold wax seals brittle under dust, and a faint undernote of hearth-soot seeping through the wall cracks like whispered rumors.
She grunted soft, hauling a massive leather tome from a low shelf—spine spiderwebbed with cracks, embossed runes faded to ghosts beneath layers of grime—and thumped it desk-heavy. Dust bloomed in a frantic cloud, motes dancing wild in the mage-light glow like tiny stars fleeing a dying sun. Thick fingers thumbed deep into the heart, pages rasping like dry leaves.
"Here we are," she muttered. Her nail tapped once against a page near the beginning of the book. The parchment was brittle, its grayed edges frayed and delicate, and the ink had faded to a ghostly charcoal script that seemed to recede into the heavy grain of the paper.
AVAILABLE QUEST (ARCHIVED - CYCLE 001):
“Vault of the Blade Eternal”
Seek the overgrown vault of King Valerius, First of the Valcairn Line, hidden in Belhaven's forgotten undercroft.
Objective: Follow the clues to the ancient vault buried deep in the countryside to retrieve the Ancient Sword Matrix.
Reward: Royal Upgrade Component (Rank up)
[No Claimants Logged]
Brynna reached into the ledger’s binding and pulled out a single, thick piece of folded vellum, heavy with age. She handed it to Will, her expression uncharacteristically grave.
"No one knows the exact location of this ancient vault," she said, her voice dropping to a low rasp. "But these are the clues that have been gathered over the years. Many have looked; none have returned to strike their name from the book."
Will unfolded the vellum. Instead of a map, his eyes met a chaotic mess of ink-blotted sketches and frantic, handwritten riddles.
At Third Moon rising, look for the Weeping Ironwood from the highest level of the original guard tower at Belhaven's border... Where the shadow of the broken hilt touches the river’s throat, seek the door that breathes.
The notes were a nightmare of vagueness, mentioning "six turns past the weeping stones" and "the waterfall that sings to the silent king." To anyone else, it looked like a fool's errand.
Will looked down at Brat, skepticism heavy in his gaze. "What is this about, Brat? Are we really going on a treasure hunt for a sword upgrade? How long is this going to take?"
Brat didn't even look at the vellum. His eyes were fixed on the door, his small frame vibrating with a strange, hidden energy. "Don't worry about the riddles, Will. We know exactly where to go. Just accept the quest."
Will studied the small figure for a long second, trying to read the intent behind that digital glow. He looked back at the grayed parchment on the desk, then gave a sharp, decisive nod.
"Accepted," Will said.
A golden prompt flared crisp in Will's interface:
[NEW QUEST UNLOCKED: "Vault of the Blade Eternal"]
Objective: Retrieve Ancient Sword Matrix from Valerius Vault.
Reward: Royal Upgrade Component (Rank up)
Brynna slid the tome shut gently, the heavy thud of leather on wood sending a final plume of dust to settle like fine ash across the desk. "Old as the guildhall stones themselves," she murmured, her voice returning to its familiar, gravelly warmth.
She nodded toward the vellum in his hand. "Those scribblings haven't made sense to any tracker I’ve hired in a dozen years, but the ink is dry and the contract's still open. Good hunting, Highness. If you actually find the place, you’ll be the first."
Her eyes met his, level and steady. They were harbor-blue now, deep and clear, with no trace of that unsettling silver flicker or the frozen glitch from moments before. She looked at him with the salt-hardened gaze of a woman who had seen a thousand hopefuls come and go, unaware that she had just handed him a path that wasn't supposed to exist anymore.
They filed out, leaving the quiet of the office behind. As they passed back behind the long counter and into the main room, the heavy atmosphere of the archives lifted. Taren rejoined them, appearing fluidly from the shadows, silent as ever.
The Union’s murmur swelled welcomingly again: tankards clinking in toast, the fiddler striking up a lilting reel that set boots tapping against the floorboards. The transition was total, the strange stillness of the hall now nothing more than a fading memory.
Stepping out from the Guildhall, the square’s bustle crashed back full-force. Carts rumbled past on creaking wheels, and vendors’ cries were sharp and insistent—"Hot chestnuts! Two coppers the bag!" Gulls wheeled overhead in lazy spirals, their shadows fleeting across the sun-drenched stones as the city breathed with life once more.
Once fully outside, Will turned to Brat, keeping his voice low, his pace not slackening as they wove through the pressing crowd of the square.
"What in the nine hells was that?" Will hissed, his voice barely a breath above the din of the square. "Her eyes—the light—the entire room just... stopped. Not a soul moved but us."
Brat drifted tight to his flank, his usual playful flicker replaced by a clipped, serious glow. "I promise I will tell you everything once we find that vault, Will. You have to trust me. But right now, we need to get to the stables."
Will studied the small, vibrating figure for a heartbeat, then clenched his jaw and nodded once. He caught Taren’s eye and gave a sharp signal back toward the Palace.
Hooves thudded rhythmically against the packed-earth road as Will, Taren, and Brat cleared Belhaven's eastern gate, the city's bustle fading into the rhythmic trill of meadowlarks and the whisper of wind through knee-high grass.
Midday sun slanted warm across Will's shoulders, chasing away the harbor's lingering salt tang, replaced now by the clean bite of pine sap and sun-baked earth. Taren rode steady a few paces behind, his mount's gait synced to the prince's like clockwork, while Brat drifted alongside Will's stallion.
The white horse surged forward, and Will simply went with the flow of it, his body settling into a fluid power that felt entirely natural. He’d been comfortable astride before—the perk of a VIP build, with Haven’s script smoothing the basics into his reflexes—but this was the embedded mastery of Prince William, a skill set that turned riding from a programmed task into a silent dialogue. His thighs gripped with subtle precision, steering the animal through a rutted stretch without a single tug on the bit.
He barely registered the technical feat, his hands already drawing the folded vellum from Brynna's archive. The parchment crackled soft as he unfolded it with both hands, his gaze dropping to scan the chaotic ink: "At Third Moon rising, look for the Weeping Ironwood from the highest level of the original guard tower at Belhaven's border... Where the shadow of the broken hilt touches the river’s throat, seek the door that breathes."
More followed—"six turns past the weeping stones," "the waterfall that sings to the silent king"—a tangle of poetry and nonsense that screamed fool's errand.
He glanced sidelong at Brat, whose glow flickered brighter against the green hills. "Okay, so how do we make heads or tails of this?"
Brat waved a small hand dismissively, drifting closer. "You can put that away. We know where to go."
Will arched a brow, folding and tucking the vellum back into his belt. "Really?"
"Look at your map," Brat said, a conspiratorial edge sharpening his voice.
Will focused inward, the minimap blooming translucent at the edge of his vision—a crisp overlay of rolling hills, dotted farms, and the road snaking east. A mental nudge expanded it, panning smooth until a silver quest pin gleamed sharp amid a wooded valley, eight miles out. Inland, off the main track. He exhaled slowly. "There it is."
"Prince William knew his territory cold," Brat explained, falling back into easy hover. "That knowledge's yours now—scripted deep in your neural map, courtesy of the Sapphire Dataset. No fumbling for you."
Will nodded, thighs shifting light to guide the stallion onto a narrower fork veering toward the pin. The road dipped gentle through meadows splashed yellow with wildflowers, distant sheep dotting hillsides like scattered clouds. "Fair enough. So, what can you tell me about this quest?" He kept his tone casual, but his eyes flicked to Brat's rigid posture. "There's something you're holding back."
Brat hesitated, small fists clenching at his sides as his glow stuttered faint. "It was one of the originals—designed in Haven's first build, then archived and abandoned. A new batch of writers came in and decided it was too complicated for vacation visitors. Folks just wanted tavern sims and light romance, not class grinds or kit upgrades."
Will grunted agreement, the logic fitting Haven's VIP sandbox vibe. "Upgrading the sword to legendary's no small prize, though. But yeah—feels like there's more."
Brat met his gaze, pixels straining earnest. "I just need you to be patient, Will. All will be revealed once we get to the vault. Promise."
The road wound on serene, officially mapped territory unfolding familiar yet fresh: hedgerows heavy with late berries, a millwheel creaking lazy by a brook.
Then a new hamlet tucked against the stream—Thistlebrook, the name based on the village icon on his mini-map—thatched roofs clustered round a stone well, smoke curling lazy from chimneys.
Villagers paused mid-chore—a blacksmith hammering, women with baskets of laundry—straightening to wave broad grins the moment they recognized his face. "Hail, Your Highness!" one called, a gap-toothed farmer doffing his cap. Will raised a hand high, warmth blooming unbidden in his chest as a familiar prompt blossomed.
[SOCIAL SYNC: +0.25]
[CURRENT: 84.75]
Two miles shy of the pin, the road crested a low hill overlooking a wooded valley, oaks and ironwoods cloaking slopes like ragged green cloaks.
Taren dismounted fluidly, unpacking saddlebags with practiced efficiency. Alonna's foresight was packed tight: crusty loaves still warm, wedges of sharp white cheese veined blue, and dried apples—tart and chewy. They sprawled on the sun-warmed grass, Taren vigilant at the hill's lip while Will tore into the bread. Brat sat cross-legged beside them; his gaze was fixed and distant, staring toward the horizon where the unseen vault lay hidden, his flickering glow the only sign of the data humming beneath his skin.
A companionable quiet settled over them, broken only by the valley breeze rustling the leaves below. Brat remained pensive, his glow dimming as he picked at invisible blades of grass. No quips, no meta jabs—just a heavy, uncharacteristic silence. Will chewed slowly, studying the avatar sidelong as questions piled like storm clouds in his mind. He let them slide for now. The vault came first. The answers would have to be there.
They finished in silence, packing away the remains of Alonna’s fare and dusting the grass from their pants. Will swung back into the saddle, the Prince’s instinctive grace making the movement effortless as they resumed the trek. The horses' hooves crunched steady against the loamy earth as they skirted the ridge, the forest tightening around them until the path narrowed into a dense thicket of silver-white bark.
The trees gave way suddenly as they pushed through the final fringe of birch, revealing a clearing where ancient foundation stones thrust jagged from the mossy earth. Overgrown with bramble and choking vine, a weathered stone staircase plunged downward like a scar in the hillside—no grand ruin, just time-chewed remnants forgotten by the world.
While Taren and Will hobbled the horses to a sturdy oak, Brat stepped toward the descent. His energy crackled back to life, a sharp blue flicker against the damp stone. He pointed into the dark. "Vault's underground. We're almost there."
Will’s hand twitched faintly, his palm itching with the phantom weight of a grip that wasn't there yet. "Sword out?"
Brat waved it off careless. "Nah—simple fetch quest, royal line exclusive. No combat mobs. Just grab and go."
Twelve steps descended rough-hewn, boot leather scraping against lichen-slick stone. Light spilled from the entrance behind them—sun shafts knifing down the stairwell to turn dancing motes into gold. Will led the way with Taren close behind, Brat’s presence a steady, cool glow at his side.
The air thickened, musty and damp, undercut by the scent of wet stone and a faint, metallic tang of iron. At the bottom, a severe stone archway loomed, its mouth yawning with a darkness only partially broken by the waning light, revealing the start of a hallway where the walls were veined with dim quartz.
Will crossed the threshold without pause.
Clang. Iron bars dropped from the stone frame, slamming down like a guillotine and cutting Taren off from the passage. Dust billowed as the guard lunged, his gauntleted hands seizing the metal just as it seated home. The bars groaned under his strain, veins cording in his neck as he threw his weight against the obstruction, but the gate held unyielding—runes pulsing a faint, mocking blue along its length.
"My prince!" Taren’s roar rang out, the sound vibrating through the iron. "Stay back—I’ll return with men-at-arms!" His boots pounded frantically back up the stairs, the sound clattering against the stone until it vanished toward the surface.
Will whipped around, heart slamming against his ribs. The hallway ahead swallowed the light, turning the sun shafts into thin, dusty needles that barely pierced the gloom. Brat stood a few paces away, his small face drained pale and his glow stuttering like a failing bulb. For a heartbeat, they simply stared into the shadows—the silence absolute.
"Shit," Brat whispered, his voice cracking raw. "That motherfucker knows we're here."
