Snow fell heavy over the expedition party as they approached the northern ruins. The terrain was treacherous jagged cliffs and frost-bitten trees swallowed by fog but Khalid rode at the front, unnaturally calm, as if the land itself welcomed him.
Flynn followed close behind, his white hair tucked beneath a fur-lined hood, purple eyes ever fixed on the horizon. Elior remained silent at his side, though his glances grew more frequent. The scroll he'd discovered still haunted him, a secret he wasn't ready to speak aloud.
They weren't alone.
Sir Alden Ravachol, a newly introduced knight-captain from Winterbell's elite order, joined them. His skill with the blade was matched only by his devotion to Flynn though his past remained a mystery. It was Alden who first noticed something strange in the snow.
"We're being watched," he murmured to Flynn. "The crows are too still. Even silence has rhythm, Your Grace. This… this is wrong."
Flynn nodded once. He could feel it too.
A Frozen Temple
By dusk, the party reached the ruins.
Once an Elarian outpost, now swallowed by ice, the temple stood half-collapsed but the stone doors remained shut tight. Carvings lined the archway: symbols from a time long before either Winterbell or Elaris. None recognized the sigils, except Flynn, who touched them gently.
His breath caught.
A memory flickered.
Caelan, wounded, standing at this very place with his sword drawn.
And Khalid no, not just a traitor, but something darker in that moment.
Then, the moment passed.
"We'll make camp," Khalid said, voice echoing off the frozen stone. "We begin excavation at dawn."
Flynn didn't argue. But he knew now: whatever lay beneath, it was more than history. It was something meant to stay buried.
That Night
Elior stood alone under a silver moon, watching the frost creep up the stones. Behind him, footsteps.
"Flynn?" he asked.
But it wasn't Flynn.
It was Alden.
"I saw the way you look at him," Alden said, not cruelly. "You suspect, don't you?"
Elior froze. "Suspect what?"
Alden didn't press. He only looked toward the temple and added, "We all carry ghosts. But some of us carry nations."
Then he walked away.
Elsewhere…
Beneath the ice, far beneath the temple, something pulsed. Magic raw and ancient coiled like breath in the dark.
A voice whispered from deep within.
"Caelan... the traitor walks… the king sleeps…"
And unseen to all, a hand long dead, wrapped in ceremonial gold moved beneath the stone.