The woods west of Fort Thorne were older than maps, older than memory.
The trees grew thick and tall, their trunks warped by centuries of wind and mana rot. Their roots curled above the soil like sleeping beasts, and their canopies strangled the sun, casting the ground in dim green twilight. No roads existed here, only game trails—and even those had grown thin, as if the land itself discouraged passage.
Duncan rode at the front of the small column, his sword strapped across his back, the medallion beneath his shirt burning faintly against his chest. Beside him, Kael moved in silence, eyes sharp and spear ready. Behind them rode Brannoc and three scouts from the Fire Fang division—men who had seen too much and trusted too little.
No one spoke.
Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
They were entering the Verdant Hollow, a place that hadn't been named in centuries, if ever. A place that only existed in whispers passed between drunk soldiers and old wildborn shaman.
A place Duncan had seen in dreams.
The Tomb Calls
The ruins appeared without warning—swallowed by moss and root, half-submerged in earth and time.
Massive stone doors, cracked and sunken, leaned inward beneath a collapsed archway. Vines crawled across their surface, but faintly, beneath the green and black, runes pulsed. Old glyphs. Beast-tongue.
Duncan dismounted, slowly approaching. The medallion around his neck throbbed like a second heartbeat. His hand hovered over the door.
Brannoc muttered behind him. "This place smells like death."
Kael didn't move. Her spear tip trembled—not from fear, but from instinct.
Duncan touched the runes.
They flared white—and the doors groaned.
With a sigh of air older than empires, the tomb opened.
The King's Vigil
The chamber beyond was impossibly vast. Roots dangled from the ceiling like chandeliers, glistening with moisture. Massive columns rose to support a sky of stone, each carved with the faces of beasts and crowned kings. The floor sloped gently toward a raised dais, where a throne of living wood still pulsed faintly.
Upon it sat a corpse.
Not rotten. Not decayed.
Still armored in bark-forged mail, antlered helm upon its head. In one hand, it held a sword—long, curved, etched with wild glyphs. In the other, a staff of bone and thorn.
As Duncan stepped forward, the air grew thick, like walking through water.
"You should not be here," Kael whispered, voice taut.
"I have to be."
He approached the throne.
The medallion around his neck began to glow—soft, then bright, until it blazed like a miniature sun.
And the corpse… moved.
Memory Made Flesh
Its eyes opened—milky white, glowing faintly. The king did not rise, but its voice filled the chamber.
"Crownless… yet called."
The voice echoed not in air, but in mind. All five soldiers dropped to one knee, ears bleeding. Only Duncan stood firm, though his knees shook.
"The blood returns. After so long. The earth remembers you."
Duncan stepped closer, despite the fear clawing at his spine. "Who are you?"
"I was King Ardan, last Warden of the Rootborn Throne. When the Empire came, we buried ourselves… so that one day, you would return."
The king's hand rose, trembling, and pointed at Duncan's chest.
"The Hollow Fangs hunt you. Not because you are enemy. But because you are threat."
"You carry the mark of the beast—but you have not chosen."
"So choose."
The king raised the staff.
Trial of the Root
The chamber trembled. Roots shot from the ground, curling around Duncan's legs and arms—not binding, but lifting. Suspended in the air, eyes wide, Duncan felt a surge of something flow through him—heat, cold, pressure, and then a crackling sensation like fire and thunder in his skull.
Suddenly, he was no longer in the tomb.
He stood in a forest of crimson leaves beneath a sky of violet stars.
Before him: three beasts.
A massive horned wolf made of smoke and starlight.
A towering stag wreathed in vines and emerald flame.
And a serpentine wyrm with eyes like the void.
Each stared at him. Each waited.
He understood without words: he had to choose.
Each beast represented a path.
The wolf: war, rebellion, untamed strength.
The stag: balance, kingdom, burden.
The wyrm: secrets, power, sacrifice.
Duncan's heart thundered.
He stepped toward the stag.
Awakening
When he opened his eyes, he was back in the tomb.
The king was gone.
The throne stood empty.
But the medallion had changed—it was no longer just metal. Now, woven through its surface, were living veins of root and silver, pulsing softly with life.
Kael rushed to his side. "What happened?"
Duncan looked down at his hands—etched now with faint white lines like tree branches spreading across his palms.
"I was given a choice," he said.
"And?"
"I chose the burden."