Inside the small shelter nestled among the colossal roots, Ly served the group water and strange herbs. The taste was sharp and unsettling, but as the liquid slid down their throats, their bodies felt lighter, and the pain from their wounds dulled. Yet the odd flavor left behind a lingering unease, as though the remedy itself held secrets.
As they rested, Renar's gaze drifted across the room. On the wall hung several maps drawn on ancient parchment. They weren't like ordinary maps; instead, they resembled a vast labyrinth of intertwined roots stretching deep beneath the earth.
Certain areas on the maps were circled in red, marked with strange symbols—an "eye," a "bone," and other cryptic signs that offered no explanation. They stirred an instinctive sense of dread, as though they pointed toward something vast and terrible hidden in the depths.
Sill also noticed how the ink had faded with age. These maps had clearly been drawn long ago. And yet, Ly used them daily, as if they remained perfectly accurate.
A silent question grew among the group: How could Ly know this underground forest so well? And who had drawn these maps in the first place?
While suspicion grew in the dim shelter, far away the sun poured golden light into the grand throne hall of Sylveris. Tall stained-glass windows cast beams down upon the marble floor, illuminating the throne where King Esix III sat, chin resting on one hand, weighed down by burdens only a sovereign could know.
At his side stood Rysaz, his most loyal guard, eyes burning with restrained fury. On the other flank stood another warrior clad in silver armor, one hand resting calmly on his sword hilt, his entire frame poised for battle at a moment's notice.
The hall was deathly silent until the sound of footsteps broke the stillness. A man in a black cloak strode arrogantly across the red carpet, his hood shadowing half his face. He stopped before the throne, not bowing, not even kneeling, but speaking loudly, his voice carrying across the vaulted chamber:
"I am the envoy of the kingdom of Darama, bearing the will of our sovereign. I come before Esix III to demand the return of what rightfully belongs to us—the Golden Chalice of Kings."
A wave of murmurs swept through the nobles lining the chamber. The Golden Chalice—sacred artifact and symbol of Sylveris' sovereignty—being claimed as though it were nothing but stolen property.
The envoy raised his chin, his voice hard as steel:
"That chalice was taken from Darama by the empire of Zadama long ago. Later it drifted into the hands of Esix I. But everyone knows: what is lost must be returned. The Golden Chalice has never truly belonged to Sylveris."
King Esix III closed his eyes briefly, deep lines forming on his brow. Rysaz clenched his jaw so tightly that his face twitched, fists trembling with the urge to strike. But before he could speak, the envoy's words cut deeper, sharp as a blade:
"And you, Esix III… do you truly deserve to hold that relic? Was it not you who lost an entire city to the demon hordes, condemning tens of thousands of your people to death? A king stained with such disgrace dares to sit proudly upon a throne? Darama will not accept it!"
The hall erupted in gasps. Courtiers exchanged uneasy glances, stunned into silence.
The silver-armored guard took a step forward, drawing his sword in one swift motion. Steel gleamed in the light, ready to fall. The envoy flinched for a moment but quickly recovered, smirking with contempt:
"Is this the pride of Sylveris' royal guard? A band of rabble waving blades to scare children. Pitiful. And you, Esix III—you are unfit, a weak fool. The only ones I pity are your people, forced to live under the rule of such a king."
It was the final spark to ignite the blaze. Esix III slammed his hand on the throne, his voice thundering:
"Guards! Take him to the dungeon! For slandering the crown, there can be no forgiveness!"
Boots pounded as soldiers rushed in, seizing the envoy. But before he could be dragged away, Rysaz quickly stepped forward, bowing close to the king's ear:
"Your Majesty… you must restrain yourself. Killing him now would mean stepping straight into Darama's trap. He's bait. If their envoy dies at our hands, they'll unleash their full army under the pretense of vengeance."
The words chilled Esix III's heart. He sank back into his throne, hands trembling as they tightened into fists. In his soul, he knew the truth: this was no negotiation. It was a stage play, and Darama needed only the smallest excuse to justify seizing the Chalice.
As the heavy doors closed behind the envoy, silence pressed upon the chamber. Esix III lifted his gaze to the heavens above, where light filtered down through the glass, and whispered in his heart:
"Father… tell me, have I done right? To imprison him instead of executing him? To endure humiliation rather than strike back? Is this what a king must do to protect peace? Or have I only planted seeds of ruin for this kingdom?"
Though the throne blazed in sunlight, Esix III's eyes saw only shadows.
That night, deep in the dungeon, the envoy of Darama raged. His hoarse voice echoed off the damp stone:
"Cowards! Rotten throne! The Chalice will return to its rightful master soon enough…"
The jailer, weary of his endless tirade, abandoned him to the dark. The envoy shouted until his throat burned, then collapsed into silence, his breath ragged.
Moonlight spilled faintly through the bars. A small bat fluttered down, perching on the sill. Its shadow stretched, wings unfurling unnaturally wide, body twisting into a monstrous form.
The envoy staggered back, eyes wide with horror.
"What… what are you—?"
His scream died in his throat, swallowed by the blackness.
The next morning.
A soldier burst into the throne hall, pale as death, collapsing to his knees:
"Your Majesty! The envoy of Darama… he is dead in the dungeon!"
Gasps filled the chamber. Rysaz tightened his grip on his sword, while the silver-armored guard lowered his gaze in silence.
Esix III froze upon the throne, his heart crushed under an invisible weight. He knew what this meant. Darama had their excuse. The storm of war was coming.
"So… it begins." He thought bitterly.
"Darama's blood will soon soak our land. And I… I shall bear the blame before all my people."
Far away, in the crimson-lit throne hall of Darama, King Rio II sat upon his gilded throne. Before him, the life-lamp tied to the envoy flickered out and died.
Rio II erupted in triumphant laughter, his voice echoing like thunder:
"Ha ha ha! The pawn has served its purpose. His light is extinguished—Sylveris has walked into the noose! At last, we have the perfect pretext!"
He drew his ceremonial blade, raising it high, voice booming like a storm:
"Send word to the entire army! From this day forth, Darama begins the campaign of Divine Judgment! We shall crush Sylveris, reclaim the Golden Chalice of Kings, and drown their soil in blood!"
Hundreds of generals fell to their knees, shouting as one:
"Yes, Your Majesty!!!"
The hall quaked with their roar.
But Rio II did not stop. He descended from the throne, donning black armor etched with burning runes, his crown blazing with fire. Mounting a colossal war-beast clad in steel, he bellowed with eyes glowing crimson:
"This war shall not be fought by you alone. I, your king, shall ride at the vanguard! With my own hand I will shatter Sylveris' walls and grind Esix III's throne beneath my heel!"
The court exploded with cries of adoration.
Outside, war drums thundered. Trumpets of battle blared. Battalion after battalion gathered, crimson banners whipping in the wind. A sea of steel stretched beyond sight. And at its head rode Rio II himself, the tyrant-king who had unleashed the machine of annihilation.
The wheel of war had begun to turn. And Sylveris could only brace for the nightmare rushing toward it.