Rivered was heading toward the town municipal. Today his group was to receive medals for conquering the Night Championship, a contest that drew fighters from far and wide. The streets were waking. Lanterns swayed gently in the morning breeze, their faint light lingering even as the pale sun began to rise. The scent of bread drifting from bakeries mingled with the sharper tang of iron from the smithies. Somewhere ahead, a cart rattled over stone, its driver shouting greetings to the passersby.
"I better not be late today," Rivered muttered under his breath, tightening the lace around his ankle. His boots were a size too large, worn smooth from miles of travel. He had learned to bind them tightly to his legs, wrapping the leather so they would not slip while running. The sound of the leather creaking under his fingers seemed louder in the morning silence, and for a moment, he paused to look at it. He almost smiled at the thought that even such a small thing could matter when the day ahead was filled with ceremony and pride.
A wheezing voice cut through the quiet behind him.
"I never thought a group of ragtag mercenaries would win against those noble dungeon hunters."
The voice was brittle with age and carried a rasp that seemed almost too faint to hear without leaning in. Rivered turned his head toward it. The speaker was an old man, leaning heavily on a crooked cane, his shoulders bent like the bow of a worn ship. He walked slowly, each step deliberates, as though the weight of years had fused into his bones. His clothes were old, patched in several places. His boots were cracked, and one had a sole that flapped slightly with each step. Yet despite his ragged appearance, there was something about him, a certainty in his movement, a quiet gravity to his presence.
"Steve Roger!"
A name murmured in taverns and inns, carried by soldiers after a night of drink. A name whispered in training halls, where young fighters spoke of him with a mix of awe and doubt. In his prime, Steve had claimed his strength was enough to conquer the most feared labyrinth in existence. That claim alone was enough to make him infamous. Some called him mad. Others swore he was the only man to have returned from that place without being broken. For decades his story had spread, carried by those who had fought beside him and those who had heard of him secondhand. And though few could verify his deeds, no one dismissed his name entirely.
Rivered's eyes narrowed. "You still going on about that?" he said, half-smiling.
Steve let out a wheezy laugh, though it sounded more like a rasp of old wood than amusement. "It was the talk of its age," he said. His voice carried something beyond pride. It carried certainty. "The labyrinth, lad. You've heard the stories, haven't you?"
Rivered kept walking but glanced at him. Of course he had heard. The labyrinth was infamous. Not merely for its monsters and treasures, but for its mysteries. It was said to be hidden deep beneath the mountains in a forgotten valley, sealed away by walls older than the first kingdoms. It had claimed countless lives, even among the strongest warriors. No one truly knew its size, or what lay at its heart. The labyrinth was a name spoken with fear and reverence.
Steve slowed his pace and looked at Rivered from under a brow weathered by years. "Only once was it truly conquered," he said quietly, as though confessing something sacred. "Two heroes. One they call the Light Bearer, the other the Shadow Warden. That was long ago, before even the oldest records remember the time. They say they struck the final blow together, and each gave their life to seal what lay inside. Since then, no one has returned with proof of victory."
Rivered glanced at him, skeptical. "You expect me to believe that?"
Steve did not smile. Instead, his eyes glimmered with something more dangerous than pride. "Belief does not matter, lad. Truth does not need belief. But the world listens to stories, and a story is worth a hundred truths if it survives long enough. I am not asking you to believe. I am telling you that what I speak is the reason men still speak my name. And they believe me because I have walked through what they cannot imagine and come back whole enough to tell it."
There was a weight in his voice that Rivered could not ignore. Steve Roger carried himself like a man who had lived through something far greater than legend. Others had called him a liar, a drunk, a fool. But none could deny that Steve bore marks of truth, the permanent limp in his step, the scars that marred his skin, the way his eyes held stories no man had told.
Rivered fell silent. They walked through the marketplace, the smell of fresh bread growing stronger. Children darted between the stalls. A merchant shouted over the noise to advertise dried meat. But Rivered could not shake the old man's words.
Steve cleared his throat. "The labyrinth is not gone. It waits. There will always be those who call its name. And there will always be those who answer. Men forget because forgetting is easier than facing what lies beneath. But the truth does not vanish. It sleeps. Until it wakes again."
They walked in silence for a while. The town hall came into view, its flag fluttering high above the steps. Rivered could hear bells ringing in the distance, calling the city to ceremony. He thought of his comrades, of the blood they had shed to earn this day.
Steve's voice broke the quiet again. "You think this day is about medals. But no medal can weigh the cost of what it takes to stand at the heart of such a place as the labyrinth. And make it out alive."
Rivered stopped, turning to look at him. "And you, old man? What did you find there?"
Steve Roger looked past him, toward the hills beyond the town. His eyes seemed to rest on something far away. "What I found is not mine to tell. I tell it so men remember. That place changes every man who enters. Some leave as heroes. Others never leave at all. I tell the story so they will think twice before calling its name. And yet they still do."
Rivered considered him in silence. The old man's words carried no threat, no prideful boasting, only a quiet warning.
Steve Roger continued as they climbed the last few steps toward the municipal building. "They called it the Dungeon of Doom long before my time. In truth, no one can know its real name. Names are human things. The labyrinth does not care for them. It has existed longer than our speech. It is a thing older than kings, older than stone. It feeds on the souls who walk its halls. And every soul it claims becomes part of its story."
Rivered's hand tightened on the lace of his boots. He did not reply.
The municipal steps were crowded now. Soldiers in polished armor stood in formation. Citizens pressed close, murmuring and pointing. His comrades were already gathered near the center, their armor still glinting from the fight, their weapons at rest. The banners of the Night Championship hung above the square.
Steve Roger stopped beside him. His voice was lower now, more like a confession. "Remember, lad. A man can stand and fight until his last breath. But there are some fights that do not end in medals. They end in choices. And there is a call that will always come afterward."
Rivered looked down the street, where the crowd swelled. Somewhere in the noise, the clang of a bell rang out. Steve's voice faded beneath it, but the words lingered in Rivered's mind.
The old man wasn't just talking about the labyrinth; he was hinting at something deeper, something Rivered couldn't yet define.
Steve Roger stepped aside, leaning on his cane, his breath slow and measured. Around them, the city prepared for the ceremony. And Rivered could not shake the feeling that the old man's words had been more than history.
"They were a warning?"