The descent began behind a pair of doors most courtiers mistook for a decorative wall — ironwood slabs engraved with curling dragons, each scale hammered in gold so long ago the gilding had worn to dull flecks. Two torch-bearing guards, faces shadowed beneath visored helms, stood sentinel. They did not greet Kaelen as he approached; they merely shifted their weight, the metallic rasp of armor faint in the hushed corridor.
Sir Renic walked at Kaelen's side, his heavy boots thudding against the stone. The corridor smelled faintly of myrrh and oiled metal, though it had none of the warmth of the palace above. Here, the air seemed to cling cold to the skin.
The ironwood doors opened with a groan like a dying ox, revealing a spiraling stairwell hewn directly into the bedrock. Its steps dipped in the center from centuries of use, though now they looked as though few feet had touched them in decades. Moss clung stubbornly to cracks in the stone, and tiny rivulets of water traced black trails down the walls.
Renic's torchlight licked across old murals, their pigments faded to the color of rust. Kings of ages past stared down from the curved walls — tall, stern figures with eyes painted in real silver leaf, most of which had dulled to a ghostly gray. Beneath their visages, scenes of war, coronations, and grim victories sprawled across the plaster like half-forgotten dreams.
The sound changed as they descended — the muffled heartbeat of the palace above fading, replaced by the slow, irregular dripping of water and the faint hiss of their own breath in the close air. Kaelen ran his fingers along the wall at one point, feeling the grooves where stonecutters' chisels had bitten deep.
By the time they reached the final step, the world above seemed like a memory.
The vault was not a vault in the sense of gleaming treasure halls or polished displays. It was a crypt — a labyrinthine chamber supported by squat pillars of black granite, their surfaces carved with sigils so old Kaelen could not name their origin. The floor was uneven, some stones sunken, others warped upward by time's slow violence.
Dust lay so thick it softened the edges of everything. In places, it was disturbed — a boot print here, a trail of something dragged there — but for the most part, it lay unbroken, as if guarding its hoard from the living.
Relics slumbered in broken cases: dented helms with plumes eaten to nothing, shields with faded heraldry barely visible through the grime, and rusted spears bound together by rotting leather straps. In the shadows between pillars, shapes loomed under faded cloths, their outlines hinting at suits of armor or statues of forgotten kings.
A faint light filtered in from above — fractured shards of amber, red, and blue, seeping through the remains of stained-glass skylights set high into the ceiling. Many panes were shattered, their pieces lying glittering in the dust like frozen tears. The colors painted long, trembling bands across the floor, shifting when the torches swayed.
The air was heavy, not only with the musk of decay but with something else — the subtle weight of reverence, as though the chamber itself demanded silence.
Kaelen's gaze caught on the far end of the vault. There, beyond two leaning pillars, stood a dais carved from the same granite as the pillars. Upon it rested a sword unlike any other.
It was not gleaming nor radiant. The blade lay in a cradle of black iron, half-wrapped in a rotted cloth that might once have been ceremonial silk. Time had etched faint pitting into the steel, but beneath the neglect, the craftsmanship was undeniable. The fuller ran straight and deep, its edges precise despite the dullness of the metal. Along the blade's surface, runes had been carved so fine they seemed more like filigree than script — curling, interwoven characters that glimmered faintly, like embers breathing their last.
The crossguard swept outward like a pair of stylized sun rays, its gold inlay faded and tarnished. At the pommel, a round disc of pale crystal was set within a golden sunburst. Cracks spiderwebbed through the crystal, yet deep within it, something faintly pulsed, as though a heartbeat echoed there still.
Kaelen approached slowly. His boots scuffed the dust, sending motes drifting lazily in the torchlight.
Sir Renic stayed a few paces back, his voice low.
"That's the one they whisper about. The sword of the Sunborn King. Said to have drunk the blood of demons when the world was younger than our walls."
Kaelen reached out. His hand hovered above the hilt, fingers tingling with the nearness of it. The runes along the blade seemed to react — a faint shimmer passing along their length like a ripple over still water.
When his palm closed around the grip, the air grew colder. A pressure bloomed behind his eyes, like the echo of a distant horn calling from across a vast battlefield.
A voice — faint, far away, yet sharp as a pinprick — brushed his ear.
Two suns rise when the world is darkest.
Kaelen's breath caught. He turned sharply, but there was nothing — only the slow drift of dust motes in fractured light.
Renic frowned. "What is it?"
"Nothing," Kaelen said after a moment, though the words rang in his mind like a struck bell.
They moved deeper into the vault. Here, the pillars closed in, and the air took on a damp chill. Along the wall stood a row of thrones — not gilded seats of power, but simple blocks of stone worn smooth by time. Upon each rested a helm or crown, some broken, others still whole but dulled by centuries. The nameplates beneath them were barely legible.
Kaelen traced one with his gloved hand.
Aelric the Storm-Breaker — the letters so shallow they could vanish if one breathed too hard.
Cobwebs hung in gossamer drapes between the thrones, each thread trembling faintly in the draft that hissed through unseen cracks. The faint smell of old ashes lingered here — as if these kings had been burned into memory, but nothing living had stepped close in years.
Renic's voice was cautious. "They say every king of Valeryn leaves one thing down here. A crown, a weapon, a relic of their reign. But… no one visits them. The court pretends the vault doesn't exist and spreads rumours about too many ghosts."
A whisper slid through the air again — this time in a tongue Kaelen did not know. The syllables curled strangely, some sharp, some drawn out, like words half-sung. He froze, listening.
Renic glanced at him. "What is it?"
Kaelen shook his head slowly. "It's… different this time."
They continued, passing banners eaten to lace, stone tablets cracked in half, and an ancient drum with its hide rotted away. Somewhere ahead, water dripped steadily into a pool, the sound unnervingly regular.
At last, they circled back to the dais. The sword seemed to wait for him. The air around it felt subtly warmer now, though no torch was close.
Kaelen rested his hand on the pommel again — gently, like a priest touching a relic. The crystal was cold, but under his palm, something stirred. A faint glow coiled in the cracks, brighter than before, and the runes on the blade gave off a pale, sunrise-like glimmer.
The voice came again, closer than ever — no longer distant, but as though it spoke just behind him.
Two suns rise when the world is darkest.
Kaelen's grip tightened instinctively. The glow flared once, then died, leaving the sword lifeless.
Renic's voice was quiet. "Some say it waits for the one who bears the mark. And you…" He let the words hang.
Kaelen released the hilt. "Then it will keep waiting."
They climbed the long, winding stair back toward the living world. The torchlight wavered on the murals, casting the faces of the painted kings in shifting shadow. Each seemed to watch him go — judgment, warning, or perhaps hope.
When they stepped into the palace corridors again, the light of day felt too bright, the air too warm. Kaelen did not speak for some time.
The prophecy lingered in his mind.
Two suns rise when the world is darkest.
To be continued…