Blinding light filled the chamber, searing through Rovan's vision. He shielded his eyes with one arm, the emperor still limp in his other. The heat of the runes surged one last time, then vanished, replaced by an eerie silence.
When the light faded, Rovan blinked against the afterimages, his vision swimming. He was on his knees, cradling the emperor. The runes no longer glowed; they were dull and lifeless, the power drained from them.
The emperor's face was pale, his breathing shallow.
"Stay with me," Rovan whispered, lifting him carefully.
The weight of the emperor felt heavier than he expected, but Rovan pushed himself to his feet and staggered out of the chamber.
The scene outside was chaos. Courtiers and servants ran in every direction, shouts and cries echoing through the palace halls. But the air had shifted. The strange tension that had gripped the land for weeks was gone.
As Rovan carried the emperor through the courtyard, he stopped short.
The princes stood together, their faces haggard but alive. Behind them, others who had vanished into the earth were emerging, dazed but unharmed.
The land itself seemed to exhale. The oppressive darkness that had hung over everything had lifted. The sun broke through the clouds, and for the first time in days, the sky felt alive again.
"He's back!" someone shouted, pointing at Rovan.
A murmur spread through the crowd.
"The Blessed One!"
"The blacksmith saved us!"
"The land is at peace because of him!"
Rovan's jaw clenched. "It wasn't me," he muttered. "It was the emperor."
But no one listened. Cheers erupted, the voices of the people rising in unison, singing his name.
Rovan pushed forward, his focus on getting the emperor to safety, but the crowd parted for him like he was a hero. Every cheer felt like a weight on his shoulders.
The news spread fast. Across the kingdom, people whispered of the blacksmith who had saved them. Some called him a hero, others whispered he might be more than that.
The emperor remained in a fragile state, requiring constant care. The princes watched from the shadows, their joy at their father's survival quickly giving way to unease.
"He's too loved," Prince Alvar muttered, pacing in the meeting chamber. His sharp features were clouded with worry. "The people see him as a savior. A leader."
Prince Dael, younger and quieter, frowned. "He doesn't want the throne. You saw him—he carried Father out himself. He respects the crown."
"Does he?" Alvar shot back. "Or is this his way of making himself indispensable? First the emperor, then the people. What's next? The throne?"
Dael hesitated, but their advisers were already nodding.
"Your Highnesses," one of the older advisers said, his voice smooth and low, "you must be vigilant. The people are fickle. Today they cheer for him; tomorrow they might demand he rule."
The mages, seated in a corner, exchanged glances but remained silent.
"Then we must act," Alvar declared, slamming his fist on the table. "We can't let him amass more power."
"What do you suggest?" Dael asked warily.
"Simple. We limit his influence. Remind the people that the crown is the true power of this land."
"And how do you propose we do that without turning the people against us?"
Before Alvar could answer, a guard burst into the room, his face pale.
"Your Highnesses! The council has been alerted to this meeting."
"What?" Alvar snapped. "By whom?"
Before the guard could answer, the doors to the chamber swung open.
The council members entered, their robes flowing like shadows. Among them was the blacksmith himself, his hammer slung across his back, his expression dark and unreadable.
The room fell silent.
Rovan's gaze swept over the gathered princes, advisers, and mages. His presence was heavy, his figure towering against the flickering torches.
"Discussing the kingdom's future without the council?" one of the council members asked sharply, his voice laced with accusation.
The princes exchanged uneasy glances.
Rovan stepped forward, his voice steady. "I don't know what you're planning, but if it's about securing the land, I have questions that need answering."
The air in the room grew tense, the unspoken suspicions thickening like smoke.
Prince Alvar's eyes narrowed. "And what exactly are you implying, blacksmith?"
"I'm not implying anything," Rovan said, his tone calm but firm. "But if there's one thing I've learned, it's that when people meet in secret, nothing good comes of it."
The room erupted into murmurs, the council members whispering among themselves.
Alvar's voice cut through the noise. "You walk a fine line, blacksmith."
"And you sit on one," Rovan shot back, his eyes locking onto the prince.
The tension snapped taut as the room fell silent again.
The Woman in Green's voice echoed in Rovan's mind: The peace you seek comes with a cost. Be ready to pay it.
What had he truly unleashed?
The tension in the chamber was heavy, but the council managed to calm the tempers before they could turn into something worse.
"Enough," one of the senior council members said, raising his hand. His voice carried authority that silenced the room. "We cannot afford this discord, not now. The emperor's life hangs by a thread, and the land is fragile. We must act with wisdom, not rashness."
"What do you suggest?" Prince Alvar asked, his voice edged with suspicion.
The elder councilor folded his hands. "A regent should be appointed. Someone to ensure stability while His Majesty recovers."
Whispers rippled through the room, but another councilor added, "The mages will consult the gods to determine who is most suited for the role. Until then, no one shall speak of taking the throne. It is sacred, and any attempts to usurp it will be seen as treason."
Prince Dael nodded reluctantly. "Very well. Let the gods decide."
The blacksmith remained silent, his mind churning with unease. He hadn't sought power or recognition, but it seemed fate had other plans. As the council dismissed the gathering, he turned and left the chamber, his steps heavy with doubt.
Rovan returned home that evening, hoping for some measure of peace. But the moment his head hit the pillow, the nightmares began.
He dreamed of rivers turning red, the earth splitting open, and fire raining from the sky. He saw faces twisted in anguish, their cries echoing in his ears. Villages burned, crops withered, and the sky grew dark with ominous clouds.
Every night, the dreams returned, relentless and vivid. Each time, he woke drenched in sweat, the images seared into his mind.
"This cannot go on," he muttered one morning, his face pale from exhaustion.
He decided to seek answers, beginning with the silent nuns who cared for the gifted children. If anyone could offer clarity, it would be them.
The journey to the sanctuary was long, but Rovan welcomed the time to clear his mind. As he passed through towns and villages, he noticed something strange.
Shrines had begun to appear—crude altars built from stone and wood. Offerings of fruit, flowers, and even coins were laid at their base. People knelt before them, murmuring prayers.
It wasn't until he passed one shrine with his own likeness carved into the stone that he realized the truth.
They were worshiping him.
Rovan stopped in his tracks, his heart pounding. A group of villagers knelt before the shrine, their hands clasped in prayer.
"Blessed One, hear us," one of them whispered.
Rovan stepped forward, his voice firm. "What are you doing? I'm no god."
The villagers looked up, startled. One of them, an older woman, spoke with trembling conviction. "You saved us. The land is at peace because of you. The gods have chosen you."
"No," Rovan said, shaking his head. "The emperor—"
"You carried him," the woman interrupted. "The gods work through you."
Rovan's stomach churned. He turned and walked away, ignoring their calls for blessings.
"This is madness," he muttered under his breath. But the sight of the shrines lingered in his mind, a heavy weight pressing down on him.
By the time he reached the sanctuary, the sun was setting. The ancient stone building stood tall and imposing, its gates carved with intricate symbols of protection and silence.
Rovan approached the doors, his steps echoing on the stone path. He reached out and knocked, the sound reverberating through the still air.
Nothing.
He knocked again, harder this time.
Still, the doors remained closed.
A strange unease settled over him. The sanctuary was always welcoming to those seeking its wisdom. Why would they deny him now?
"Open the doors," he called, his voice firm.
The runes on the gates shimmered faintly, as if reacting to his presence. But the doors didn't budge.
Rovan placed a hand on the cool stone, his brow furrowed. He felt something—an energy, a barrier.
The voice of the Woman in Green echoed in his mind: The peace you seek comes with a cost. Be ready to pay it.
He stepped back, staring at the unyielding gates, his unease growing. Why couldn't he enter?