A drizzling rain fell over Fallbrook the morning after Damon's fateful encounter with the mysterious wanderer, Jareth. Though gray clouds still drifted overhead, the day's rhythm had returned to its usual quiet hum, punctuated by the clanging of the blacksmith's hammer and the lowing of cattle in the distant fields. Yet for Damon, everything felt different.
He woke before dawn with his mind buzzing over every moment from the spar. Despite his fatigue, he found himself replaying the old man's deft maneuvers and his cryptic words: Skill alone is never enough. As he washed at the village well, Damon resolved that he would indeed leave Fallbrook soon to seek the truth about his destiny.
By the time the sun had climbed a few degrees above the horizon, Damon was already on his way to the small open-air market that formed in the village square every other week. Cloth canopies of faded red, blue, and green stretched over makeshift stalls. The scent of fried dough and spiced vegetables mingled with damp earth, making the air thick with the promise of a hearty meal.
However, Damon's breakfast was the last thing on his mind. He had come here for one reason: to find any trace or rumor that might connect to Jareth—or to something bigger, as Master Grogan had hinted. If the man was indeed part of "something bigger," Damon reasoned that travelers or merchants might have heard similar tales of shadowy wanderers testing swordfighters.
A distant rumble of wheels on the muddy path caught Damon's attention. A brightly painted wagon rolled into the village square, drawn by a pair of shaggy brown horses. The wagon's wooden panels were adorned with swirling gold designs, and faded lettering spelled out a name: Thormund & Sons, Traveling Merchants of Elandris. Children darted forward, giggling and pointing at the embroidered tapestry draped over the wagon's side.
Damon approached as a short, rotund man hopped down from the driver's seat. He brushed off his robes, patted the horses, and began shouting orders in a cheerful voice, instructing a couple of younger assistants to unload crates of goods. Damon recognized the merchant as Thormund himself, a familiar face who visited Fallbrook a few times a year. Thormund was known for bringing exotic wares—spices, trinkets, and stories from distant lands.
"Ho there, young Damon!" Thormund bellowed, as he noticed the teenager standing by. "You've grown even taller since I last passed through."
Damon offered a polite nod. "Hello, Master Thormund. Have you come from the capital again?"
"Aye, from Silverhold and beyond," the merchant replied, removing his wide-brimmed hat to let the drizzle wet his bald head. "Long roads, strange news—this realm is never dull, eh?"
Damon's heart quickened. This was exactly the kind of opening he'd hoped for. "Strange news, you say? Anything in particular?"
Thormund's eyes flashed with intrigue as he turned to rummage through one of the crates his assistants were unloading. "Oh, plenty. War in the north, they say. Some warlord or another stirring up trouble." He pulled out a small pouch of saffron and weighed it in his hand. "But that's not the most interesting rumor, if you ask me."
Damon leaned closer. "What is, then?"
The merchant lowered his voice, glancing around theatrically as if expecting eavesdroppers. "I've heard talk from a scholar in the capital—something about an artifact called the Crimson Crown. Supposed to be some ancient relic of dragon origins." He paused, clearly enjoying the effect of his words. The mention of dragons always seemed to command attention; whether real or myth, dragons loomed large in Elandris lore.
"What's special about this…Crimson Crown?" Damon asked, trying to mask how deeply the name thrilled him.
"Depends on who you ask," Thormund said, shrugging his shoulders. "Some say it grants the wearer the power to command beasts. Others say it's cursed, fueling dark magic that devours a person's soul. A few bards claim it's the key to reawakening ancient dragons. You know how these tales grow in the telling."
Damon nodded, mind alight with possibilities. "Have you seen anyone searching for it? An old wanderer, perhaps?"
"A wanderer?" Thormund repeated. He scratched his double chin. "Now that you mention it, I've come across a handful of odd travelers lately. But no one who spoke of the Crown directly, only rumored about it in hushed corners. The scholars in Silverhold seemed all abuzz, though. If you're looking for definitive answers, that city's your best bet."
Damon's pulse thudded at the mention of Silverhold, the capital city. He'd never journeyed more than a few leagues from Fallbrook, yet the prospect of searching for an artifact of legendary status both thrilled and terrified him. Was this what Jareth meant by something bigger? Perhaps so—or perhaps it was a coincidence. Either way, Damon felt a stirring in his gut, as if fate had quietly opened a door he was meant to step through.
"Well, Master Thormund, thank you for sharing," Damon said, forcing a measured tone. "I appreciate it."
"No trouble at all, lad." The merchant winked. "Come see me later if you want to buy anything special. Got some new steel trinkets you might fancy—little protective charms, or so the craftsman claimed."
With that, Thormund's attention shifted to a cluster of villagers eager to glimpse his wares. Damon stepped away, letting the merchant peddle his goods. The market's bustle returned around him, but he hardly noticed the conversation and barter that swelled. His mind was on the Crimson Crown. A relic of dragons, rumored to hold unimaginable power.
Suddenly, a hand grasped Damon's shoulder. He spun around to find Grogan, wearing a simple cloak to ward off the drizzle. The old master's gaze was serious. "I thought I might find you here, listening to Thormund's tall tales."
"They don't feel like just tales," Damon replied, leaning in to ensure no passersby could hear. "He mentioned something called the Crimson Crown. An artifact…with draconic origins. Could that be related to Jareth's interest in me?"
Grogan frowned thoughtfully. "I've heard the name in passing years ago, during my time in the royal army. Soldiers loved to share grand legends to pass the quiet hours. But few believed such a relic truly existed. The stories claimed it was forged by an ancient dragon deity and hidden away—why or where, no one knew."
Damon found his breath coming faster. "Do you think it's real?"
Grogan folded his arms. "Legends often have a kernel of truth, but that truth can be buried beneath layers of myth. What I do know is that you've shown extraordinary skill for someone your age and background. If the realm is buzzing with talk of a powerful artifact, perhaps these events are interwoven."
Lightning flickered in Damon's eyes, a sign of his growing resolve. "I want to leave Fallbrook. I need to see the world, learn more about Jareth and this Crown. I can't just stay here and pretend my life won't change."
The old master nodded gravely. "I sensed this day would come. But be warned: leaving might mean thrusting yourself into dangers beyond any you've faced. Bandits, warlords, political webs—these are no small matters."
Damon gulped, remembering the raw fear and excitement he'd felt in Jareth's presence. Yet that only sharpened his determination. "I understand. But I have to try."
Grogan clapped him on the shoulder. "Then I won't stand in your way. In fact, I might be able to help. I have a friend who occasionally guides caravans heading toward Silverhold. He owes me a favor. I'll speak with him and see if he can escort you part of the way."
Emotion welled up in Damon's chest. Gratitude, fear, exhilaration—all churned together. "Thank you, Master Grogan. I…I won't forget your kindness."
"Don't mention it. But make sure you return to me alive, eh?" Grogan's attempt at lightheartedness still carried a note of genuine concern.
They parted ways, with Grogan trudging off through the market in search of his contact. Damon wandered aimlessly among the stalls, the rumor of the Crimson Crown burning bright in his thoughts. He brushed past wicker baskets filled with fresh produce—carrots, onions, apples, all covered in a fine mist of rain. A donkey brayed near a stall selling straw hats, and a group of gossiping villagers turned to stare as Damon passed, as though sensing his restless spirit.
He stopped at a small booth selling carved wooden tokens. The vendor, a kindly woman named Elsa, noticed his preoccupied expression. "You look troubled, boy. Everything all right?"
Damon mustered a polite smile. "Just thinking about the future, Elsa."
She tilted her head sympathetically. "I hear Master Grogan's been telling everyone how gifted you are with a blade. If you ask me, you'll leave us soon enough—Fallbrook can't hold a spirit like yours."
Her words struck a chord deep within him, and he found himself nodding. "You're not the first to say that. But I'll try to remember where I came from."
Elsa grinned, pressing a small wooden talisman shaped like a leaping fish into Damon's hand. "A gift. May it guide you back to our stream someday."
Moved by the gesture, Damon thanked her and tucked the token into his belt pouch. He continued through the market, noticing how the villagers welcomed the traveling merchants with practiced warmth, as they did every couple of weeks. Perhaps many of them dreamed of distant cities and exotic wonders—but in the end, they stayed, content with a peaceful existence.
Damon, however, felt that a different path awaited him. The mere notion of the Crimson Crown and its rumored power weighed on his mind like a promise waiting to be claimed—or a warning yet to be heeded. His conversation with Thormund had ignited a spark of curiosity, and Grogan's cautious encouragement provided the tinder. All around him, life in Fallbrook continued as it always did, oblivious to the storms churning in Damon's heart.
A light patter of hooves on wet cobblestones signaled the arrival of yet another wagon. This one bore a tall, lanky man with bright green eyes and a lopsided grin. Grogan walked alongside, deep in conversation. Spotting Damon, the old master waved him over.
"Damon, come meet Kelwick. He's the caravan guide I mentioned," Grogan announced. "He'll be heading toward the capital in three days, guiding a small band of travelers and a few wagons of goods."
Kelwick reached out a thin hand, which Damon shook politely. "Heard you're itching to see the big city," the caravan guide said. "I can't guarantee a smooth road, but we'll get you there in one piece if the gods are kind."
Damon exhaled, a rush of relief flooding him. This was the sign he needed—an immediate and tangible way out of Fallbrook. "Thank you, Kelwick. I'm grateful for the chance to travel with your group."
Kelwick nodded. "We leave at dawn three days from now. Pack light. The roads can be rough, and we won't have room for too many luxuries."
Grogan placed a hand on Damon's shoulder. "We'll make sure you have the essentials. In the meantime, gather what supplies you can, settle your affairs here, and prepare yourself. The journey won't be easy."
"I will," Damon replied, voice trembling with both nerves and excitement.
As Kelwick departed to arrange details with Thormund, Grogan turned to Damon with a stern look. "Remember: no matter what you learn of this Crimson Crown—or anything else—stay true to yourself. Skills can be honed, knowledge gained, but character is forged from the choices you make."
Damon nodded solemnly. "I understand."
They stood there in companionable silence, the market's bustle continuing around them. The drizzle had subsided to a gentle mist, and the distant hills glimmered with fresh rain. Behind that horizon lay Silverhold, the realm's proud capital—and possibly, answers to the questions that burned in Damon's mind.
Soon, the final stalls of the market began winding down for the day. Villagers returned to their homes, weighed down by cloth sacks of produce or small trinkets. Thormund's assistants started packing away any unsold spices. The faint sound of laughter and conversation lingered as the sky took on the pale gold of late afternoon.
For Damon, each step away from that square marked the countdown to a new life. He headed back toward the small cottage he shared with an older couple from the orphanage. His possessions were few: a spare set of clothes, his wooden practice sword, and a small pouch of coins he had earned doing odd jobs around the village. But the most valuable items he carried were intangible—hope, curiosity, and a determination to seize the destiny that beckoned him.
He could almost hear Jareth's raspy voice echoing in his head: You've proven yourself worthy…fate has plans for you. Whether this strange, legendary Crimson Crown was part of that plan or not, Damon felt sure he was about to find out. As night fell and lanterns were lit throughout Fallbrook, he lay awake in his small bed, staring at the wooden rafters overhead. Tomorrow would bring preparation, goodbyes, and lingering doubts. But soon—very soon—he would leave this simple hamlet behind to chase the faint glimmer of a legend that might just change the fate of all Elandris.
Thus ended Damon's final market day as a simple village boy, and began his path toward the unknown, where rumors of the Crimson Crown would guide him—whether toward glory or peril, only time would tell.