Morning arrived in a veil of swirling mist. Damon's eyes fluttered open to the dim glow of predawn light seeping through the canvas flaps of his makeshift tent. He sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. The caravan's campsite—tucked within a small grove just off the main road—stirred with subdued activity: muffled voices, the low rustle of packs, the clink of metal as guards checked their weapons. A chill clung to the air, and Damon felt it keenly through his thin blanket.
He inhaled deeply, remembering the conversation with Seraphina the previous evening. The Crown is real. Dark forces search for it. Those words reverberated in his mind, crackling with possibility and danger. As he stepped out into the damp morning, he found her crouched at the base of a towering oak, methodically packing her gear. She didn't immediately notice him, so for a brief moment, he observed how fluid her movements were—how sure her posture, even in mundane tasks. Inwardly, he wondered yet again who she really was and what secrets she carried.
"Good morning," he finally said, breaking the quiet.
Seraphina looked up. Her auburn hair was braided neatly over her shoulder, and her expression was guarded but polite. "Morning," she replied. "We should eat quickly if we don't want to slow the group." A faint smile tugged at her lips, then disappeared as she focused on tying a knot on her travel bag.
Damon nodded. "Right. I'll see what Thormund has to spare."
He found Thormund near the caravan's central wagon, rummaging through crates. The merchant gave him a hearty greeting, pressing a hard biscuit and a small hunk of cheese into Damon's hands. "Not exactly a banquet, but it'll keep you going," Thormund joked. A swirl of tension still clung to the edges of his cheerful persona—no doubt memories of the bandit raid. Even so, Thormund seemed relieved at the relative calm of the morning.
"Thank you," Damon said, taking a quick bite. He scanned the campsite, noticing Kelwick gesturing at a hand-drawn map spread across an overturned crate. A few of his armed escorts—Rivan among them—leaned in to study the route. Damon could just make out fragments of their conversation: mentions of watch rotations, potential hazards, and an alternate path.
Curious, Damon moved closer. Kelwick straightened, tapping the map with a gloved finger. "This main road forks here," he explained, "leading southward toward the bigger trade routes. But I've heard from travelers there might be trouble—a collapsed bridge or some such. If that's true, it could delay us by days."
Rivan huffed a quiet sigh. "We can't afford that. We've already lost time because of the raid."
Seraphina approached silently, joining the circle. "There's another route through the old forest," she said softly. "It skirts the hills but crosses areas once occupied by an ancient dragon-worshiping cult. Ruins still stand there, I've heard. The path might be tricky, but it could bypass any collapsed bridges."
Kelwick raised an eyebrow. "You sound familiar with that area."
She hesitated, glancing at Damon. "I've…studied old maps and legends. If you want to avoid the risk of a blocked road, that forest route is an option."
Damon's pulse quickened. In the back of his mind, he recalled half-forgotten tales about lost temples and mysterious artifacts in those ruins—stories he dismissed as a child. Could this place hold some clue about the Crimson Crown? The notion buzzed in his thoughts. He stepped forward. "If we take the forest route, maybe we can reach Silverhold sooner. And if the rumors of a collapsed bridge are true, we'll be saving ourselves a massive detour."
Kelwick exhaled, weighing the choice. "We'll be traveling off the beaten path, where help is scarce if something goes wrong. But if we gamble on that southern route and find the bridge destroyed, we'll lose far more time."
Thormund frowned. "My goods need to reach the capital soon for a festival. I'd prefer not to risk an impassable road. Still, the idea of old cult ruins gives me the creeps."
Seraphina offered a thin, reassuring smile. "Don't worry. If we're careful, we can skirt around the ruins themselves. No need to explore them…unless we want to."
Damon forced himself not to show too much excitement at that statement. He sensed that Seraphina had her own reasons for mentioning the ruins, just as he had his own reason for being intrigued. He caught her gaze, a flicker of unspoken understanding passing between them. Perhaps she guessed his interest in the Crown's origins—or she herself sought something hidden among the ancient stones.
"All right," Kelwick decided at last, folding up the map. "We'll take the forest route. Better to face a bit of wilderness than a guaranteed dead-end. Let's get moving."
With that, the caravan rumbled into motion. Two wagons pulled ahead, Kelwick leading on horseback with Rivan and another guard patrolling the flanks. Seraphina and Damon followed on foot—she led her mare alongside them, while Thormund's wagon brought up the rear. The morning's mist thinned, and damp leaves glistened under faint sunlight.
They traveled for hours, leaving behind the flatter farmland and venturing into rolling, wooded terrain. The main road soon narrowed to a trail, winding beneath towering oaks and moss-draped branches. Sunlight filtered through the canopy in dappled patterns, creating a subdued greenish glow. The air felt charged, as if the forest itself held watchful eyes.
Around midday, they crested a small ridge overlooking a shallow valley. At the bottom, through tangled foliage, Damon glimpsed something—crumbling stone pillars jutting from a hillside, half-hidden by ivy and twisted vines. A faint chill prickled along the back of his neck. So the rumors were true. The ruins are really out here.
Seraphina stopped beside him, her gaze fixed on the same spot. "A piece of forgotten history," she murmured. "Dragon sigils once covered those pillars, or so the stories say. Most have been eroded by time."
Kelwick's voice called from up ahead, urging them onward. The caravan needed to keep moving if they were to make camp before dusk. Nonetheless, Damon felt a tug of curiosity. He looked at Seraphina, who seemed equally pensive, perhaps wondering if now was the time to investigate. But as the rest of the group pressed forward, she turned away, leading her mare back into line without comment.
They continued until late afternoon. The deeper they went, the more signs of ancient structures appeared along the forest floor—broken statues, half-buried archways, and shattered walls covered in moss. The path itself grew increasingly narrow, forcing the wagons to navigate carefully around exposed tree roots and rocky outcrops.
Finally, Kelwick signaled a halt in a relatively open glade. A trickling stream cut through the clearing, providing fresh water for the horses. "We'll make camp here," the caravan leader announced, dismounting. "It's too dangerous to keep going in the dark, especially with these old ruins around."
As the travelers set about unloading supplies and erecting tents, Damon couldn't help but notice how close they were to the overgrown temple site he'd glimpsed earlier. Somewhere beyond the thick undergrowth lay the heart of these once-sacred grounds. He wondered if he would learn more about the Crimson Crown by venturing deeper.
A soft voice at his shoulder startled him. "Thinking of exploring?" Seraphina asked, brow raised. Her tone held no accusation—only quiet interest.
Damon nodded, aware that his eagerness might betray him. "Yes. I can't help but be curious. My mentor used to tell me that ancient dragon-worshipers might have left behind all sorts of artifacts or clues about their beliefs. Maybe even about powerful relics." He tried not to sound too pointed, but Seraphina's slight smirk suggested she picked up on his reference to the Crown.
"Wait until nightfall," she said. "We'll have our guard shifts organized by then, and it'll be easier to slip away without raising suspicion. Kelwick and Thormund are anxious about these ruins—best not to worry them unnecessarily."
Damon found himself agreeing. "All right. After dusk, then."
As the sky dimmed to a deep indigo, the caravan settled into a calm routine: small cook fires glowed, bowls of stew were passed around, and the guards made their rounds. Damon ate quickly, stomach twisting with anticipation. He glanced at Seraphina from across the camp where she sat quietly, sipping water from a wooden cup, eyes lowered as if lost in thought.
When the time felt right, they exchanged a look. Damon rose, casually excusing himself to check on the horses. Seraphina did the same a few minutes later, heading toward the perimeter as if scouting for threats. Under the cover of darkness, they circled the campsite and met at the edge of the forest.
"You're sure you want to do this?" Seraphina asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "We might find nothing but rotting stone and tangled vines."
Damon offered a resolute nod. "I need to know if there's anything connected to the Crown—or to whatever's calling me toward it."
Seraphina studied him for a moment. "Then let's move quickly. The forest isn't safe at night, and we don't want to be gone too long."
They set off by moonlight, guided by the faint silver glow that filtered through the treetops. Shadows seemed to flicker and dance on the ground, and every snapping twig underfoot sounded unnaturally loud. Damon kept a hand on his sword hilt, senses on high alert. He remembered the bandit raid all too clearly—and wondered what other threats lurked in these ancient woods.
Within minutes, they emerged near the spot Damon had seen earlier. A broken archway rose from the undergrowth, its carved reliefs worn to near-indecipherable shapes. Beyond it lay a clearing, at the center of which stood the crumbling remains of a circular structure. Four pillars still rose from each compass point, though two had collapsed partially, leaning precariously against jagged piles of rubble.
Seraphina moved cautiously, lantern in one hand. She raised it, illuminating faded symbols etched into the stone. "Dragon motifs," she murmured, running her fingertips over the worn engravings. "See here, the outline of a serpent-like creature with wings."
Damon peered closer. The carvings indeed showed a serpentine beast coiling around what appeared to be a crown of spikes. His pulse surged. "This must be part of the old cult's worship site."
He felt a strange stirring in his gut, as if the symbols resonated with something deep in his spirit. A faint memory flickered—an image from childhood stories about great dragons who once roamed Elandris, forging pacts with mortals or unleashing destruction. Could the Crimson Crown truly be tied to such legends?
Seraphina stepped over fallen stones, picking her way toward what might have been the temple's central dais. Damon followed, testing each step carefully. The floor was cracked, roots snaking through the gaps. At the center stood a low, circular platform, half-buried in forest debris. Seraphina knelt, using her lantern to illuminate more carved symbols.
Suddenly, her eyes widened. "Here," she said, beckoning Damon. "Look at these runes."
He crouched beside her. The ancient script, though partially eroded, was distinct enough to trace. Some lines glowed faintly in the lantern's light—perhaps from inlaid minerals or residual magic. Damon recognized one repeated shape: a ringed crown topped with jagged spikes, reminiscent of the carving on the pillar.
"What does it say?" he asked softly, heart pounding.
Seraphina shook her head. "I'm not entirely sure. It's an archaic dialect of Draconian script. But I recognize fragments: 'Ascension… Crown… Blood…' And something about 'awakening.'" She paused, pressing her palm against the runes. "This place once housed a relic or a ceremony connected to draconic power. It's been lost to time—or intentionally buried."
A hush fell between them, the forest's ambient sounds suddenly amplified: the chirr of insects, the creak of ancient wood. The air felt charged, like the moment before a storm. Damon swallowed, a tremor rippling through him. The Crown is real. And I'm standing in a temple that may have once revered it—or something related to it.
"So it's true," he whispered, almost to himself. "Somewhere out there, the Crimson Crown might be waiting…with powers we can't fully understand."
Seraphina turned, her gaze capturing his in the lantern light. "Damon, if you truly seek the Crown, you must be prepared for what it entails. The cult that built this place worshiped the raw might of dragons. Their rituals, their devotions—some of them were said to be blood rites."
A chill fluttered across Damon's skin. "Blood rites?"
She nodded gravely. "Legends say the Crown was forged through a bargain with a dragon deity. Whoever wears it might gain immense power, but at a terrible cost." Her eyes flickered with sympathy, or perhaps warning. "Sometimes, lost artifacts remain buried for a reason."
Damon wrestled with an onslaught of conflicting feelings: excitement, dread, fascination. He thought of the bandit raid, how vulnerable a simple village could be against the cruelty of men. What if the Crown's power could stop such threats? Could protect the realm? Then he recalled the bandit leader's bloodied face, the savage violence of the clash. Would wielding that power come at a price he could not pay?
Before he could voice these doubts, an echo of movement in the trees made them both freeze. Damon rose to his feet, hand on his sword. Seraphina doused her lantern, plunging them into near-darkness broken only by faint moonlight. A branch snapped again, closer this time.
Slowly, they backed away from the dais, hearts hammering. Was it a wild animal, or something more sinister? Damon's muscles tensed at the memory of cult rumors: guardians, wards, spirits bound to protect the sacred site. Or worse—bandits or marauders who might have also heard legends of treasures hidden in these ruins.
They retreated behind a fallen column, waiting. The forest around them grew still once more. After a tense minute, Seraphina whispered, "We should go. Whatever that was, we can't afford an encounter here, alone."
Damon nodded, casting one last glance at the dais. The runes glimmered faintly, as if calling him to return someday. But for now, caution outweighed curiosity. Keeping low, they crept back the way they had come, slipping into the cover of dense foliage. The trek back to camp felt interminably long—each crunch of leaves underfoot making Damon's pulse spike.
When they finally saw the flicker of the caravan's campfires through the branches, relief flooded him. Seraphina's shoulders relaxed slightly, and she nodded in acknowledgement. Together, they emerged from the woods, acting as if they had simply been scouting the perimeter.
Most of the camp lay asleep, except for the night watch and a few restless souls. No one seemed to question their absence. Damon exhaled a shaky breath, the weight of what they had discovered settling in. The Crimson Crown is more than myth, he thought. And its ties to dragon-worship run deep—deep enough to leave traces centuries later.
Seraphina caught his eye, her expression serious. "We should tell no one else about this. Not yet."
He agreed. "Right. Let's keep it between us."
With the hush of the dark forest at their backs, they returned to their respective tents. Damon settled onto his bedroll, sword resting at his side. Sleep eluded him, replaced by the swirl of possibilities about what the Crown could mean—for himself, for the kingdom. He thought of Jareth's cryptic warning back in Fallbrook, and of Seraphina's caution tonight. If the Crown truly exists, it might be as much a curse as a blessing.
Despite his racing thoughts, fatigue claimed him at last. As he drifted off, Damon saw in his mind the faint glow of runes on ancient stone, felt the stirring of unseen powers in the air, and heard the ghostly echo of a draconic roar resonating from some distant epoch. Tomorrow, the caravan would press on toward Silverhold, carrying him closer to a destiny he couldn't fully grasp. For now, he carried the secret of the ruins with him—a whisper of the Crown's reality, and a promise of storms yet to come.