Damon inhaled deeply as he walked at the rear of Kelwick's caravan, trying and failing to banish thoughts of the ancient vault from his mind. The day was bright, with sunbeams piercing through the thinning canopy to dapple the forest floor, but Damon couldn't shake the memory of that cramped chamber deep beneath the ruined temple. He replayed the moment when the chest's runes had flared to life, flooding his mind with visions of dragons and a crimson crown. A trembling lingered in his fingers, though no one else seemed to notice.
Next to him, Seraphina rode her mare in silence, her expression grave. Every once in a while, she cast a sidelong glance at Damon, as though gauging his state. Neither of them had told Kelwick or Thormund the full truth of what they'd found in that hidden vault. Why stir more fear? The old temple was behind them now…or so they thought.
They traveled like that for hours. Gradually, the thick woodland gave way to rolling hills and scattered groves of evergreens. The path improved, allowing the wagons to pick up speed. As midday drew near, Kelwick signaled for a short break in a clearing by a slow-moving creek. The caravan members dismounted, stretching legs and tending to the horses.
Damon busied himself with refilling canteens. Rivan, the tall guard who had gone into the vault with them, approached. "You feeling all right?" he asked gruffly, though concern lined his features. "You've been quiet since we got out of that ruin."
Damon managed a tight smile. "I'm fine. Just…still shaken by the idea of what's buried down there, you know?"
Rivan nodded, gaze drifting over Damon's shoulder. "Yeah. Gave me the creeps. I'm glad we left it alone. Some things are better left undiscovered."
Or maybe not, Damon thought. He recalled the half-broken seal, the swirl of runes, and that haunting glimpse of the Crown in his mind's eye. There was a part of him—small but insistent—that believed the relic wasn't meant to remain entombed forever.
Just then, Seraphina strode over, her mare's reins looped in one hand. "Kelwick's about ready to move again," she said. Her gaze flicked to Rivan. "We should stay alert. The forest might be thinning, but bandits or worse could still lurk in these parts."
Rivan grunted affirmatively and went to help the other guards, leaving Damon and Seraphina in the hush of the clearing. She cast a swift, meaningful look at him. "How are you holding up?" she asked quietly.
He shrugged, slipping his canteen into his belt. "I keep thinking about that chest. The…vision it forced on me. It felt like I was standing at the edge of something vast."
Seraphina's lips pressed into a thin line. "We can't turn back now, Damon. The caravan won't wait while we go treasure-hunting in dangerous ruins. And I'm not sure we're ready for whatever power lies in that vault."
Damon opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment Kelwick's voice rang out, ordering everyone to assemble. The break was over. With a resigned sigh, Damon accepted that the chest—and its mysteries—would have to remain hidden in the forest depths…at least for now.
They covered several more miles that afternoon, until the sun dipped low in the sky, painting the horizon in hues of amber and pink. The land had changed dramatically from the dense woodland of that morning. Low hills rolled into the distance, with patches of tall grass rippling in the breeze. A sense of open space might have been welcome if not for the prickle of unease Damon still carried.
As the caravan crested a gentle rise, a startling sight halted them in their tracks: a plume of black smoke curled upward from the valley ahead, where a scattering of small huts stood near a beaten dirt road. Kelwick cursed under his breath. "Another settlement under attack?"
"Could be," Rivan muttered, narrowing his eyes at the dark silhouette of collapsed structures. "Or it might've been attacked hours ago. Hard to say from here."
Thormund, peering around the covered wagon, looked pale. "Bandits again?"
The entire caravan tensed. Damon felt a surge of protective anger. Memories of Fallbrook's raid flared in his mind—the flash of steel, the cries of terrified villagers. He tightened his grip on the sword at his hip. "We should investigate," he said firmly. "If there are survivors, they might need help."
Kelwick hesitated—his merchant instincts warring with any heroic impulses. But eventually, compassion won. "Rivan, take a few of the escorts and Damon. Scout it out. The rest of us will keep our distance until we know it's safe."
Damon exchanged a quick glance with Seraphina, who nodded her willingness to join. They dismounted, leading their horses down the slope toward the smoking settlement. A hush fell over the group as they approached, the air acrid with the stench of burnt wood. The huts looked abandoned, their roofs caved in, walls blackened by fire. No signs of life stirred.
The party spread out, searching for survivors or clues. Damon's heart pounded as he stepped over charred beams. Had bandits done this, or some other force? He crouched beside what remained of a small cooking hearth, noticing footprints in the ash—many footprints, some large, some smaller. A scuffle?
"Over here," Seraphina called, kneeling by a figure slumped against the remains of a fence. Damon hurried over, pulse racing. The figure was a young man, probably in his twenties, with a nasty gash across his temple. His breathing was shallow but steady.
"Alive," Seraphina murmured, pressing a hand to the man's forehead. "He's burning up with fever. We need water."
Damon rummaged in his canteen, offering her what little water he had. Rivan arrived moments later, scanning the surroundings. "No other survivors so far," he muttered grimly. "Or bodies. It's like everyone vanished."
Seraphina carefully dripped water onto the young man's lips, urging him to sip. After a moment, his eyelids fluttered open, revealing eyes glassy with shock. "Wh-where…?"
"We found you in the ruins of your village," Seraphina said softly. "What happened?"
His gaze darted around in confusion. A spark of memory flickered across his features, and he struggled to speak. "Monsters…like men, but twisted. They came at night. K-killed—" His voice caught. He swallowed painfully. "They took people away…toward the old road…they said something about a…weapon?"
Damon's spine tingled. A weapon? Could it be…? He exchanged a glance with Seraphina, whose brow furrowed. "Which old road?" she asked gently.
The young man's breathing grew ragged. "North…west, I think. The rest… they couldn't fight back. Please… help them…"
A final shudder coursed through him, and he slumped unconscious again. Seraphina quickly checked his pulse, relief washing over her face when she found it. "We need to get him proper treatment," she said, "but it sounds like some sort of raiding party took the others."
Damon clenched his fists. Twisted men. Monsters. A chill pricked his neck. Could these raiders be mere bandits, or something more? And how did it tie to a "weapon"? He thought of the sealed chest and the swirling runes. Is something else rummaging through old relics—like the ones we found beneath the temple?
Rivan signaled to another guard. "Let's bring him back to the caravan. Kelwick will decide our next move."
Within the hour, the caravan pulled closer to the scorched settlement. Kelwick and Thormund's expressions were grim as they surveyed the devastation. The young man was placed in the covered wagon, where Seraphina administered salves and tried to cool his fever. Word spread among the caravanners that a group of raiders—or perhaps worse—might still be nearby, dragging villagers off to an unknown fate.
Discussion swirled, emotions running high. Some insisted they had a duty to help, while others argued they could be walking into a deathtrap. Damon felt anger and helplessness churn in his gut. He recalled his vow to protect others when he left Fallbrook. Could he really stand by while people were abducted—especially if it involved the same sort of relic-hunting bandits who might be connected to the Crown?
As evening shadows lengthened, Kelwick called for a council of sorts around the campfire. "The road to Silverhold lies south. This old road to the northwest isn't on our route," he began. "We risk our entire caravan if we go chasing after these raiders."
Thormund fiddled nervously with his coin pouch. "But we can't just leave them, can we? If there are survivors—women, children—"
"We're not an army," Kelwick retorted. "We're merchants with a handful of guards."
Damon cleared his throat, steeling himself. "I'll go," he said quietly but firmly. "Even if it's alone. If these raiders are after some old weapon, it could be tied to the same ancient cult or relics we've stumbled across. I can't ignore that."
Seraphina stood at his side. "You won't go alone," she said, voice resolute. "I'll join you."
Kelwick's face hardened. "You realize you may not come back? If these creatures took an entire village, they could outnumber you easily."
Damon nodded, acknowledging the risk. But an undeniable spark of determination lit in his chest. I can't walk away from this. The memory of the bandit raid on Fallbrook still stung. He refused to let another community suffer without at least trying to help.
A brief silence descended. Rivan eventually exhaled. "I'll come too," he said, straightening. "I've fought bandits before. At least we'll have a better chance with three, maybe four."
One of the caravan's younger escorts, a woman named Marisol, hesitated, then said, "Count me in as well." She touched the hilt of her short sword, lips set in a grim line.
Kelwick surveyed their small group with troubled eyes. "Very well. The rest of us will continue toward Silverhold. We can't afford further delay. But we'll give you until dawn to prepare, gather supplies. After that, we part ways."
Damon and Seraphina nodded in unison. Their plan crystallized: track the raiders northward, locate the missing villagers, and see if this supposed "weapon" had any link to the relic-laden temple or, more disturbingly, the Crimson Crown. Part of Damon trembled at the thought that each step drew him closer to the intangible force he'd felt stirring within the vault.
That night, the caravan set a somber camp amid the ruins. The surviving villager slept fitfully in the covered wagon, while Seraphina and a few others took turns tending him. Damon pitched his small tent on the edge of the settlement, unable to sleep. He stared at the stars pricking the sky, mind swirling with questions: Who were these twisted raiders? What sort of weapon were they seeking? Why did it resonate so strongly with the memories of that sealed chest?
A faint footstep brought him out of his thoughts. Seraphina approached, cloak drawn against the chill. "You're awake," she observed gently, settling beside him on a piece of broken timber. The charred scent of burned wood still hung in the air.
"I can't stop thinking," Damon admitted. "The chest in that vault…these raiders searching for a weapon. It can't be a coincidence."
She folded her hands in her lap. "Legends speak of multiple draconic relics, not just the Crown. Some might be keys or fragments of power. If these raiders are collecting artifacts, it could be even more dangerous than mere banditry."
He swallowed, recalling the visions that had assaulted him upon touching the chest's surface. "I felt something—like a spark—when I touched those runes. And it hasn't left me. It's like a small flame in my chest, flickering just out of sight."
Seraphina's eyes flicked to him, concern mingling with understanding. "You've awakened a connection to that power, Damon. Even if you never physically removed anything from the vault, some part of that relic's essence might have latched onto you. It could be guiding you—or tempting you."
A soft gust of wind rustled the charred timbers around them. Damon exhaled shakily. "I didn't ask for it," he whispered. "But if it can help me protect innocent people…maybe I should use it."
"Be cautious," she advised. "Magic tied to dragons is ancient and potent. It can lend enormous strength—or demand a terrible price."
Silence stretched between them, the weight of unspoken fears lingering like shadows. Then a low moan emanated from the wagon, signaling that their wounded survivor stirred once more. Seraphina stood. "I'll check on him. You should try to rest. We leave at dawn."
Damon nodded, though he knew sleep would be hard to find. As she slipped away, he reflected on everything that had happened since he left Fallbrook: the bandit raid, the discovery of ancient ruins, the hidden vault, the chaotic swirl of visions. Every step had nudged him closer to a fate he was only beginning to comprehend. Am I truly meant to wield such power? The question, as always, went unanswered.
Dawn broke over the scorched village, painting the ashen debris in pale gold. True to his word, Kelwick readied the caravan for departure southward. Damon, Seraphina, Rivan, and Marisol gathered what provisions they could—dried rations, a few medical supplies—and took one final meal with Thormund, who clasped Damon's arm in gratitude.
"I hope you find those villagers alive," the merchant said solemnly. "And if you run into trouble you can't handle, run. Better to live and warn others than die in vain."
Rivan gave Thormund a curt nod. "We'll keep our eyes open."
Kelwick offered a brisk farewell, urging them to rejoin him if they survived. Moments later, Damon and his small band of volunteers watched the caravan rumble away, wagons creaking as they vanished into the distance. Then they turned north, following the faint, rutted path the surviving villager had indicated.
The land sloped upward, the path lined with rocky outcroppings and scraggly bushes. Damon felt an inexplicable mixture of dread and purpose. This is the next step, he told himself. I might be chasing the same thread of fate that led me to the vault. If the Crown—or some other draconic relic—is involved, I have to see this through.
Seraphina walked beside him, silent but resolute. Rivan and Marisol took point, scanning the terrain for signs of ambush. Soon, the ruined village was out of sight behind them, replaced by rugged hills dotted with sparse trees. A brisk wind ruffled Damon's hair, carrying the scent of distant pine.
Though the road was lonely and the threat unknown, Damon felt a stirring in his chest—a subtle warmth that flared whenever his thoughts turned to the hidden vault and the relic within. Perhaps it was fear, or perhaps it was the first flicker of the power he had inadvertently awakened. Whichever it was, it spurred him onward.
He drew in a steadying breath, gripping his sword's hilt for reassurance. A long, perilous journey lay ahead, full of questions and shadows. Yet for the first time since he left Fallbrook, Damon felt certain of one thing: destiny was no distant concept. It pulsed inside him like a heartbeat, guiding him down a path where ancient magic and mortal lives intertwined. And if the Crimson Crown—or any draconic power—threatened the innocent, then he would stand against it, armed with courage, steel, and the awakening spark that glowed ever brighter in his soul.