The air inside the chamber was colder than the tunnels outside, as if the place itself had been sealed away from time. Dust hung in the stillness, undisturbed for years—maybe centuries. The flickering torchlight cast long, shifting shadows over the cracked walls, where faint carvings hinted at an ancient purpose now long forgotten.
Alexander stepped forward cautiously, his boots crunching against loose gravel as he scanned the chamber. The chest at the center of the altar was surprisingly intact, untouched by the decay that had claimed everything else.
But what concerned him more was the skeletal remains beside it.
It was human—or had been. Tattered remnants of clothing clung to the bones, though whatever had killed them had left no visible wounds.
Marcus nudged the skull lightly with the tip of his boot. "No sign of a struggle. If they were killed, it wasn't by force."
Silas crouched beside the bones, running his fingers along the stone floor. "There's something wrong with this place. Whoever they were, they died alone, in a sealed room, guarding something they never got to take."
Tyrell, always wary of unseen dangers, kept his eyes on the shadows. "Something doesn't sit right. We take the chest and go. We can study it back at camp."
Alexander stepped closer to the altar. The craftsmanship of the chest was unlike anything he'd seen before—iron-bound wood, reinforced with strange etchings that didn't resemble the carvings on the walls.
Gareth ran a hand over the metalwork. "This isn't rusted through. Whoever built this, they knew how to make something last."
Marcus cracked his knuckles. "Let's open it and find out what's inside."
Alexander hesitated. Every instinct told him that whatever was in that chest, it had been left here for a reason.
But Emberhold needed resources.
And hesitation had never won a war.
"Do it," he said.
Gareth and Marcus pried the lid open, the iron hinges groaning in protest.
Inside, nestled atop ancient fabric, was a collection of metal ingots—dark, almost black, and cool to the touch.
Gareth's eyes widened as he picked one up, turning it over in his hands. "This… this isn't normal iron."
Alexander took one and felt the weight. It was denser than anything he'd handled before. If Gareth didn't recognize it immediately, that meant it wasn't ordinary metal.
Silas leaned over, inspecting it carefully. "Whatever this is, it's valuable. And if it was sealed away like this, there might not be much of it left in the world."
Tyrell shifted uneasily. "Then we need to move before someone—or something—decides it belongs to them."
Alexander agreed. "Grab everything. We'll study it back at camp."
As they gathered the ingots, a sudden gust of wind howled through the chamber, though there was no visible source. The torches flickered violently, casting erratic shadows against the walls.
Then, the temperature dropped sharply.
Silas tensed. "We overstayed our welcome."
Alexander didn't need another warning. "Move out, now."
They retreated quickly, retracing their steps through the tunnel. The further they got from the chamber, the warmer the air became.
They didn't look back.
Back at Emberhold – The First Trade Returns
By the time the expedition returned to Emberhold, the air had shifted slightly—summer's heat was beginning to wane, though the days were still long. The nights, however, carried the first hints of autumn's approach, a subtle reminder that time was moving forward.
At the center of camp, a small crowd had gathered. Owen and the traders had returned.
Alexander stepped into the group as Owen met his gaze, his expression a mixture of relief and frustration.
"We found a village willing to trade," Owen said. "But food is scarce. They weren't willing to sell much, and what they did offer wasn't cheap."
Alexander's eyes narrowed. "What did they want?"
Owen exhaled. "Weapons, mostly. Some tools, but mostly weapons. Said they're worried about raids."
Alexander exchanged a glance with Elias. If nearby villages were fortifying, it meant bandit activity was rising.
Or worse, it meant someone else was moving behind the scenes.
Silas spoke up. "If they're desperate enough to arm themselves, then things are worse than we thought. The Baron's forces aren't raiding, which means someone else is pushing into the region."
Tyrell crossed his arms. "Could be bandits. Could be mercenaries. Could be something worse."
Alexander let the information settle. Food was becoming a scarce commodity. That meant their reliance on trade was a short-term fix at best. They needed another solution—one that wouldn't leave them at the mercy of others.
"We'll take what we can get for now," Alexander said. "But we need a long-term plan. If farming is impossible here, we need an alternative. Hunting isn't reliable anymore. That leaves industry."
He turned to Gareth. "What can you tell me about the metal we found?"
Gareth shook his head. "It's strong, far stronger than iron. But I need time to test it. If we can forge it into weapons or tools, we might have something valuable enough to trade on better terms."
Alexander considered that. If Emberhold could create something no one else could, they could dictate their own trade instead of begging for scraps.
"Do it," Alexander said. "We'll need everything we can get."
Owen nodded, still looking grim. "There's one more thing. The village elder said something strange before we left."
Alexander met his gaze. "What?"
Owen hesitated. "He said, 'If you're still standing by the time winter comes, we'll talk again.'"
A long silence followed.
Winter.
It was a reminder that time was against them. The air might still be warm now, but soon the seasons would change. If they didn't have a steady food supply by then, surviving the cold would be even harder than surviving the war.
Alexander exhaled.
They needed more than survival. They needed dominance.
And time was running out.