"Not all things of power dwell in the light. Some sleep beneath the world, dreaming in green flame."

  The stone was old. Older than the castle it supported. Older than the Empire that had birthed it. Older, Draumbean often mused, than any language carved into its bones. His boots pressed down upon the spiraling staircase, heel over toe, silent save for the occasional scrape of leather against granite. A torch floated in the air behind him, unheld, burning with a cool white flame that cast long shadows against the curving walls. His robe dragged behind like a priest’s vestments, heavy with dust and time.

  He had not walked these steps in many months, yet his feet found them without thought, as if some deeper part of him remembered the turns better than his waking mind. The air grew warmer with each step. Denser. The taste of sulfur curled at the back of his throat, mixing with the musk of old rot and wet stone. A lesser mage would have gagged. Draumbean breathed deeper instead. It was the scent of secrets.

  The Wizard’s Keep was attached like a leech to the eastern shoulder of the Emperor’s castle—a fortress unto itself, yet bound in oath and stone to the throne it served. Few knew of the spiral stair, and fewer still had ever walked its length. There were no guards posted at the top. No wards. No keys. Only trust. Or perhaps forgetfulness.

  He had come here often as a boy, back when his robes were plain, his hair thick and vibrant, and his mind yet unburdened by prophecy and death. Archmage Spendal—blessed be his name—had guided him through these lessons, not as a master to an apprentice, but as a blacksmith tempers a blade too quick to burn. Draumbean had always been too fast. Too sharp. Too eager.

  He still remembered the old man’s voice echoing down these very stairs, chiding him for overreaching. “Just because you can summon a storm, boy, doesn’t mean the clouds will like you for it.”

  Even now, so many years later, he smiled.

  Draumbean had been a rarity, even then. A freak, some whispered. A prodigy, others said. He’d touched the four winds before his twelfth year. Seen through veils. Spoken in tongues not spoken aloud since the fall of Arkhaz. Where others spent decades mastering even the simplest incantations, he drank magic like wine—carelessly, voraciously, beautifully.

  And they had hated him for it.

  The glow came first soft and pulsing like the heart of some great beast buried beneath the world. A green light, unnatural yet mesmerizing, bled through the final bend of the stair and into the corridor beyond. Draumbean rounded the curve, and the pool stretched before him.

  No matter how many times he had stood here, it always left him breathless.

  The chamber was cavernous, domed in jagged black stone. Stalactites hung like the fangs of some slumbering god, and the floor sloped downward to a basin large enough to drown a dragon. The pool itself roiled and shimmered—not water, but liquid magic, raw and uncut. Streams of green flame danced across its surface like ribbons in a storm. They leapt and twisted, devouring one another, birthing new lights in turn. Alive. Always alive.

  Draumbean stepped to the edge.

  The warmth of it soaked into his bones, made his veins itch with old power. This was not the arcane energy of wands and wizards’ duels. This was elder magic, the breath of the world before the world had a name. He believed there were others like it—three he had confirmed, one in the southern jungles beneath the Forgotten Temple, another somewhere in the Jade Wastes, the third whispered of beneath the Glacial Expanse. But this one… this one had taught him to be more than just a wielder.

  It had taught him to listen.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  He was reaching out, fingers hovering inches above the swirling surface, when a voice behind him made him curse inwardly.

  “Couldn’t sleep?”

  Balthazar.

  The voice was rough, but not unfriendly. Familiar, like an old sword wrapped in well-oiled leather. Draumbean turned, unsurprised to see the tall, broad-shouldered man seated upon a smooth boulder near the chamber’s wall, robes tucked beneath his legs, arms folded across his chest.

  “How long have you been there?” Draumbean asked, more curious than alarmed.

  “Long enough to watch you forget your surroundings. Again.”

  “I should have felt you.”

  “You should have.” Balthazar smirked. “Sleep is a luxury not easily afforded to the great Draumbean, is it?”

  “No,” he said simply, his voice low. “Not these days.”

  Balthazar stood, brushing moss from his knee. His robes were thick, lined with red sigils and golden thread—a battle-mage’s attire, worn and stained with a dozen wars. He was not of the Council, but he had served it loyally for over two decades, often as a sword when spells would not suffice. More importantly, he was one of the few Draumbean trusted.

  “What troubles you?” the man asked, stepping forward.

  “The usual,” Draumbean said, watching the pool. “Dreams. Ghosts. Prophecies. You know, the things that keep kindly old wizards awake at night.”

  Balthazar’s grin faded. “Prophecies?”

  Draumbean nodded slowly. “It is one that has threatened the realms for centuries. Pure evil."

  “And this evil,” Balthazar said, voice quieter now, “does it have a name?”

  Draumbean turned, his face heavy with the burden of it. “Malekith. The Lich King. Destroyer of stars. Slaver of races. The Eternal.”

  A silence fell, thick as oil.

  Balthazar’s expression darkened. “The name… it was a cautionary tale when I was a boy. Told to make us fear the dark. I never believed he was real.”

  “Neither did I,” Draumbean said. “Not truly. Not until the dreams came. Until I saw his hand reaching through the veil of death to grasp the realms once more.”

  “Have you spoken to the Archmage?”

  “I have,” Draumbean said, his throat tightening.

  Another silence.

  “I have told the emperor. And a few others. Trusted voices. But not the Council. Not yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because fear is a poison,” Draumbean answered. “And if I pour it into the ears of the Council before I have a cure, it may kill any hope of a solution before the Lich ever arrives.”

  Balthazar nodded slowly. “Then I will keep it secret. For now. But how long do we have?”

  “I do not know. But he stirs. Even now he whispers into the minds of the desperate. Pulls the strings of traitors. Gathers shadows around him.”

  Balthazar clenched his jaw. “Then we will do what we must. He was defeated once. He can be defeated again.”

  Draumbean turned back to the pool, letting the green light paint his face in ghostly hues. “I hope you’re right, old friend. I’ve searched through ancient scrolls, merchant archives, private collectors. Even the vaults of the dwarves. I’ve found traces of hope. Promises. But no answers.”

  “Three centuries is a long time,” Balthazar said. “Whatever secrets buried him then may be buried deeper now.”

  Draumbean nodded. “I’ve begun the search for the Keeper of Secrets.”

  Balthazar raised a brow. “The Keeper? That’s a fool’s errand. The library moves with each moon.”

  “I know. But he may be the only one who knows how the crown was broken, and how to retrieve it once more."

  Balthazar stepped forward, placing a heavy hand on Draumbean’s shoulder. “Then let me find him. You keep digging through your tomes and riddles. I’ll put boots to ground. I’ll send you word the moment I do.”

  Draumbean smiled, truly smiled, for the first time in days. “I would appreciate that more than you know.”

  Balthazar nodded, then turned to go. But at the threshold of the chamber, he paused and looked back. “Try and rest, Draumbean. You’re starting to look your age.”

  Draumbean laughed, the sound echoing like chimes through the chamber. “You wound me, Balthazar.”

  Alone again, Draumbean stepped to the edge of the pool. He extended his hand. The mana danced to greet it—flames of green and silver twining up toward his skin, tasting his presence.

  He let his fingers dip into the surface.

  It was warm. Not hot. Not cold. Just warm.

  Like a breath.

  He closed his eyes and let the pool speak.

  He saw stars dying in silence. He saw towers of bone rising from red seas. He saw a black crown shatter across six temples. He saw children weeping beneath eclipsed suns. He saw his own hand, old and gnarled, clutching a scepter not made for mortal fingers.

  He gasped, staggered back, and nearly fell.

  The pool hissed and rippled, its light dimming as if exhausted by the vision.

  Draumbean wiped sweat from his brow, though the chamber was cool. The pool never gave gifts without cost.

  But it had shown him something. A clue.

  A temple. High upon a mountain. A whisper of something sacred. Something… shattered.

  He turned from the pool and headed for the stairs once more.

  The time had come. There could be no more delay.