The air beneath the palace was colder than winter steel.
Each step Min Khant Thu Ya took echoed off the ancient walls as they descended the spiral stairwell hidden beneath the throne. The torches in their hands barely lit more than a few paces ahead. Behind him, Aren kept a steady pace, and Naytheon trailed, his usual sarcastic demeanor buried under a growing sense of dread.
"How long has this place been here?" Naytheon finally asked.
Min Khant didn't turn. "Long before our father took the throne. Long before this kingdom called itself Everain."
"How do you know about it?"
"I remembered."
Naytheon frowned. "From where?"
Min Khant paused at the base of the stairs. A great stone door loomed ahead — covered in carvings and old Everain runes. A dragon's eye was etched in the center, weeping blood.
"I read the book," Min Khant said quietly, then pressed his palm against the seal. "I just didn't know I would end up living in it."
The blood from his palm soaked into the runes, and with a deep rumble, the ancient vault began to open.
The room that greeted them was massive — a cathedral of shadows, where ancient murals lined the walls and old relics stood beneath dust-covered glass. At the far end was a stone pedestal, and atop it rested a scroll wrapped in silver chains.
Aren's hand instinctively went to his sword. "There's magic here. Old magic. And something… watching us."
Min Khant nodded. "This is the Hall of Vows. It was sealed when the First King broke his pact with the Old Gods. The scroll holds the truth of Everain's rise — and the price we paid for power."
The murals depicted scenes the public histories never spoke of — monstrous creatures offering blood oaths, kings bowing before cosmic beings with too many eyes, and a great wyrm curled around a flaming tree.
"Gods…" Naytheon whispered, tracing one of the murals. "This isn't history. It's heresy."
"No," Min Khant said. "It's truth. And truth is always labeled heresy when it threatens the throne."
He stepped forward and laid his hand upon the scroll. The silver chains unwrapped with a hiss like a serpent awakening. As the scroll opened, ethereal script lifted into the air, glowing with blue light.
A voice echoed in the chamber, deep and ancient.
"He who seeks the truth must offer more than blood. He must offer fate."
Min Khant gritted his teeth. "Take it, then."
A swirl of magic enveloped him, and visions assaulted his mind.
He saw the first king — not a conqueror, but a desperate man who bartered with a dying god to save his people. He saw a pact: divine protection in exchange for generations of sacrifice. Each ruler who sat on the throne unknowingly fed that ancient power — draining the kingdom's lifeforce bit by bit.
He saw the temple priests manipulating the cycle, choosing weak heirs to maintain the balance — never allowing the truth to be spoken. Any who got too close were erased. Rewritten.
Even the great Everain Wyrm was once a guardian spirit — poisoned by the temple's lies, cast as a monster.
Min Khant gasped as the vision ended, stumbling back. Aren caught him, steadying him.
"Min Khant! Are you—"
"I'm fine," he said, voice hoarse. "But now I know what must be done."
Naytheon looked rattled. "What did you see?"
"The truth. This kingdom is cursed — bound by a contract no one remembers. A contract that's killing the land… and us."
"Can we break it?"
Min Khant looked up at the floating script. "Yes. But it comes at a price. The blood of a king… and the birth of a new vow."
Silence fell.
Finally, Aren spoke. "You're saying… we must end the Everain line to save the kingdom?"
Min Khant turned, eyes steady. "No. Not end it. Reforge it. The old vow was made in fear. We'll make a new one — in strength."
Naytheon laughed bitterly. "That's the kind of talk that gets you killed."
"I already died once," Min Khant replied.
Then his gaze fell on the mural of the wyrm and the tree. A flicker of something else stirred in him — an idea not from the book, not from memory, but from somewhere deeper. A whisper in his soul.
"We need the heartwood," he said suddenly.
Aren frowned. "What?"
"The world tree. The First Pact was made beneath it. Its roots run through this continent. If we find the Heartwood, we can make a new pact. One that frees the kingdom from its chain."
"But how do we find something that old? That mythical?"
Min Khant stepped toward the exit of the vault, determination burning in his chest. "We ask the one being who's older than any god in this land…"
Aren and Naytheon both realized it at the same time.
"…The Wyrm," they whispered.
Back at the Northern Swamps
The ancient wyrm slumbered in the depths of the sacred lake, its breath churning the water with slow, rhythmic pulses. But its eyes opened before Min Khant even reached the edge.
"You return quickly, Little Flame," the wyrm spoke, its voice like thunder beneath the earth.
Min Khant bowed slightly. "I seek the Heartwood."
The wyrm's golden eye narrowed. "Then you seek to change the fate of nations."
"I seek to save what remains before it's all lost."
There was a long pause. Then the wyrm raised its head.
"Very well. But know this — to reach the Heartwood, you must pass through the three forgotten trials: The Trial of Echoes, where truth is distorted. The Trial of Stone, where you face your own shadow. And the Trial of Flame… where even gods have fallen."
Min Khant didn't flinch. "Then I'll walk through fire."
The wyrm laughed — a deep, echoing rumble.
"Then prepare yourself, Prince of Chains. The first trial awaits."
To Be Continued…