The ancient ruin—buried within the northern reaches of the Black Mountains—was not far from where Gwayne and his company had pitched camp. It lay hidden within the mountains themselves, a fragment of its once-great structure exposed high upon the rocky cliffs. In theory, one could glimpse its remnants even from their camp—hundreds of meters above, nestled among the crags—
but long centuries had cloaked the site. Vines and stubborn mountain flora wound across the stonework, earth and rubble had shifted, and time itself had all but erased the scars of civilization.
From afar, the ruin blended almost seamlessly into the wild cliff face; even a sharp-eyed hunter might overlook it amid the tangled greenery.
Once the camp was properly secured, Gwayne gathered his small band and set out.
Ten years might weather a kingdom—but it was not enough to erase the mountains themselves.
Guided by the satellite's memory in his mind and the old pathways he remembered, Gwayne led them with surprising ease.
Amber, ever the voice of practical panic, fretted aloud: "I mean... we're heading into the Black Mountains to dig up buried treasure, yeah? And it's just four of us? Don't you think that's, I dunno, a bit risky?"
Gwayne cast her a sideways glance. "What do you suggest, then?"
Amber waved her arms wildly: "At least a few hundred men-at-arms escorting us! A dozen master rangers and druids to guide the way! Knights at the fore, magi at the rear—and a grandmaster rogue, say someone like me, to pick the locks!" She struck a theatrical pose.
Gwayne rolled his eyes. "Where am I supposed to summon an army for a simple treasure hunt?
And besides, if you think you can assemble such a team—by all means, I'll wait."
"Okay, okay, maybe I exaggerated a bit..." Amber muttered, arms flailing in surrender. "But still! It's the Black Mountains! The place where, according to legend, a demon lord lives every five hundred paces!"
At that, Rebecca bristled, brandishing her staff: "Don't you insult my magic! I'll show you just how powerful the women of House Seawright can be!"
Gwayne sighed and held up a hand to calm his excitable descendant. He turned back to Amber, voice dry: "You're going to get yourself killed one day with that mouth. And who told you there's a demon lord every five hundred paces, anyway? That's peasant-tavern nonsense to scare children."
Lifting his gaze, he studied the winding path ahead.
"The Black Mountains are dangerous," he said, "but not nearly so fearsome as folk tales claim.
In the days of the Gondor Empire, these were just mountains—nothing more. The Black Mountains and the Highland Spine to the south were the great twin ranges of Lorath's heartlands."
He motioned toward the looming peaks. "Back then, these mountains were famed for their abundance: rich veins of ore, thick forests, golden fields. They were called the Gilded Heights, not the Black Mountains. Only after the Dark Tide—the cataclysm that tore the empire apart—did things change."
He stepped lightly over a tangle of roots. "The mountains' southern slopes took the brunt of the elemental storms. The forests twisted. The beasts mutated. And so the 'Black Forest' was born—and the Gilded Heights became the Black Mountains."
The trail they followed was mostly bare, though stubborn trees and creeping vines had clawed their way across the path. Here and there, plants showed strange, contorted shapes— mutations from the tainted elemental winds that still, at times, drifted from the ruined Gondor Wastes.
But Gwayne knew these warped growths were no real threat. They were just plants—tougher, stranger-looking, but harmless.
Many an ambitious young noble had ventured here, eager to brag afterward about "surviving the perils of the Black Mountains"—but most had never even crossed into the true blackened forest beyond the mountains. They had no idea what real danger looked like.
Gwayne could see clearly from his mental map—and from the satellite's view, recorded long ago—that the pollution here had largely ebbed.
He pressed on, clearing the overgrown path with slow, deliberate strikes.
"People fear this place for two reasons," he explained as he worked. "First, the fear of Gondor's ruins. The Sentinels' Towers and the Grand Barrier sealed most of the Wastes long ago,
but not perfectly. Dark magic still leaks out each year—enough to poison the land along the borders."
He paused and added: "And second—fear of the unknown."
"The unknown?" Amber blinked.
"Exactly," Gwayne nodded. "The kingdom halted all southern expansion two centuries ago. It's been a forbidden land for at least a hundred years."
Rebecca chimed in: "If you count from the royal order to cease expansion, it's been over two hundred. If you count from when the last frontier villages fell—about a hundred."
"Precisely," Gwayne said. "A hundred years without a single true expedition.
Without new maps, new records, new knowledge."
He sheathed his blade for a moment, gesturing around them. "All they know is what they've heard from ghost stories—and secondhand from drunken 'adventurers'. No wonder they fear it."
Listening to this, Amber finally exhaled a breath of relief. "So... the horror stories are all just talk? We're actually safe?"
Gwayne considered for a moment—then suddenly leaned in with a wicked grin.
"Actually, I lied. It is terrifying. And there is a demon lord every five hundred paces."
Amber shrieked: "EEEYYYAAHH—!"
Gwayne laughed heartily, while Rebecca clutched her staff and gave the half-elf a look of utter disdain.
"A grandmaster rogue indeed," Gwayne teased.
He ruffled Rebecca's hair fondly and pointed ahead: "There—See that fallen tree? Time to put that fire magic of yours to good use."
Rebecca beamed, eager for the task. She lifted her staff and hurled a fireball with surprising speed.
The decayed tree shattered with a booming crack, splitting and tumbling down the slope, clearing the path.
And there—revealed beyond the wreckage—lay a hidden valley.
A wide clearing, carved with impossible precision, lay nestled against the mountains. The stone was smoothed by ancient tools, the sheer rock faces punctuated by crumbling arches and broken battlements. Structures melded into the cliffside, almost as if the mountains themselves had swallowed an ancient fortress whole.
Most of the stronghold remained hidden, buried within the rock.
Even Amber, usually quick to quip, fell silent at the sight.
Rebecca stared in awe. Ser Byron reached instinctively for his sword.
All three gazed, wide-eyed, upon the lost remnants of a forgotten age.
Gwayne's keen eyes roamed the ruin. He stopped by a collapsed pile of rubble, half-buried in the soil.
There—half-protruding from the ground—was a corroded, broken sword, blackened with time.
He knelt, brushing the dirt away carefully, and saw the faint carving at its base:
16th Company – Commander Cole lies here.
Rebecca's voice, small and uncertain, drifted from behind him: "What... what is this place?"
Gwayne rose slowly, a shadow in his eyes.
"When we crossed the Whitewater, we faced pursuit," he said quietly. "The 16th held the rear. None survived."
He rested a hand on the weathered stones. "They fell back here—the last of them. Tried to make a stand. But the tide of corruption was too strong. We never reclaimed these lands—not in my lifetime. By the time the magic storms faded... everyone had forgotten."
Ser Byron unsheathed his sword in solemn respect, pressing it to his breast. He bowed low before the makeshift grave.
The fallen warriors here had a tomb, of sorts. But whoever had buried them... had long since vanished into the dust of time.
Gwayne lingered a moment longer, then found a stone and placed it atop the mound.
"Rest well," he murmured. "Your brothers and sisters lived on. Your sacrifice was not in vain."
In that instant, he did not speak as a traveler from another world—but as Gwayne Seawright himself, one of their own.
Turning back to his companions, he nodded toward a nearby archway, half-sunken into the cliff.
"Come," he said.
"Let me show you what your ancestors left behind."