DEAD GARDENS
The day of departure had arrived, a day that had lingered on the horizon like a storm long foreseen. As Aethyr prepared to leave, the air was charged with both hope and trepidation. He left with waves of well-wishers and blessings at his back, but he did not yet know he walked a path shaped for him long ago—a path laced with trials and truths veiled even from himself.
Three days before, as preparations unfolded, Master Grandir and Alious had met in private, their tones hushed, the weight of their concerns unspoken yet palpable.
“Ali,” Grandir began, his voice heavy with doubt, “my old friend, did I do the right thing by sending him toward this fate? He’s young—yet carries so much weight, and I fear what lies before him.”
Alious clasped Grandir’s shoulder reassuringly. “Grad, you’re doubting yourself when the boy’s actions have already spoken for him. He’s faced more than any of us could ever ask. Think about it: he challenged the third strongest mage here—Master Asphyr—and left him with a wound that no apprentice has ever managed. And Velekh, the demon you sealed in the depths… Aethyr defeated him and tore through the Midden Chamber as if it were a training field. He reached the twenty-fifth floor, freeing our researchers to explore unbound. And let’s not forget his last feat: facing you, Grandir—the finest spellcaster of our College—and walking away. If any among us deserves the title of strongest scholar-mage, it’s Aethyrvald Spellsword Whitemane.”
Grandir sighed, a trace of pride blending with his anxiety. “Yes, but… have I been fair to him, Ali? Should I tell him what lies beneath all this? That sending him into the depths wasn’t only a test, but also a way to learn if he’s the one Madremonte spoke of all those years ago?”
“Whether you tell him or not,” Alious replied, his voice steady, “he’s already on his path. Aethyr’s courage and strength aren’t by accident, Grad. They’ve guided him here because he’s meant for more. We’re not just sending him out; we’re giving him the chance to prove what he’s always had within him.”
Grandir’s gaze turned toward the horizon, his thoughts adrift yet bound to his duty. “If only I knew… The day she appeared—the Mother of all Dryads—I could hardly believe it. She told us the boy would have to face down this darkness that stirs within the world’s heart. And soon… it will rise. We’ve given him all we can, Ali. Now, I suppose, it’s time to trust.”
“We’ve done more than enough, and yet perhaps not nearly enough,” Alious replied with a faint smile. “But he’s as prepared as anyone can be. And when he needs us, he’ll have more than we ever did. We’ve ensured that. The College stands behind him, as does all of Ashmark.”
Grandir nodded, reassured, though he felt the pang of uncertainty twist within him. “Then let us hope that it’s enough. For now, we’ll do what we can from here, watching over him. And if what’s coming is as grave as Madremonte foretold…”
Alious clasped his hands firmly. “Then we will support him however we must. The boy is capable of forging new ways forward—even our researchers agree. He’s already discovered portal space magic within the dwarven ruins, opening channels for supplies and reinforcements. With his knowledge and our combined efforts, he will have everything he needs to succeed.”
Grandir offered a final sigh, though it held a glint of pride. “Then, may the fates grant him strength. For today, we send him with all that he needs, save for the one thing we cannot give—his own unbreakable spirit.”
They stood in silence, as if bearing witness to the dawning of something beyond their control. The dawn painted the sky with colors that neither had ever seen before, like an omen, or perhaps a blessing. Whatever awaited Aethyr beyond the horizon, he would face it with the hope of all who walked before him, and with the strength that had already set his destiny into motion.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
DEAD GARDENS, PART 2
Aethyr was met by adventurers and researchers of the College treaty at the entrance. After a brief exchange of greetings, he stepped directly to the 25th level, the site of his fierce battle against the colossal undead—now under scrutiny by the College scientists. The once-bloody battleground was now an empty chamber, marred only by the scars of his battle.
He moved past the remnants, descending deeper into the labyrinth. His instincts kicked in: he meticulously studied the markings, mechanisms, and relics left behind by those who had crafted this ancient place. When creatures emerged, Aethyr remembered the Phalanx’s creed: “Aggressive, not reckless.” He engaged only when necessary, conserving his strength, carefully exploring without needless risk.
All the while, unseen eyes monitored him. The College scholars observed his tactics in awe, broadcasting his progress as both learning material and entertainment, witnessing every careful strike and measured step.
He gathered unknown substances and plants, sending small samples back through teleportation portals he discovered in hidden recesses—mostly near mechanisms and storage areas. The portal system was still under development, limiting the size and quantity he could send. Each step forward only deepened his understanding of the ancient dwarven tribe that had crafted these intricate halls—dwarves markedly different from the ones known to modern scholars, though that mystery would unfold later.
At last, he reached a place that felt entirely out of context within the dark dungeon: a well-lit expanse, seemingly open to the sky, filled with wildflowers and trees. A gentle breeze stirred the grass as flowers swayed in tandem, painting a serene scene wholly unexpected within these depths.
“Is my mind deceiving me? Am I… outside?” he whispered, bewildered. Every sense told him this was real, yet it contradicted all he knew about the lower dungeon levels.
As he considered turning back, the door he had come through disappeared, leaving only a single path forward. He walked cautiously, entranced by the meadow, until a cluster of small houses appeared ahead, reminiscent of a quiet village. A woman stood at the gate, welcoming him with an easy smile.
“Welcome, young master. Come in,” she said warmly.
Aethyr froze, still wary. How could such a place exist here, and yet feel so safe?
“Come, come,” she beckoned, her voice calm, “you are safe here, so long as the gate is closed. Harm cannot touch this place.”
Tentatively, Aethyr followed, passing through the gates and into the village. He observed the villagers—mostly women and elderly men with gray-streaked hair—busy with simple tasks. Children played in the gardens, while elders tended animals and plants. The peace was palpable, easing Aethyr’s tension.
An elder man, stooped but steady, stepped forward, signaling Aethyr toward a small, welcoming hut. Inside, a modest fire crackled, and Aethyr settled down, feeling the weight of his journey finally lift. Shortly, the village chief joined him, an elderly man with eyes keen despite his age.
“Rest well, young one,” the chief began, nodding approvingly. “You must have traveled far to reach our quiet sanctuary.”
“Far indeed,” Aethyr replied, glancing around. “How is it that a place like this remains untouched by the darkness beyond? I’ve not seen such peace since leaving my home.”
The chief gave a gentle smile, leaning on his cane. “We are blessed by the ancient magic that keeps our village hidden and safe from the dangers lurking beyond. Our barriers keep the miasma at bay, as it has for many years.”
“And you have enough provisions?” Aethyr asked, glancing toward the gardens where villagers were hard at work.
“We do,” the chief affirmed. “We are self-sustaining. The younger men have ventured beyond to seek livelihoods, leaving the elders and women here to keep the village. Our lives are simple, and we have little need to venture outside.”
Aethyr felt an unusual calm settle over him. For the first time in ages, he could rest with a sense of safety. That night, he slept deeply in the humble hut, dreaming of landscapes filled with light and peace.