The canopy of the Whispering Woods loomed overhead, branches intertwining to form a crisscross of leaves that filtered the morning light into patterns on the forest floor. Eamon moved carefully along the narrow path, his footsteps muffled by the thick layer of moss and fallen leaves. The air was cool and crisp, carrying the earthy scent of damp wood and the faint, sweet aroma of wildflowers hidden among the underbrush.

He glanced back once, the distant silhouette of Stonebridge barely visible through the trees. A pang of doubt tugged at him. This was farther than he'd ever ventured alone. The safety of the village felt like a warm hearth left behind, replaced by the unknown shadows of the forest.

The forest changed the deeper he pressed. The lively chatter of birds diminished, and the rustling of small creatures in the underbrush grew scarce. The trees, once vibrant with leaves, took on a more ancient appearance—gnarled trunks twisted by time, bark etched with deep fissures. Vines draped from branches like the tattered remains of forgotten banners.

Soon, he emerged into a clearing where the remains of stone structures jutted from the ground like the bones of a long-dead giant. The ruins.

Eamon's breath caught. Moss and ivy clung to crumbling walls, and trees sprouted from what once might have been rooftops. Nature had reclaimed this place, yet there was an eerie stillness that set his nerves on edge.

He stood at the threshold of the stone archway, his breath shallow as the cool air of the underground passage brushed his skin. The dim light from his torch barely pierced the darkness ahead, and an instinctual urge to turn back seized him. His legs felt heavy, as if the weight of the unknown was pulling him away from the passage. But Callum’s taunting voice echoed in his head—the image of that smug grin flashed across his mind, tightening his grip on the torch.

A part of him screamed to leave. This place wasn’t for him. He wasn’t an adventurer or a warrior—he was a blacksmith’s apprentice. What business did he have in these ruins? But another part—a deeper, quieter voice—urged him forward. It wasn’t just Callum. It was something else. The yearning that had stirred in him for months, gnawing at the edges of his mind, reminding him that this village—his life—wasn’t enough.

“Just a quick look,” he whispered, though even the sound of his voice in this dead place made him wince. But his feet moved anyway, stepping over the crumbled stones, each one a step deeper into both fear and the possibility of something more.

The air grew cooler, heavy with the scent of damp stone. The walls were lined with carvings, their details eroded but suggestive of figures and symbols unlike any he'd seen before. He ran his fingers over them, the stone cool and slightly rough.

"Who built this place?" he whispered, his voice swallowed by the vastness of the underground chamber.

As he ventured further, a profound emptiness settled in. Not a single plant grew in the crevices; no signs of life stirred. It was as if the very essence of vitality had been siphoned away, leaving a hollow husk of a place.

A sense of unease gnawed at him. "This isn't right," he thought. "I should go back."

He turned to retrace his steps but hesitated. "No, just a bit further. I can't leave empty-handed."

Scanning the area for something to prove his journey, his eyes caught a faint glimmer atop a pile of stones. Clambering over the debris, he reached a flat rock where a single page lay undisturbed. It was weathered and fragile, coated in a fine layer of dust. The material wasn't like any parchment he'd seen; it shimmered subtly, even in the dim light.

The markings—those shifting, swirling patterns—drew him in like a moth to flame. Excitement flickered through him, a rare sensation that made his pulse quicken. This was it—proof that the ruins held secrets. Real secrets. Ancient power. The kind of thing he’d dreamed about in the forge when his hands ached from hammering out horseshoes, when the world outside his village seemed so distant and unreachable.

But as his fingers reached for the page, another sensation crept into his chest: fear. The page seemed alive, as if it was watching him. What if touching it brought something terrible? What if there was truth to Merrick’s stories—truth that could consume him like it had the people of DartRidge?

His hand hovered, trembling, over the page. Curiosity versus fear, yearning versus safety. The choice was right in front of him, yet it felt heavier than the stone walls around him.

Finally, with a breath that tasted like courage and recklessness combined, he reached out. The moment his fingertips brushed the surface, the warmth spread through his body, and he instantly regretted it. Fear won, but too late.

A sudden warmth emanated from the page. Before he could react, the page disintegrated into fragments of light, swirling upward like fireflies released from a jar. The motes of light hovered for a heartbeat before darting toward him.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Panic seized Eamon. He stumbled back, dropping his torch, which sputtered and extinguished upon hitting the ground. The lights followed, surrounding him in a dizzying dance.

"What is this?!" he cried out, swatting at the lights as if they were insects, but his hands passed through them. A sharp pain lanced through his head, a piercing ache that blurred his vision and sent him reeling.

He tried to run, but his legs felt heavy, the world tilting beneath him. The cavern spun, the beams of light from above stretching and warping. The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him was the swirl of luminous fragments converging toward his chest.

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Cold. The chill seeped into his bones, rousing him from unconsciousness. Eamon's eyes fluttered open to a canopy of stars framed by the jagged edges of the ruined ceiling. Night had fallen, casting the cavern into deep shadows punctuated by silvery moonlight.

He sat up slowly, his head throbbing but the intense pain from before subsided. The memory of the lights flooded back, and he instinctively patted his body, searching for any sign of injury or... change.

"What happened?" he whispered, his breath visible in the frigid air.

As he moved to stand, something glinted on the ground beside him. A small stone, no larger than a skipping pebble, lay within arm's reach. It was golden, emitting a soft glow that seemed to ebb and flow like a heartbeat.

He picked it up cautiously. The stone was smooth, warm to the touch, and bore the same strange markings he'd seen on the page. A surge of unease washed over him.

"No. I can't keep this," he muttered, flinging the stone into the darkness. The clatter of it skittering across the stone floor echoed briefly before silence returned.

He rose to his feet, unsteady but determined to leave this place behind. As he made his way toward the exit, the faint glow appeared ahead of him—the golden stone, resting innocently in his path.

Eamon's heart pounded. He scooped it up and hurled it with all his might into the shadows. Turning quickly, he continued toward the stairs, his pace quickening.

But there it was again, lying directly before him.

Fear gnawed at the edges of his mind. He considered leaving it, but something compelled him to understand. Gritting his teeth, he reached down and picked up the stone once more.

"Why won't you leave me alone?" he demanded, his voice echoing faintly.

The stone pulsed gently in response, though it made no sound. He held it up, examining it in the moonlight. The markings seemed to shift, the lines rearranging themselves into patterns that eluded comprehension.

Taking a deep breath, Eamon placed the stone into his pouch. It settled there as if it belonged, the weight of it oddly reassuring against his side.

"Fine. Stay with me, then," he conceded softly.

The oppressive silence of the underground passage pressed in around Eamon as he retraced his steps, the feeble light from his torch casting flickering shadows on the damp stone walls. His heart hammered in his chest, the events of the past hours a blur in his mind—the mysterious page, the fragments of light, the strange golden stone now tucked securely in his pouch.

He quickened his pace, eager to escape the suffocating depths of the ruins. The air grew colder, and the once-intriguing carvings along the walls now seemed to leer at him with ominous intent. Regret gnawed at him. "I should have listened," he muttered under his breath. "This was a foolish idea."

As he neared the entrance, faint echoes reached his ears—distant voices calling his name.

"Eamon! Eamon, where are you?"

He paused, straining to listen. The voices grew clearer, tinged with urgency and worry. Recognition sparked. It was Tomas, and... was that Maeve?

"Eamon!" Maeve's voice echoed through the passage, closer now.

Relief mixed with apprehension. How long had he been gone? It felt like mere hours, but the darkness outside suggested otherwise. He hurried toward the voices, the beam of daylight from the entrance a beacon guiding him out of the subterranean maze.

Emerging from the archway, he squinted against the fading light of dusk. The sky was awash with streaks of deep purple and indigo, stars beginning to punctuate the twilight canvas. A group of villagers stood at the edge of the ruins—Tomas, Maeve, his sister Lila, and several adults including his father, Garret, and Master Rowan.

"There he is!" Lila cried, relief evident in her voice as she sprinted toward him.

"Eamon, thank the heavens!" Garret exclaimed, striding forward with a mix of anger and concern etched on his face.

Eamon barely had time to brace himself before Lila threw her arms around him. "We were so worried!" she said, her voice muffled against his shirt.

"I'm sorry," he began, guilt washing over him.

Garret's hand gripped his shoulder firmly. "What were you thinking, son? Disappearing all day without a word?"

"I didn't realize..." Eamon faltered. "I must have lost track of time."

Master Rowan shook his head. "Curiosity is one thing, but this? Do you have any idea the trouble you've caused?"

Tomas stepped forward, his expression a mix of relief and exasperation. "We thought something had happened to you. When you didn't come back, we had to tell the others."

Maeve stood a few paces back, her eyes reflecting a blend of worry and admonishment. "You shouldn't have gone alone," she said softly.

"I'm sorry," Eamon repeated, feeling the weight of their concern. "I didn't mean to make you worry."

Garret's stern gaze softened slightly. "We'll discuss this more at home. Right now, let's get away from this place."

As the group began to move away from the ruins, a subtle tremor coursed through the ground—a barely perceptible ripple that seemed to emerge from deep within the earth. Eamon halted, a strange sensation prickling at the edges of his awareness.

"Did you feel that?" he asked, looking around.

"Feel what?" Lila responded, glancing up at him.

"That... ripple. Like a pulse."

The others exchanged puzzled looks. "I didn't feel anything," Tomas said, frowning.

Maeve tilted her head, observing Eamon closely. "Are you feeling alright?"

Before he could answer, Garret placed a firm hand on his back. "Come on, Eamon. You've had a long day. Let's get back to the village."

Eamon hesitated, casting a glance back toward the ruins. The shadows seemed deeper now, the air heavier. A whisper of unease slid down his spine.

"Yes, Father," he conceded, allowing himself to be guided away.