Chapter Forty-Three: Beneath the Old Stones
The wind on the Old Pilgrim's Way had not changed in a thousand years. It still whispered through the stones—stones worn by countless feet, by those who came seeking redemption, and by those who came seeking to forget. They were holy and hollow, as if memory itself had been carved into them by time's steady hand.
Brother Aluin walked barefoot, his staff tapping the ancient road with a rhythm older than any chant he knew. His robes, once white, were stained with earth and ash. The Pilgrim's Way was long, carved through the mountain's heart, leading from the Forgotten Monastery to the forgotten places of the world. And Aluin, a monk of the last silence, had chosen to follow it not for penance—but for revelation.
The clouds thickened overhead, promising rain, and far below, mist gathered in valleys like ghosts reluctant to rise. The deeper he went, the more the world felt hushed, as if the mountain itself listened.
Aluin's mission was simple: Find the truth. But the truth, as he had learned in his years of silent prayer and solitary wandering, was rarely simple. It was layered in myth, buried in ruins, guarded by those who had long ceased to speak.
And this road… this road had something it wanted to hide.
He passed stone markers inscribed with names long forgotten, each etched in a dialect he half-recognized from old monastery walls. Some bore warnings: Do not wake the old ones. Do not light fire beneath hollow sky. Others bore only symbols—circles within circles, or a line split thrice through the middle.
Each step further was a descent—not only through the mountain's bones, but through history itself. The shadows grew longer, and with them, a faint thrum in the stone beneath his feet. A heartbeat too faint to hear, but strong enough to feel.
Hours passed. He walked without rest. Hunger gnawed, but he ignored it. The light in his lantern had dulled, the oil running low, but he pressed on.
Then he reached it—a place where the road split.
One path descended into shadow, twisting into a cavern that led deep beneath the earth. The other path continued onward, toward the distant peaks where sunlight still lingered.
But Aluin had no intention of going up.
He turned toward the darkness.
The cavern swallowed him. The ceiling arched high above, carved not by human hands but by time and something else—something older. The deeper he went, the colder the air became, until each breath was a fog.
He passed carvings on the walls—spirals, stars, crowns split in two. Some bore faces, too distorted to be human. Others were burned black, as if fire had touched them in defiance or reverence.
Then came the stairs.
A spiral descent into the mountain's throat, chiseled from obsidian and flanked by statues whose eyes followed him. He counted each step as he went—one hundred and twenty-four—before the stair gave way to a great stone door.
It was not locked. It was not sealed.
It simply waited.
With a trembling hand, he pushed it open.
Deep in the heart of the mountain, in the long-forgotten chambers hidden beneath the Pilgrim's Way, the air was thick with silence. Aluin's lantern flickered as he stepped into the vast chamber, the sound of his footfalls echoing strangely in the emptiness, distorted and slow, like sound moving through water.
The chamber was unlike anything he had ever seen—huge, impossibly old. Its walls were lined with carvings, symbols twisted in ways that defied understanding. The floor was covered in dust so thick that it seemed to have settled like a blanket over centuries. Here and there, pieces of shattered bone jutted from beneath the dust, unburied by time's carelessness.
At the far end of the chamber, a massive stone altar stood. It was cracked, but imposing—its edges carved with jagged script that shimmered faintly, even in the dim lantern light. Something had been bound there, long ago. Something that had left its mark not just on the altar—but on the stone around it, warped and scorched.
Aluin stepped closer, heart pounding, the weight of the place pressing in on him. Every instinct told him to leave. Every dream he had ever whispered in silence told him to stay.
Then he saw it—a single book, lying open upon the altar.
Its pages were yellowed and brittle, and the text was written in an unfamiliar script—one that was not of any known language. Lines curved like thorns, twisted like roots, and pulsed with faint silver as his lantern light fell across them.
He reached out, hesitated, then pressed his fingers to the page.
The moment he touched the book, the ground trembled.
A low growl vibrated through the stone—deep and mournful, as if the mountain itself had stirred.
Aluin stumbled back, the lantern falling from his hand and spilling light across the altar. Shadows danced, leaping along the walls.
For a brief moment, he caught sight of a name, half-hidden in the curving script:
"The False King."
Then came the sound like the cracking of old bones.
The ceiling above the entrance buckled. Stones groaned. Dust fell like snow.
The cavern's entrance began to collapse.
Aluin turned and ran—his staff forgotten, the weight of revelation pressing down on him harder than the falling stone. The book still glowed on the altar, untouched by time, untouched by dust.
He made it to the staircase just as the chamber gave way behind him. He climbed without counting, without thought, lungs burning.
He did not stop until the cavern was sealed behind him, the stair swallowed by rubble, and the old door buried in silence once more.
He fell to his knees on the Pilgrim's Way, gasping.
Rain had begun to fall.
He looked up, drenched and shivering, the name still etched in his mind:
"The False King."
And in his heart, he felt it—not knowledge. Not power.
But a warning.
Whatever had been bound beneath the mountain… it was not sleeping anymore.