#kerreth

He stood a head taller than most men in the village now, broader through the chest and shoulders, his body shaped by constant training and hard labor. Muscle layered onto him slowly and permanently, earned through repetition rather than growth spurts. His skin held a darker tan, almost bronze in the right light, marked here and there by faint scars—nicks from blades, burns from smithing fires, the occasional white line earned during sparring gone wrong. His black hair had grown thick and heavy, worn loose to his shoulders because tying it back never quite held. His blue eyes, sharp and watchful, missed very little.

They trained together when they could.

Alren taught Kerreth the basics of swordplay in the clearing behind the old chapel ruins—slow footwork first, careful grip, the discipline of balance before power. Kerreth listened when Alren corrected him, though he never stopped asking why.

“Because that’s how it’s done,” Alren said one morning, adjusting Kerreth’s stance.

“That’s not an answer,” Kerreth replied, rolling his shoulders before resetting. “That’s tradition.”

Alren exhaled. “Tradition exists because people survived it.”

Kerreth smiled. “Then let’s see what else survives.”

They sparred until sweat soaked through linen and dirt clung to their calves. Kerreth moved fast, darting in and out, testing angles, laughing when Alren blocked him effortlessly.

“You’re not trying,” Kerreth accused, panting.

Alren knocked his blade aside and stepped close enough that Kerreth had to retreat or collide with him. “I’m trying not to hurt you.”

Kerreth’s laughter faded. He looked up at Alren—really looked—and something unreadable passed between them.

“Don’t,” he said quietly.

Alren stiffened. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t protect me like I’m breakable.”

Alren held his gaze for a long moment. “You are.”

“So are you.”

They stood there, breathing hard, blades lowered but not forgotten.

The first time Kerreth spoke to the village council, he did not intend to.

A dispute had broken out over irrigation rights upriver—two families shouting across the meeting hall, voices rising, hands clenching. The elders attempted to intervene and failed.

Kerreth stood before he realized what he was doing.

“Stop,” he said.

The word cracked like a stone striking water.

The room went quiet—not instantly, but inevitably. Conversations trailed off. Even the elders turned toward him.

Kerreth swallowed, aware suddenly of every eye on him. “You’re arguing over water,” he continued, voice steadier now. “While the river doesn’t care who claims it. It will flood or dry as it pleases, and neither of you will win if you tear the village apart first.”

One of the elders frowned. “And what would you suggest, boy?”

Kerreth lifted his chin. “We dig a secondary channel. Share the burden and the risk. No one gets everything—but no one loses everything either.”

Silence followed.

Then murmurs.

Alren watched from the doorway, arms crossed, heart pounding with something dangerously close to pride.

Later, outside, Alren caught up to him. “You didn’t ask permission.”

Kerreth shrugged. “They weren’t listening to anyone who had it.”

Alren studied him. “You realize they’ll expect more of that now.”

Kerreth met his gaze. “Good.”

That night, they walked the river path together, the moon laying silver across the water.

“People listen to you,” Alren said.

“They always have,” Kerreth replied, then winced. “That sounded worse than I meant it.”

Alren huffed a quiet laugh. “No. It sounded true.”

Kerreth slowed, gaze fixed on the river’s surface. “Does it bother you?”

“That they listen?” Alren shook his head. “No. That you don’t seem afraid of it.”

Kerreth stopped walking. He turned fully toward Alren. “I am afraid.”

Alren frowned. “You don’t act like it.”

“Because if I do,” Kerreth said softly, “everyone else will too.”

The admission settled heavily between them.

Alren stepped closer, close enough that Kerreth could feel the warmth radiating off him. “Then don’t be afraid alone.”

Kerreth’s breath caught, just slightly.

“I won’t,” he said.

They stood there longer than necessary, neither willing to step away first. The river whispered beside them, steady and unrelenting.

The rumors returned that winter.

Whispers of old prophecies. Of stones unearthed in distant lands. Of relics that predated gods and asked for nothing but obedience.

Alren began waking in the night, listening for sounds that weren’t there.

Kerreth dreamed of fire.

He did not tell Alren that yet.

By spring, it was no longer possible to pretend they were simply friends.

The closeness had deepened into something quiet and constant—shared glances, hands brushing and not moving away, an understanding that did not require naming. When Kerreth laughed, Alren felt it settle somewhere beneath his ribs. When Alren was hurt, Kerreth’s anger burned sharp and immediate.

Love did not arrive all at once.

It took root.

“Are you going to keep staring,” Kerreth called, not turning, “or are you planning to say something?”

There was a pause behind him.

Then: “You’re sitting in the crest line.”

Kerreth twisted around. The other boy stood several paces back, boots planted firmly on dry ground, arms crossed like he’d been holding himself together out of sheer stubbornness.

He was taller. Broader. Even at a glance, Kerreth could tell he would grow into that width instead of losing it. His skin was darker, a deep sun-touched tan, and his black hair fell in thick, wavy strands nearly to his shoulders, already unruly in a way that looked permanent. When he shifted his weight, light caught his eyes—and Kerreth blinked.

Blue. Bright and unyielding.

“Well spotted,” Kerreth said. “The river usually waits to warn me itself.”

“You’ll get dragged under.”

“Not today.”

The boy frowned. “You don’t know that.”

Kerreth smiled, easy and unbothered. “I do.”

That earned him another look—longer this time, searching. As if the other boy were trying to decide whether Kerreth was brave or simply stupid.

“I’m Alren,” he said finally.

“Kerreth.”

Alren nodded, as though that explained something. He hesitated, then added, “Your mother’s been calling for you.”

Kerreth grimaced. “Traitor.”

“I didn’t answer her,” Alren said quickly. “I just… heard.”

Kerreth studied him, curiosity blooming where boredom had been. “You always listen to things that aren’t your business?”

Alren flushed. “Why not? If they’re loud enough to hear, it’s not my fault I listened.”

Kerreth laughed and sprang to his feet, water splashing around his ankles. “Then I suppose I’ll make it your business to walk me home. If I drown, you can say you tried.”

Alren stared. “That’s not funny.”

“No,” Kerreth agreed cheerfully, “but it’s accurate.”

Despite himself, Alren followed.

They walked the narrow path along the riverbank, dragonflies skimming the water’s surface and cicadas buzzing in the heat. Kerreth moved like he belonged to the place—quick, confident, unafraid of slipping stones or sudden drops. Alren lagged half a step behind, eyes constantly scanning for danger that never seemed to come.

“You live by the river,” Alren said.

“I was born here.”

“That explains it.”

Kerreth glanced back. “Explains what?”

“You act like it won’t hurt you.”

Kerreth considered this. “It hasn’t yet.”

“That doesn’t mean it won’t.”

“Doesn’t mean it will,” Kerreth countered.

Alren opened his mouth, then shut it. He didn’t look convinced.

They reached the edge of the village—little more than a cluster of stone-and-wood homes pressed close together, roofs weighted with river-stone against the wind. Smoke curled lazily from cooking fires. Somewhere, a hammer rang against metal.

Kerreth slowed.

“You’re not from here,” he said.

Alren shook his head. “My father’s a guard. We moved last winter.”

Kerreth nodded thoughtfully. “You fight?”

Alren stiffened. “I train.”

“Same thing,” Kerreth said, and darted ahead before Alren could protest.

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They met again the next day.

And the day after that.

Sometimes by the river. Sometimes behind the smithy, where Alren practiced footwork with a wooden sword and Kerreth offered entirely unhelpful commentary.

“You’re thinking too much,” Kerreth said one afternoon, sprawled on a sun-warmed rock. “Hit faster.”

Alren grunted, swinging again. “I am hitting fast.”

“Not with confidence.”

“I’m confident.”

Kerreth rolled onto his elbows. “You hesitate.”

“I don’t.”

“You do,” Kerreth insisted. “Right before the strike. Like you’re afraid of being wrong.”

Alren froze, wooden blade lowering.

“That’s ridiculous,” he muttered.

Kerreth watched him for a moment, then stood. He picked up a stick from the ground and held it like a sword—incorrect grip, terrible stance.

“Show me,” he said.

Alren scoffed. “You’ll get hurt.”

Kerreth grinned. “Then you’ll have been right.”

Alren sighed, stepped forward—and attacked.

Kerreth barely dodged, laughing breathlessly as he stumbled back, nearly tripping over a root.

“You’re insane!”

“And you hesitate,” Kerreth said, eyes bright. “But you don’t miss.”

Alren stared at him, chest heaving.

Something settled between them then. Recognition. Not of who they were—but of who they might become.

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That night, Kerreth lay awake listening to the river outside his window.

He didn’t know why he thought of Alren then, only that the image of those steady blue eyes lingered long after sleep should have taken him.

Down the road, Alren sharpened a blade that didn’t yet belong to him, thinking—not for the first time—that some people walked as if the world would move aside for them.

And some people were born to stand in the way.

“This is the northern route?” one scout asked, voice small against the wind. His cloak was frayed, mud caked along the hem.

Kerreth didn’t answer immediately. He was already scanning the distance, eyes narrowing as he noticed ridges, broken stones, and a line of pale ruins atop a ridge beyond the forest. “Yes,” he said finally. “It follows old trade paths. Watch the ridges. We do not travel blind.”

Alren shifted, scanning the hills with a practiced eye. “And if this is a trap?”

Kerreth smiled faintly, almost amused. “Then we meet it as we would any other: carefully, deliberately.”

Alren’s hand twitched near his sword. “You’re not afraid?”

“I’ve learned to measure fear,” Kerreth said. “Not pretend it doesn’t exist.”

By midday, they reached the ruins.

Stone pillars, half-buried in moss and dirt, jutted from the earth like jagged teeth. Windows, once large and arched, gaped like hollow eyes. The wind moved through the broken halls, carrying a scent of dust and something older—something metallic, faintly bitter.

Kerreth dismounted, boots crunching over frost-stiffened soil. His fingers brushed over the carved stone, dark grooves that felt older than kingdoms, older than memory.

Alren came to stand beside him, eyes tracing every line of the ruin, ears attuned to the faintest sound. “These are... old,” he said, though the words were more statement than question.

“They are older than we know,” Kerreth murmured. His fingers lingered over the carvings, tracing patterns that seemed almost like script but defied comprehension. “Something was here before us. Something deliberate.”

Alren’s gaze flicked to him. “Careful,” he said. “Touch nothing unnecessarily.”

Kerreth straightened, turning to him with a faint grin. “You worry too much.”

Alren didn’t answer. He never did when Kerreth smiled like that. Instead, he catalogued everything: the shift of stone, the frost melting along cracks, the way Kerreth’s hand lingered too long on one particular column—slightly warmer, almost humming under his touch, though Alren could not see why.

That evening, they made camp near the ruins. Smoke from the fire curled upward, painting the stones in orange light. Men and women cooked stew in blackened iron cauldrons, laughter rising like thin smoke over the frozen earth.

Kerreth sat cross-legged on a flat slab of stone, poring over sketches made from the day’s observations. Symbols, grooves, and the faintest traces of carving were reproduced on parchment.

Alren crouched beside him, shoulder brushing his own pack, sword at hand. “You’re spending more time here than with the men,” he said.

Kerreth looked up, eyes dark but thoughtful. “They follow orders. They don’t see patterns. I do.”

Alren’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Patterns can kill a man if he follows them too far.”

Kerreth leaned back on his hands, looking up at the starless sky. “And yet a ruler must follow patterns,” he said softly. “Or the world bends without him.”

Later, in the small hours, Alren could not sleep. He watched Kerreth from the edge of the firelight as the heir-apparent stood alone by the edge of the frozen stream that ran past their camp. The wind tugged at his cloak, tousled his hair across his face.

“I know why you came north,” Alren said quietly, stepping into shadow. His voice carried, soft and deliberate.

Kerreth didn’t turn immediately. “Do you?”

“I do,” Alren said. “And I do not approve.”

A pause, long and sharp, filled with the sound of wind across ice and stone. Kerreth finally looked at him, expression unreadable. “It is not about approval,” he said. “It is about what must be seen.”

Alren’s hand rested on the hilt of his sword, though he did not draw. “And what you see could undo you.”

Kerreth’s eyes, dark pools under ash-brown hair, flicked to the frozen ruins behind them. “Perhaps. Or perhaps it shapes me. Perhaps it shapes us all.”

Alren’s blue eyes searched him. He noted the subtle tension in Kerreth’s jaw, the way his fingers itched toward the stone they had passed, and the almost imperceptible pull in the young ruler’s chest, like a compass needle drawn north.

“I will stay,” Alren said finally. “Whatever this does to you. Whatever you become.”

Kerreth’s lips curved faintly in acknowledgment, though his gaze returned to the distant hills where ruins jutted like broken teeth against the winter sky. “Then we march,” he said. “North. Always north.”

In the shadows of the trees, where snow had yet to settle, something ancient waited.

Not yet named. Not yet hungry. But patient, deliberate, and aware of the king who marched toward it.

Alren did not see it. But he began to notice the pull—in Kerreth’s movements, his glances, the almost imperceptible moments when the young ruler’s attention lingered too long on stone, patterns, and lines older than memory. He began keeping notes—not yet of fear, but of vigilance, careful and precise, cataloging each behavior, each obsession.

And he did not tell Kerreth he was doing it.

They dressed quickly. Outside, mist clung low to the ground, softening the village edges into something half-remembered. Two riders waited by the gate, cloaks bearing the sigil of the Crown Council—a river-threaded crown, worked in silver.

The older of the two inclined his head. “Kerreth of the Riverlands.”

Kerreth stiffened. He did not like the way his name sounded in a stranger’s mouth.

“You are requested at Highreach,” the rider continued. “Immediately.”

Alren stepped forward. “On what grounds?”

The rider’s gaze flicked to him, assessing. “On the grounds of necessity.”

Kerreth exhaled slowly. “I’ll come.”

The rider nodded once. “You may bring one.”

Kerreth did not hesitate. “Alren.”

Highreach rose from the hills like a deliberate thing.

Stone upon stone, layered and reinforced, built not for beauty but endurance. The walls bore scars—siege marks, repairs layered atop older repairs, history embedded in every crack. Banners hung limp in the morning air.

Kerreth felt small riding through the gates.

Alren rode at his shoulder, silent, watchful, his presence a steady anchor. He wore no insignia yet, no uniform beyond well-worn leather and a sword that had seen no real use. Still, the guards watched him with careful eyes.

Inside, the council chamber smelled of wax and old parchment.

They were waiting.

The elders sat in a half-circle, robed and rigid. At the center stood Chancellor Veylan—tall, spare, his silvering hair pulled back tight enough to ache.

Kerreth bowed, deeply and properly.

Veylan studied him for a long moment. “You’re younger than I expected.”

Kerreth met his gaze. “Then your expectations were flawed.”

A ripple of surprise passed through the chamber. Alren’s jaw tightened.

Veylan smiled faintly. “Perhaps.”

He gestured, and a clerk stepped forward, unfurling a scroll.

“The Riverlands require a steward,” Veylan said. “A voice strong enough to unify fractured holdings. The council has observed you.”

Kerreth’s pulse quickened. “Observed me doing what?”

“Listening,” Veylan replied. “Acting. Leading without permission.”

Silence fell.

“You want me to rule,” Kerreth said.

“Eventually,” Veylan corrected. “For now—you will be named Heir-Apparent. Trained. Tested.”

Kerreth’s gaze flicked to Alren. Just for a heartbeat.

Alren gave the smallest nod.

“I accept,” Kerreth said.

The oath was taken that same day.

Not the crown—yet—but the promise of it. Kerreth knelt before the council, hands bare, head unbowed. When he rose, something had shifted.

Alren felt it like a pressure change before a storm.

That evening, they stood on the ramparts overlooking the valley. The land stretched wide and uneven below, rivers cutting silver paths through green.

“You didn’t ask me,” Alren said quietly.

Kerreth leaned on the stone. “I didn’t need to.”

Alren swallowed. “You realize this changes things.”

“Yes.”

“And us?”

Kerreth turned. His eyes searched Alren’s face, earnest and unguarded. “Only if you let it.”

Alren reached out before he could stop himself, fingers brushing Kerreth’s wrist—then settling there.

“I swore to stand where you stand,” he said. “I meant it.”

Kerreth’s breath hitched. “Then stand with me.”

Training followed.

Kerreth learned law and logistics, diplomacy and history. He argued with tutors, challenged assumptions, absorbed knowledge quickly and selectively. Alren trained with the guard, refining his skill until even seasoned soldiers took notice.

At night, they met in quiet spaces—balconies, empty halls, the small hours when responsibility slept.

“You’re changing,” Alren said once.

Kerreth smiled tiredly. “So are you.”

Alren studied him. “I like who you’re becoming.”

Kerreth’s smile faded, softened. “Say that again in a year.”

In the archives, scholars whispered.

Of ancient relics scattered across the land. Of obelisks carved before kingdoms rose. Nine in total, each different, each tied to something called The None—not a god, not a demon, but a concept too vast to kneel to titles. Hunger. Emptiness. 

They were mentioned cautiously. As historical curiosities. As warnings wrapped in footnotes.

Kerreth did not hear those whispers.

Not yet.

But sometimes, standing at the window, looking north, he felt a tug beneath his ribs—a sense of alignment, like standing exactly where he was meant to stand.

Alren noticed when Kerreth went quiet.

“Careful,” Kerreth said, bracing his weight as the crate tipped. “The bottom’s heavier than it looks.”

One of the workers—a broad-shouldered man named Torrence, already sweating through his padded tunic—grunted. “Your Grace, you don’t have to—”

Kerreth smiled, easy and untroubled. “I know. I want to.”

Alren paused, watching.

Kerreth looked… good like this. Grounded. Engaged. His lean frame moved with purpose, every motion deliberate but unstrained. He listened when spoken to, asked questions without arrogance, and offered help without command. If there was tension in him, it was the familiar kind—the tension of responsibility, not fixation.

Alren let himself breathe.

“You’re up early,” Kerreth said, glancing over as Alren approached.

“So are you.”

Kerreth shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep. Too much to do.”

Alren stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You don’t need to prove anything to them.”

Kerreth’s expression softened. “I’m not.”

That was the truth.

The ruins descended into the earth like a broken throat.

Wide stone steps, worn smooth by centuries of passage, led down into darkness where the air cooled sharply and sound changed shape. Voices echoed oddly, coming back flattened and distant. The walls bore carvings—some geometric, some organic, all old enough that their edges had softened without losing intention.

The clerics insisted on preparation.

Maris and Fenton donned layered vestments reinforced with stitched sigils and ash-treated cloth. The scholars followed suit, hands wrapped in thick leather gloves lined with treated wool, faces half-covered with veils meant to filter dust and breath. Even the workers were outfitted with heavy gloves, layered aprons, and masks that made them look anonymous, almost ceremonial.

No bare skin. No unnecessary contact. No lingering.

Kerreth submitted to the same precautions without complaint.

Alren helped him pull on gloves—thick, pale leather reinforced at the palms—then tighten the straps with a practiced tug. His own black cloak had been set aside in favor of fitted working layers, still edged in gold but stripped of excess. The sword remained at his side.

“You’re not going down first,” Alren said quietly.

Kerreth nodded. “I know.”

They descended together once the way was deemed stable.

The lower chamber was vast.

Columns rose like petrified trees, cracked but still bearing weight. The ceiling arched high overhead, lost in shadow, and at the chamber’s center yawned a pit—newly exposed, edges raw where the earthquake had split ancient stone.

Within it, something dark waited.

Not visible yet. Not fully.

But the space around it felt… attentive.

Maris swallowed audibly. “This is deeper than the records suggested.”

Soryn adjusted his spectacles with a gloved finger. “The temple was built around it. Not for worship. For containment.”

Kerreth’s gaze moved slowly across the chamber, taking in every detail. He did not step closer to the pit. He did not reach. He stood still, hands folded behind his back, posture composed.

“How long has it been buried?” he asked.

Liand hesitated. “Older than the oldest dynasties. Possibly older than written record.”

Kerreth nodded once. “Then we proceed carefully.”

The obelisk emerged by degrees.

First, the top edge—dark, matte, swallowing light rather than reflecting it. Then more, as workers strained at ropes and pulleys, muscles shaking with effort. Stone groaned. Dust fell in fine sheets.

The Iron Root was not beautiful.

It was angular, asymmetrical, veined faintly with lines that looked less like carvings and more like scars. Its surface was cool even in the lamplight, absorbing warmth, refusing to shine. It stood shorter than anticipated, its base still sunk deep in the earth like a tooth that refused extraction and yet somehow still lacking the substance that would make it as heavy as it was. Its weight was the burden of a mountain.

No one touched it.

Not directly.

The workers kept distance, guiding it with ropes looped through reinforced channels carved long ago into the stone itself—as if its makers had anticipated removal.

Kerreth watched from the edge of the chamber, breath slow and controlled.

“It doesn’t feel…” he began, then stopped.

Alren turned his head slightly. “Doesn’t feel what?”

Kerreth considered. “Hostile.”

Maris stiffened. “That means nothing.”

“I know,” Kerreth said gently. “I’m not assigning meaning. Only noting absence.”

Alren studied him carefully.

There was no hunger in Kerreth’s eyes. No trance. Just curiosity sharpened by responsibility.

Still—Alren stepped half a pace closer.

The extraction took hours.

Sweat soaked through cloth. Muscles trembled. Voices barked commands and confirmations. The obelisk rose inch by inch, dust sifting down its sides, ancient grooves emerging like memories surfacing from sleep.

Kerreth moved among them when needed—steadying a rope, bracing a beam, fetching water. He spoke little, listened much. When one worker stumbled, he caught him by the arm without thinking, grip firm and reassuring through layers of glove and cloth.

“Easy,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

Alren saw the gratitude in the man’s eyes.

He also saw how close Kerreth had been.

Too close.

They returned to camp by late afternoon.

The sun was sinking, painting the valley gold and copper, and the air smelled of crushed grass and cooling stone. The obelisk now lay secured on a reinforced sled at the edge of the excavation site, wrapped in layered bindings, warded and watched.

The mood was almost…relieved.

Dinner was quiet but warm. Bread torn by hand. Stew ladled into tin bowls. The clerics prayed longer than usual, voices low and steady, asking not for blessing but restraint.

Kerreth sat beside Alren on a fallen stone, shoulder brushing his. “Well?” he asked softly.

Alren exhaled. “You listened. You didn’t rush.”

“I never planned to.”

Alren studied him in the firelight. His russet skin glowed warm beneath dust and sweat. His hair, cut slightly shorter now for summer, fell into his eyes anyway. He looked tired—but whole.

“I’m proud of you,” Alren said.

Kerreth’s smile was small, genuine. “That means more than the crown ever will.”

They leaned together, quiet, watching sparks rise into the darkening sky.

For a moment, the world held.

Alren noticed the glove while Kerreth was washing his hands.

It lay discarded near the tent, folded carelessly atop a crate.

The leather was torn at the seam between thumb and forefinger.

Not ripped open.

Just… split.

Alren picked it up slowly.

His pulse thudded once. Hard.

“Kerreth,” he said, keeping his voice even.

Kerreth looked up from the basin, water dripping from his fingers. “Yes?”

Alren held up the glove.

The fire crackled. Someone laughed softly across camp.

Kerreth glanced at it—and smiled.

“Oh. That,” he said lightly. “Caught it on a stone edge. Must’ve missed it.”

Alren stepped closer. “Your hand.”

Kerreth dried it on a cloth and held it up.

Bare.

Clean.

Unmarked.

“I’m fine,” he said. “See?”

Alren searched his face.

There was no deception there. No fear. Just calm certainty.

Still—

Alren closed his fingers around the torn glove.

“Next time,” he said quietly, “you tell me.”

Kerreth nodded, still smiling. “Of course.”

He reached out, touched Alren’s wrist—bare skin to bare skin, warm and grounding.

“I promise.”

The obelisk sat silent in the dark.

The expedition was small: just the two of them, two clerics named Maris and Fenton, two scholars named Liand and Soryn, and two burly workers tasked with hauling the obelisk when it was uncovered. The journey north was long, and the roads rough. Gravel crunched beneath hooves, and the wheels of the small carts groaned as they jostled over uneven ground. Yet Kerreth seemed unconcerned by distance, instead tracing invisible lines in the hills and streams as if the land itself were a map that only he could read.

At midday on the first day, they stopped at a clearing near a brook. The sun was high and hot, striking the leaves at angles that turned them translucent green, and the sound of water tumbling over rocks made conversation easy.

Kerreth dismounted, boots crunching on loose gravel, and immediately knelt by the stream. He cupped his hands in the water, brought it to his lips, and drank deeply. Alren followed, kneeling beside him, his blue eyes flicking to the trees. 

“Do you feel it, Alren?” Kerreth asked softly, voice carrying the faint hum of curiosity. “The land… it speaks here.”

Alren shook his head, though he did not speak immediately. He kept his hand near the hilt of his sword, instinctive and protective. “It hums,” he said finally. “But that’s the wind, the water, and the trees. Not speaking, not yet.”

Kerreth tilted his head, eyes narrowing, as if listening beyond what Alren could hear. “Perhaps,” he murmured. “But I feel a rhythm here. Old as the stones. Old as the river.”

Alren’s gaze followed him. The young ruler’s expression softened as he looked at the water, the sunlight catching the gold detailing on his robes. For a brief moment, he was not ruler or heir or even a man thinking of ancient obelisks—he was just Kerreth, the boy by the river, fascinated by what the world had to offer.

Alren allowed himself a small smile, brushing a hand over his journal where he had begun recording these excursions. “Then I’ll trust your rhythm,” he said. “But I stay close.”

Kerreth’s hand brushed briefly against Alren’s shoulder, a touch fleeting yet grounding. “Always,” he replied.

The first night of camping, the fire crackling and sparks drifting into the violet of evening, was peaceful. The small group settled around the flames, sharing bread, cheese, and smoked meat. The two clerics whispered prayers under their breath, murmurs blending with the crackle of fire. Scholars debated quietly about the northern mountains and the signs that the tremor might have exposed older, buried ruins.

Kerreth leaned back on a smooth stone, hands resting lightly on his knees, eyes reflecting the firelight. Alren sat beside him, cloak draped over both of them as evening cooled, and traced patterns in the dirt with his finger while he watched Kerreth.

“You don’t speak much with the others,” Alren observed quietly.

“I listen,” Kerreth said, voice soft. “Words are easy. Patterns are harder. And these stones, the land… it teaches better than speech.”

Alren nodded slowly, studying the way Kerreth’s brow furrowed ever so slightly as he stared into the flames, and then, as if prompted, reached out and brushed his hand over Kerreth’s. The warmth of his touch lingered, and Kerreth’s fingers tightened briefly in acknowledgment.

The clerics noticed nothing, the scholars argued quietly about the likelihood of the ruins, and the workers prodded logs in the fire for warmth. But Alren’s eyes were never off Kerreth—not for a moment.

Over the next days, the road became harsher. Hills rose steep and jagged, forest giving way to scrub and scattered rock. Birds cried overhead, and the air smelled of stone and pine resin. Streams were narrow, but the riverbeds dry, forcing the party to ration water and plan foraging carefully.

Evenings became ritual. Maris and Fenton prayed together beneath a starlit sky, murmuring chants to ward against the unknown. Kerreth joined them nightly, kneeling quietly, hands resting lightly on the dirt, eyes closed. Alren stayed beside him, hand often brushing against Kerreth’s back, the smallest, almost imperceptible reassurance.

Later, the party ate by fire, shared stories of home, or played simple games to keep spirits light. Kerreth laughed easily in these moments, deep and rich, a sound that seemed to warm the entire forest. Alren allowed himself to relax into these moments as well, enjoying the ease of it—the touch of a hand, the warmth of sun and fire, the boy he had loved and protected now stepping fully into manhood without losing the spark that made him Kerreth.

It was on the seventh day, as the sun reached its zenith, that they first glimpsed the ruins.

They were half-buried in a hollowed valley, stone spires jutting from earth like the ribs of some great, long-dead beast. The walls were blackened in places, worn smooth by centuries, carvings faint but visible—symbols and patterns older than memory, and some so jagged that even the clerics could not identify them.

Kerreth dismounted immediately, boots clinking on stone. He ran fingers along a carved line that spiraled up a pillar, thumb tracing grooves so fine they almost vanished beneath his touch. A faint tremor of compulsion shivered through him, subtle, insistent—not yet a voice, not yet a call, but a tug at his chest and mind.

Alren’s hand went to his sword instinctively. “Kerreth,” he said low, tone careful. “Stay close. Do not linger near a single stone too long.”

Kerreth looked up at him, eyes dark with curiosity and restrained intensity. “I feel it,” he admitted softly. “Not danger. Not yet. But… something beneath the earth. Waiting.”

Alren’s jaw tightened, blue eyes scanning every shadow, every loose stone. He could feel it too—the earth’s subtle shift, a low vibration, a presence just beneath perception. He stepped closer to Kerreth, hand brushing the younger man’s arm in a grounding gesture. “We observe. We do not touch. You understand?”

Kerreth inclined his head, exhaling slowly, and allowed Alren to guide him back a few steps. “Yes,” he said. “I understand. For now.”

The following day was laborious. The workers rigged levers and pulleys to prepare for the extraction of the obelisk once uncovered. Kerreth watched, offering input when needed, suggesting angles and weights. Alren stayed beside him, noting every gaze that lingered on a carved stone, every small shiver of fascination or compulsion. He kept meticulous mental notes, quill poised in the journal back at camp, though tonight he would transcribe everything carefully.

Meals were simple: dried bread, roasted nuts, boiled vegetables, and water drawn from the small stream that snaked through the valley. At night, Kerreth and Alren shared the warmth of the fire, leaning close, hands brushing, foreheads occasionally touching as they spoke softly about the day, about strategy, about nothing at all. These moments were private and delicate, intimacy born not of grand declarations but of proximity, trust, and the comfort of shared silence.

Sometimes, Kerreth would trace his fingers through Alren’s hair, the waves of black against his fingers, or press a hand to his chest, feeling the steady rhythm beneath. “You keep watch,” he murmured one night, voice low and tender, “so I may see without danger.”

Alren smiled faintly, lips brushing the dark cloak. “And I will keep it, as always.”

The northern sun moved high overhead, casting golden light over jagged spires and scattered glyphs. Shadows lengthened in the valleys, and the air carried the scent of moss, stone, and distant rain. The obelisk waited somewhere beneath the earth, patient, immense, and ancient.

And Kerreth felt only the subtle pull of curiosity, fascination, and the promise of understanding something older than even the river he had been born beside.

Alren shook his head, but there was no heat in it. He had learned, over time, that Kerreth’s confidence was not carelessness. It was instinct. An unshakable sense of where he stood in the world—and where others stood around him.

People listened to Kerreth.

They always had.

Even now, when he laughed too loud or spoke out of turn, adults paused before correcting him. Other children drifted closer when he spoke, drawn in without quite realizing why.

Alren watched it happen with something like unease.

“You ever think about leaving?” Kerreth asked suddenly.

Alren blinked. “Leaving where?”

“Here,” Kerreth said, gesturing vaguely at the village. “The river. All of it.”

Alren considered. “No.”

Kerreth turned to look at him. “Really?”

“My father goes where he’s told,” Alren said. “I go where I’m needed. Usually not far behind.”

Kerreth studied his face, serious now. “And if you weren’t needed here?”

Alren hesitated. Just a moment. “Then I’d find somewhere I was.”

Kerreth smiled, softer than usual. “Figures.”

The rumor reached them a week later.

It came on the wind, carried by traders who spoke too freely after too much ale. Whispers of old stones uncovered upriver. Of clerics traveling in pairs. Of prophecies best left buried.

Alren heard it first.

He found Kerreth by the river, as always, skipping stones across the surface with reckless precision.

“Have you heard what people are saying?” Alren asked.

Kerreth shrugged. “People say lots of things.”

“They’re talking about a prophecy.”

That got his attention. Kerreth’s hand stilled. “What kind?”

“The kind that starts wars,” Alren said. “The kind scholars argue over and priests pretend not to believe.”

Kerreth frowned. “About what?”

Alren hesitated. He didn’t know why. “About a king.”

Kerreth laughed. “Well, that narrows it down.”

“They say he was born by a river.”

Kerreth stopped laughing.

The silence stretched.

“That’s stupid,” Kerreth said at last. “Half the kingdom’s born near water.”

Alren nodded. “That’s what I thought.”

They stood there for a while, listening to the river slide past, neither of them willing to say what lingered unspoken between them.

It was the flood that changed things.

Spring came early and angry, swelling the river beyond its banks. The water climbed the stone steps, then the roads, then the lower houses. Panic spread faster than the current.

Kerreth was the first to act.

“Get the children out first!” he shouted, voice carrying over the roar of water. “To the hill—don’t stop for anything!”

Adults hesitated.

Then they moved.

Alren didn’t question it. He ran where Kerreth pointed, lifted children onto his shoulders, waded into chest-deep water without a second thought. When a cart overturned and pinned a man beneath it, Kerreth was there, bracing himself against the current, shouting instructions until they dragged the man free.

Later—soaked, shaking, exhausted—they stood on the hill and watched the water recede.

Someone clapped Kerreth on the shoulder. Someone else pressed a blanket into his hands.

An old woman took his face between her palms and said, “You saved us.”

Kerreth didn’t answer. He was staring at the river, brow furrowed, as though trying to understand something it had said to him.

Alren stood beside him, silent.

That night, Kerreth found Alren sitting outside his family’s home, sharpening his father’s blade by lantern light.

“You didn’t hesitate today,” Kerreth said.

Alren glanced up. “Neither did you.”

Kerreth sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched. “I didn’t think. I just… knew.”

Alren nodded. “That’s what scares me.”

Kerreth laughed quietly. “You’re afraid of confidence now?”

“I’m afraid of people who follow it,” Alren said.

Kerreth turned serious. “Would you follow me?”

The question hung between them, fragile as glass.

Alren didn’t answer right away. He met Kerreth’s eyes—deep brown, steady, searching.

“Yes,” he said finally. “But I’d stand in front of you first.”

Kerreth smiled, something fierce and grateful in it. “Then I suppose I’ll have to be worth that.”