The salt spray tasted like regret on Alure’s lips. Years adrift hadn’t strengthened bone, only honed edges. They traced the glyphs carved into the driftwood, fingers thin as spider silk. The wood warmed under their touch, not from sun, but a light blooming *within* it. A glow the color of bruised peaches.
“Found another one, then?” Old Man Tiber’s voice rasped, cutting through the mournful cry of gulls. He didn’t bother looking up from gutting fish.
“This one… remembers,” Alure replied, voice a breath against the wind. The wood pulsed. Not a heartbeat, something older. A sigh.
Tiber snorted. “They all *remember*, child. Just echoes. Dust and regret clinging to splintered wood.”
“This isn’t just memory. It… offers.” Alure closed eyes, and the wood flared, a cascade of light across their face. Shapes swam behind their lids: armies clashing, towers falling, a city draped in gold, brighter than any sun. A gold that *hurt* to look at.
“Offers what? Another story to haunt your sleep?”
“Power. The kind they used before the Sinking.” Alure gripped the wood tighter. A thrum of energy ran up their arm. It felt like a shard of ice blooming into warmth.
“The Sinking wasn’t about power, child. It was about *wanting* too much of it.” Tiber tossed a gutted fish aside. “That city… Aethelburg. They weren’t building to the heavens, they were tearing holes *in* them.”
“They could *change* things,” Alure insisted, ignoring the tremor starting in hands. “Rewind what was lost.”
“Lost is lost. You chasing shadows, Alure. These relics… they don’t offer salvation. They offer a quicker path to the same ruin.”
“I saw a way to save my family.”
Tiber finally looked up. His eyes, the color of storm clouds, held a weariness that settled deep into Alure’s own bones.
“Everyone thinks they can rewrite the past. The past rewrites *you*.” He gestured towards the horizon, a smudge of gold bleeding into the perpetual twilight. “Look at the Gloaming Lands. That light isn’t hope, it’s a warning. Aethelburg isn’t gone, child. It’s *waiting*.”
Alure dropped the driftwood. The light dimmed, but didn’t vanish. It clung to the wood, a stubborn ember.
“What do you know of the Wardens?”
“Old stories. Keepers of the seals. Fool’s errand, if you ask me.” Tiber resumed his work. “Seals break. That’s the way of things.”
“There’s a Warden’s spire, south of here. It’s…active.” Alure traced a pattern in the sand with a toe.
Tiber stopped gutting another fish. A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Active? That spire has been silent for centuries. What makes you say that?”
“The relic. It showed me.”
“Showed you? Or *told* you what you wanted to see?”
Alure didn’t respond. The relic pulsed again, a silent question. The gold of Aethelburg seemed to stretch toward them, a beckoning finger in the gloom.
What happens next? Do we pursue the spire, dig deeper into Aethelburg’s history, or something else entirely? Perhaps explore why Alure was exiled in the first place? Let me know your thoughts.🗺🐉
