Officially, it had "sunk" in a landslide seventy years ago. Unofficially, it was where forgotten oaths and buried magic went to die. A district so old the cobblestones had moss with royal bloodlines.
Sabel stepped through the veil at dawn. Not a real one—just an old archway choked with vines and memories. The moment he crossed under it, the air turned still, heavy, like it had been waiting for him.
He took one step.
Then another.
A whisper slid past his ear like breath on glass: "He walks again."
Sabel stopped. "That's not ominous at all."
He lit a glow-orb and flicked it ahead. It hovered, sputtering with nervous light, revealing the sunken district of Ashmoor—rows of cracked houses half-buried in earth, towers bent like tired knees, and old signage that pointed in ten directions but none toward safety.
The medallion in his bag vibrated faintly.
He followed.
At the center of Ashmoor stood a dried-up fountain with a statue of a weeping knight. There, beneath the knight's sword, was a symbol matching the back of the medallion: a curled serpent eating its own tail.
Sabel placed the medallion in the slot.
It hissed. The ground rumbled.
And then the statue wept coffee.
"…Okay," Sabel muttered, staring at the dribble of dark liquid trickling from the knight's eyes. "Either a cursed coffee machine or a dramatic metaphor."
With a crack of ancient stone, the fountain base slid open, revealing a spiral staircase leading downward into inky blackness.
Because of course it did.
Below Ashmoor, the Vault of Whispers was exactly what the name promised: too many whispers and way too much vault.
Sabel descended slowly, his orb bouncing light across etched walls that seemed to shift when unlit. The voices grew louder—not real ones, but fragments. Memories. Secrets.
"The Prince must never know—"
"If the council awakens, the kingdom—"
"Protect the boy—he's more than just a son—"
Sabel reached the bottom and found a door. Not just any door. A cursed door. The kind that didn't just lock people out—it locked intentions out.
He inhaled.
Focused.
Dropped his prince act.
And walked up to the door, heart steady, spell ready.
"I intend," he said aloud, "to punch anyone who tries to use a child as a bargaining chip."
The door shivered… then opened.
Inside, the Vault was more of a chamber—round, stone, glowing faintly with runes that whispered louder with each step.
And at the center: the Commander's son, curled up inside a protective crystal cage, asleep, unharmed, and breathing.
Sabel rushed forward.
But between him and the cage stood a figure. Tall. Masked. Cloaked in red.
"The Prince returns," the figure said with a voice like rusted chains.
Sabel cocked an eyebrow. "You sure? I feel more like a barista with hero issues."
"You were not meant to find us."
Sabel shrugged. "And yet, here we are. Shall we fight or do the whole cryptic-threat-then-run thing?"
The masked figure raised a hand.
Runes exploded around the chamber.
Sabel dove, rolled, and flung a pouch of enchanted espresso dust into the air.
POOF!
Illusions burst—dozens of Sabels fanning out, mimicking his voice, his smirk, even his bad posture.
The real Sabel darted past the confusion, slid under a rune trap, and smashed the crystal cage with a spell disguised as a sneeze.
The boy dropped into his arms, dazed but safe.
"Hi there," Sabel whispered. "Don't panic. You've just been rescued by a coffee-loving lunatic."
The masked figure roared—literally—and shadows surged.
Sabel didn't wait.
With the kid held tight, he threw an illusion bomb that filled the room with visions of tax forms and emotional vulnerability—his most powerful distraction yet—and sprinted for the exit.
Back above ground, the sun had risen fully.
Ashmoor looked… almost peaceful now.
Sabel panted, the kid still clutching his sleeve.
"You okay, kid?"
The boy nodded slowly. "You smell like coffee and frogs."
"Good. That's how you know I'm the real one."
He looked toward the sky. The courier tin-pigeon Maurice swooped in from above and dropped another scroll:
"RETURN IMMEDIATELY. STATUS: CRITICAL.
– The King"
Sabel squinted. "Of course. Can't just nap after rescuing royalty."
He turned toward the path back to the capital.
"C'mon, kid. Let's get you home before your dad sends the royal army and ruins my cafe's weekend brunch."