"Not all treasures are meant for gold-lust; some choose their keeper."
Eliakim's boots scraped over the damp stone as he ventured deeper into the cave, torchlight flickering along the walls like living shadows. Every step echoed like a whisper from the past. The ghoststone pulsed in his pouch with faint warmth, as if guiding him onward. Skyling peeked out from beneath his cloak, chirping nervously, then buried itself back into the folds to avoid the cave's chill.
He passed through a narrow crevice barely wide enough to squeeze through. On the other side, the tunnel sloped downward and opened into a quiet chamber—a large cavern lined with mineral veining and icicle-like stalactites. At its farthest point was a dead end.
Or so it seemed.
A cold mist clung to the stone like dew, and in the center of the chamber lay a still, black lake. It was oddly circular, as if carved by ancient design. The water glistened with a faint, bluish shimmer, and though the cave ceiling was high above, no light source made the lake glow. Eliakim stood at its edge, unsure.
He was about to turn back—until a pulse ran through his spine. A tug at something unseen.
His gut clenched. Logic said to return. Instinct whispered dive.
He undressed quickly, stuffing his clothes and the Skyling—chirping in protest—safely beneath his cloak on a nearby stone. He dipped a toe into the water.
It was freezing.
He took a breath—and plunged.
The cold clamped over him like a vice, stealing his breath. But he pushed downward, following a strange path of pale light that shimmered in spirals. Deeper and deeper he swam, ears popping with pressure. His hands scraped something slick and curved.
An ancient stone archway emerged through the gloom, and past it—an altar of black obsidian.
But as Eliakim reached toward the altar, the waters surged around him.
A current twisted upward from the lakebed, encircling him. A voice—not of words but of intent—pressed into his mind.
"To take the sacred is to prove oneself worthy. Choose, and be tested."
The altar lit with soft pulses, and only one relic rose from its base—a simple bracelet. Rusted. Worn. Dull.
The Bracelet of Kharuun.
Eliakim reached toward it, but the waters shimmered again, revealing his test.
A spectral beast formed from currents and mist—a guardian shaped like a serpent of pure water, eyes glowing with blue fire. It hissed silently, coils surrounding Eliakim.
He dodged its first lunge, bubbles spiraling from his mouth. He grabbed a broken spear shaft lodged in the lakebed and spun through the water with desperate agility. The serpent snapped again—this time grazing his leg, searing cold like frostbite.
Eliakim fought the drag of the deep and thrust the wooden shaft into the beast's jaw. It dispersed into a spiral of bubbles, but reformed swiftly.
His lungs burned. He would not last.
Clutching the torch haft with both hands, he angled it downward and let the beast charge again. At the last moment, he twisted aside, and the serpent slammed into the altar itself. A pulse of light exploded outward.
The serpent shattered. The waters stilled.
A second voice echoed, quieter: "The vault opens only to those who deny greed."
The bracelet now gleamed with bronze sheen. Eliakim took it with trembling hands and slipped it on.
A sigil lit on its surface—only one gem embedded in its band, with five others still dark. The one gem shimmered, signaling its activation.
The other treasures remained locked behind shimmering barriers on the altar. Eliakim tried to touch them, but a pulse of force repelled his hand. Not yet.
He understood.
One treasure per trial.
Behind the altar, his eyes caught something else. A stone mural nearly buried in silt and moss. He brushed it clean.
It showed a figure—a child—bathed in starlight, surrounded by birds and sigils and beasts made of shadows.
Beneath it: a wheel.
Eliakim's heart pounded.
He swam up with effort, the bracelet snug on his wrist, the sigil still softly aglow. Skyling scuttled from the bundle and chirped indignantly.
"I know," Eliakim whispered. "We're not supposed to be here."
As he dressed, a faint tremor ran through the cave. The ghoststone pulsed again, harder.
Something had noticed.
Still, he pressed forward, torch in hand, tracing his way back through the narrow crevices and jagged corridors. Finally, light—sunlight?—glimmered ahead.
Relief filled his chest.
He stepped toward the glow, squinting as the light engulfed him. The scent of trees, birdsong, the wind—he emerged into a clearing. The village rooftops were just ahead. He made it.
But something was wrong.
The world was too still. Frozen in place. A butterfly hung in the air mid-flap. No breeze moved the trees. Even the sun overhead was frozen, rays unmoving.
He blinked.
Then the scene shattered like glass.
Eliakim stood still in the cave, hand outstretched toward a wall of stone.
He hadn't escaped at all. Just an illusion.
Behind him, the lake began to pulse again.