Chapter Six : The Ancient Dragon Aelthen
Centuries passed, ages turned, countless moons rose and set, thousands of storms came and went, and at last, that dreamlike moment arrived.
It was the fruit of long perseverance — perseverance mixed with unyielding willpower, a will born from the ashes of countless failures — and finally, it bore its reward.
The scholars and the magicians, through the combined effort of both worlds, who had spent their entire lives pursuing the same goal, the same dream, had at last discovered how to activate the mysterious, seal-bound memory stone.
Eight members of Arharin stood in the cave. In place of the centuries-old team, now stood new faces.
At that moment, the air around them seemed to transform suddenly. Nature itself appeared to pause, holding its breath. The birds fell silent, the wind ceased to move, even the distant murmur of the river vanished into a bottomless, profound silence.
It was a silence that could not be merely heard by the ear, but felt deep within the soul.
In their hands rested an extraordinary, marvellous mechanical structure — a creation that transcended the limits of human imagination. A box of quadrangular shape. One hand high and two hands wide. It was not made of ordinary metal. It responded to the warmth of blood and the purity of light, as if a living soul dwelt within it.
Inside the box were countless wheels and spherical orbs, all strangely floating. Around them swirled a mysterious blue light. Each rotation, each vibration, seemed to echo a thousand years of waiting — as if eternity itself had waited for this very moment.
Every wheel, every ancient orb — all of it was crafted with care, shaped with love.
Around the device stood eight specialists — each face marked with deep focus, each pair of eyes gleaming with a mixture of wonder and expectation. Every one of them was unmatched in their field — tall, handsome, and scholarly at once. Their hands trembled with excitement, their hearts throbbed with anticipation.
At last, the final moment arrived.
The chief magician, his hand trembling, held a small golden cup, and from it he drew a single drop of fresh blood — blood that symbolised life, hope, and love.
The drop of blood shone a bright red, like a tiny ruby holding within it the mystery of life itself.
Just then, the flow of moonlight descended. The light fell upon the centre of the memory stone.
When the drop of blood touched the device, and the final ray of moonlight entered the deep core of the stone, in that inevitable instant, an unprecedented event occurred. The entire world seemed to halt for a moment. As if the Earth itself had paused its eternal journey in wonder.
It was a silence that could not be heard with ears, but felt with heart and soul — a deep, breathless, transcendental moment that bound the past and the future together by a single thread. The heartbeat of the world stopped, the movement of the wind stood still.
Within that ethereal silence was hidden the birth of a new history. It was the dawn of a new chapter in human civilisation — a moment of indescribable expectation, eternal wonder, and limitless possibility.
The eight specialists stood around the device, their faces filled with awe. Their eyes widened, their breath grew shallow. No one spoke a word — only the heavy air of anticipation hung around them, only the deep throb of their hearts could be felt.
Then,
Breaking through the silence of eternity, came a sound. At first it was like a faint whisper of wind, like the murmur of waves from a distant sea, like a mysterious melody rising from the depths of an ancient forest.
Gradually, that faint sound took the form of a deep, ancient, impossibly weary voice.
It was a voice that had heard the history of millennia, had witnessed the rise and fall of civilisations, had felt the joys and sorrows of humankind. In that voice was the depth of wisdom, the vastness of experience, and the loneliness of eternity.
It was the voice of the great Aelthen.
His voice was captured within the memory stone like luminous smoke marked with starlit scars — a trembling, sorrowful song in the air, an immortal melody that touched the deepest chamber of the heart. Each of his words held the weight of ancient knowledge; each breath carried the experience of timeless ages.
The memory stone had now come alive, and from within it flowed a radiant light — a light that carried the beauty of all colours, the sweetness of all harmonies.
Eight specialists stood still.
Tears of reverence shone in their eyes, and in their hearts bloomed an unearthly joy. They knew that, in this moment, they had become witnesses to an event that would be carved into human history forever.
Aelthen's voice was captured inside the memory stone like smoke filled with glowing scars—
a trembling, sorrowful song hanging in the air.
"My body lies beneath the shadow,
my wings are torn,
my eyes are hollow.
They once called me 'Guardian', then 'Curse'.
They came—
your ancestors—
the Balan kind.
In their hands burned metallic fire, in their eyes burned pride.
They broke my sleep,
they forced me to bleed.
They said I should descend,
I descended,
I burned.
I said—stop,
but they did not listen.
And I,
in the end…
melted beneath the stones.
They wrote history in their own name,
but built their royal roads upon my body.
If anyone hears me—
then know this,
the Balan Empire killed me."
The words spoken from the ancient vibration of the memory stone felt like a cold whisper that shook the core of existence.
At first, it seemed the voice was singing a lament. But then, slowly, its deeper meaning became clear—these were not mere words, but a testimony, a buried cry of accusation that had remained silent through the ages.
And through it, the long-standing tale of the Balan Empire's victory shattered.
They had proudly claimed that they brought civilisation to darkness. But the memory stone revealed—they had only stolen the light.
They had destroyed an ancient being—once perhaps a guardian—to build their own throne.
Now, that hidden truth had awakened.
After the memory stone was activated, many who had heard the voice began to change. In their eyes lingered pain and sorrow—they carried within them a weight of unspeakable shame and fear.
At that time, King Oril Balan was a mighty and resolute man. In his eyes gleamed the cold hardness of metal, and in his words lived only command—never remorse. He believed—"Only those remembered by history have the right to live. The rest are mere shadows."
So when the voice of the ancient dragon Aelthen emerged from within the memory stone—soaked in grief, blood, and fire—Oril Balan realised that if this truth spread, not only would the foundation of his reign collapse, but his entire royal lineage would crumble in an instant.
It was a cultural, historical, and political suicide.
"No one will know,"
he had said,
"This stone, this voice, this history—everything will vanish into darkness."
He ordered the memory stone to be destroyed. He dismissed the research team. He used wealth and power to erase that history forever.
But he did not know—
in a quiet garden of the palace, someone had heard everything.
Her name was Princess Bahar.