19

  The High Mage Galen stood in his workshop, the torches flickering along the stone walls, illuminating scrolls and shelves filled with ancient tomes. A young apprentice, Elrin, nervously shifted by the worktable where an old wooden staff and a weathered satchel rested.

  “Master,” Elrin whispered, voice uneasy, “we found these among the possessions of the old man brought in today. But the guards say he carries no formal sigil, no documents—”

  Galen raised a hand for silence. His eyes were already fixed on the staff.

  The wood was blackened with age, the grain marked by thin silver runes that pulsed faintly under torchlight. At its top, carved into its crown, was a symbol: a branching tree, roots weaving downward like threads of fate.

  Galen’s breath left him.

  “…Impossible,” he murmured. “This belonged to Hector of Diospyrus.”

  Elrin flinched. “The Hector? The Arch-Seer? But—he vanished decades ago. They said he died in the collapse of the Blackwood Tower—”

  “No,” Galen whispered. “He did not die. He simply left this world’s affairs.”

  Galen did not delay. He snatched the staff, ignoring his apprentice’s gasp, and strode out, robes fluttering behind him like storm winds.

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  The castle prison was dim and cold. Two guards stood aside as Galen entered—neither daring to question him. He stepped to the cell and stopped.

  The old man sat serenely on the floor, eyes closed, back straight. When he opened his eyes, they were clear and sharp.

  “Galen,” the old man greeted, voice steady. “Your hair has grown whiter, but not your temper.”

  “And you,” Galen said, trying not to sound relieved, “are still impossible to kill, I see. Hector.”

  The two men regarded one another—not as enemies, but not quite as friends. Rivals, bound by shared history and unspoken respect.

  “You came to Aurum… why?” Galen asked.

  Hector’s expression hardened.

  “The corpse of the noble who died at the princess’s banquet—I heard the accounts. Insects emerging from the flesh. Skin turning to gray stone. No illness of nature causes this. It is sorcery. Old sorcery.”

  Galen felt a chill crawl up his spine. Hector continued:

  “I must examine the body. And…” He hesitated, though only slightly. “I must see the princess. If she was near the curse, she may carry traces of it.”

  Galen’s eyes narrowed. “Viewing the body, I can permit—with supervision. But the princess? She is traumatized. The king will never allow it.”

  Hector nodded. “So I will not ask the king. I ask you.”

  Silence filled the cell.

  Memories flickered between them—duels fought in marble halls, debates in arcane libraries, shared nights studying stars that revealed secrets to only the worthy.

  Galen exhaled slowly.

  “…We will start with the corpse,” he said. “If what you fear is real, then I will bring your request to the king myself.”

  Hector bowed his head, accepting.

  The cell door opened.

  The staff was placed into Hector’s hand.

  Its runes shimmered—once dormant, now alive.

  Elrin, watching from behind Galen, trembled at the realization:

  This old man was not just a wandering hermit.

  He was Hector Diospyrus, the Arch-Seer.

  And he had returned only because a great darkness was rising again.