Magic Pot in the Cave of Priceless - Chapter 31: Chapter 31

The morning after their harrowing escape from the Phantom Roots, Eldermoor was unusually quiet. The kind of quiet that settles when something ancient is listening. The townsfolk went about their day with hushed voices, casting glances toward the edge of the Everdeep Forest, where the whispers of the past now stirred more frequently than the wind.
Arias awoke to find the Magic Pot pulsing with warmth on the wooden table by his bedside. The red runes along its rim were glowing softly — like embers caught in a breeze. He reached out and touched it, feeling a surge of gentle heat run through his fingertips and into his veins.
“Something’s coming,” the pot said. It no longer needed fire to speak; the bond between it and Arias had deepened so strongly that their connection transcended the ordinary.
“Is it good or bad?” Arias asked.
“Both,” it replied cryptically. “The Ember of Whispers is awakening.”
Arias dressed quickly and made his way to the Hall of Elders, where Mistress Caelum was already in conversation with Alarion and a few of the remaining Guardians. When he entered, they all turned to him — not with suspicion anymore, but with quiet reverence.
Mistress Caelum nodded. “The pot has spoken to you, hasn’t it?”
Arias nodded. “It says something is awakening — the Ember of Whispers.”
Alarion stepped forward. “Long ago, during the Age of Cracks, the Ember of Whispers was sealed beneath the sacred ground of the Silent Vale. It’s not a weapon... it’s a memory. A voice that remembers everything, even the things the world tried to forget.”
“But why now?” asked Elira, who had joined them, her bow slung across her back. “Why would it wake now, after centuries of sleep?”
“Because,” Caelum whispered, “the balance is shifting. And the pot... is ready to remember.”
The Silent Vale lay beyond the Eastern Ridge — a harsh, wind-swept plateau guarded by stone sentinels carved from forgotten gods. Few had ventured there and returned with sanity intact. The memories held in that place had weight — emotional, magical, spiritual. The kind that could crush a mind that wasn’t ready.
“I’ll go,” Arias said without hesitation. “The pot and I… we need to know what it’s trying to tell us.”
Mistress Caelum placed a hand on his shoulder. “You won’t go alone. Take Elira and Dren with you.”
Dren grinned. “About time someone asked me to do something other than stir potions and patch wounds.”
They left at dawn the next morning, the pot safely secured in Arias’ satchel, humming low with anticipation. The path to the Eastern Ridge was a climb through wind-blasted crags and trails barely wide enough for two feet. As they ascended, the trees thinned, and the world below shrank into a misty dream.
By twilight, they reached the summit of the Silent Vale.
The ground here shimmered — not with magic, but with memory. When Arias stepped forward, a dozen voices whispered at once, as if the earth itself was remembering his steps.
“The Ember is near,” the pot said aloud. “Do not speak unless you mean what you say. This is a place of truth.”
At the center of the vale stood a monolithic stone, cracked down the middle, and glowing faintly from within. As they approached, the pot trembled, then floated from Arias’ bag, drawn by the force inside.
The crack widened, and from it poured a golden mist that curled into shapes — faces, shadows, fragments of laughter and screams.
Then, a voice. Soft, female, ancient. “Why have you come, Child of the Bloom? Do you seek what was buried for good reason?”
Arias stood firm. “I seek the truth. I want to know why the pot was made, why it chose me, and what we’re meant to face.”
There was silence, and then the mist began to gather.
In a swirl of golden dust, a scene unfolded before them — a memory not of their time, but of an age long gone. They saw a young woman, her hands cupped around the first ember, forging the pot from the bones of stars and the breath of giants. She wept as she did it — not out of fear, but love.
The voice spoke again. “The pot is not just a tool. It is a promise. One made to keep light alive when darkness has learned to wear a smile.”
Arias’ breath caught. “And now?”
“Now, that smile walks again.”
The ember flared, casting light over the land. And for a brief moment, they saw them — the Hollow Kings, rising once more from the shadows of the world. And behind them, a woman cloaked in silver vines, her eyes pools of starlight, her voice a lullaby of ruin.
“Who is she?” Elira asked, stunned.
“The One Who Waits,” the ember answered. “And she has already started to move.”
As the memory faded and the ember settled into the Magic Pot, now glowing brighter than ever, the whisper that followed chilled them all:
“The Cave of Priceless was never a hiding place. It was a doorway. And the door is opening.”