Magic Pot in the Cave of Priceless - Chapter 32: Chapter 32
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They descended the Eastern Ridge under a pale sky, each step heavy with the weight of what they had seen. The world had changed in a breath — and though no one else knew it yet, the fabric of fate was beginning to unravel.
Arias kept the Magic Pot close to his chest. It no longer hummed idly; now it whispered. Not with words, but with impressions, feelings, half-formed memories tugging at his mind like threads woven into dreams. He could feel the ember inside it — the memory — reshaping the pot’s essence. It was no longer merely a vessel of enchantments. It had become a key.
Back in Eldermoor, the town’s energy had shifted. Crows no longer circled the bell tower. The winds carried scents from distant lands. And the sky — oh, the sky — bore hues that did not belong to this season. Mistress Caelum greeted them at the boundary, her eyes not with relief, but recognition.
“You’ve seen her,” she said. “The One Who Waits.”
Arias nodded. “And the Hollow Kings. They’re returning.”
“Not returning,” Caelum corrected, “awakening. Their roots were never severed. Only buried. Now the bloom begins again.”
Dren placed his bag of healing herbs down with a sigh. “You’re all too poetic. Can we get to the part where we stop this madness before everything burns?”
Elira chuckled grimly. “He’s right. We have the pot, we have the memory… now what?”
Mistress Caelum led them into the heart of Eldermoor’s Archives — a room sealed for decades, known as the Timeloom Chamber. Few knew of it, fewer still entered. It was a place where the past folded into itself — history scribed on thin goldleaf pages, inked by scribes long dead.
On a pedestal at the center stood a circular tapestry — woven with threads of starlight and ash.
“This,” Caelum whispered, “is the Weft of Ages. It records all choices — made and unmade — by those tied to the Pot.”
The tapestry shimmered as Arias approached. Threads shifted. Knots loosened. The very pattern of fate responded to his presence.
“The Cave of Priceless,” Caelum said, “was once a cradle of guardianship. But it was severed from time when the first betrayal happened.”
Arias’s eyes narrowed. “What betrayal?”
Caelum raised her hand, and the tapestry glowed.
From its shifting threads, a story emerged — one of the First Keeper, a woman named Solenya. She had forged the Magic Pot, bound her memories within the Ember, and chosen twelve Guardians to protect it. But one of them, corrupted by the Hollow Kings, betrayed them. In a desperate act, Solenya sealed the cave and fractured time itself to prevent the Kings from reaching it.
The traitor was never named. Until now.
As the image crystallized, Arias felt his breath vanish.
The betrayer looked… like him.
Not exactly — but close. The same eyes. The same crest of white in dark hair. The same scar by the brow.
Elira stepped back, stunned. “That can’t be.”
Caelum spoke slowly. “This is the truth. You are a blood-shadow of the Betrayer — a time-echo reborn through the pot’s call. But fate has gifted you a choice: to end the cycle… or repeat it.”
Arias’s hands trembled. “So, I was always meant to find the pot?”
“No,” Caelum said. “You were meant to remember why you left it.”
The room shuddered suddenly. Light burst from the pot — and from its mouth emerged a scroll, ancient and sealed with red wax bearing a sigil none of them had seen before.
The pot whispered, “To reach the Cave of Priceless, you must walk backward through time.”
Elira tilted her head. “Backward?”
Caelum turned pale. “Through the Shattered Spiral.”
The Shattered Spiral was a place buried beneath the ruins of Dovemark, once a thriving citadel now lost to fog and curse. It was a paradox of a realm — where time looped and folded, where the same hour could be lived a thousand different ways. No one who had entered had returned sane.
Arias clenched his fists. “Then that’s where we go.”
Dren groaned. “Wonderful. Can’t wait to go mad for the cause.”
But they all knew there was no other way.
As night fell, the pot pulsed again — not with warmth, but with cold certainty. The Cave of Priceless waited not in distance, but in memory. And only by mending what had been broken — both in history and in Arias — could the door be opened once more.
They had until the next moonrise.
Because by then, the One Who Waits would begin her bloom.
Arias kept the Magic Pot close to his chest. It no longer hummed idly; now it whispered. Not with words, but with impressions, feelings, half-formed memories tugging at his mind like threads woven into dreams. He could feel the ember inside it — the memory — reshaping the pot’s essence. It was no longer merely a vessel of enchantments. It had become a key.
Back in Eldermoor, the town’s energy had shifted. Crows no longer circled the bell tower. The winds carried scents from distant lands. And the sky — oh, the sky — bore hues that did not belong to this season. Mistress Caelum greeted them at the boundary, her eyes not with relief, but recognition.
“You’ve seen her,” she said. “The One Who Waits.”
Arias nodded. “And the Hollow Kings. They’re returning.”
“Not returning,” Caelum corrected, “awakening. Their roots were never severed. Only buried. Now the bloom begins again.”
Dren placed his bag of healing herbs down with a sigh. “You’re all too poetic. Can we get to the part where we stop this madness before everything burns?”
Elira chuckled grimly. “He’s right. We have the pot, we have the memory… now what?”
Mistress Caelum led them into the heart of Eldermoor’s Archives — a room sealed for decades, known as the Timeloom Chamber. Few knew of it, fewer still entered. It was a place where the past folded into itself — history scribed on thin goldleaf pages, inked by scribes long dead.
On a pedestal at the center stood a circular tapestry — woven with threads of starlight and ash.
“This,” Caelum whispered, “is the Weft of Ages. It records all choices — made and unmade — by those tied to the Pot.”
The tapestry shimmered as Arias approached. Threads shifted. Knots loosened. The very pattern of fate responded to his presence.
“The Cave of Priceless,” Caelum said, “was once a cradle of guardianship. But it was severed from time when the first betrayal happened.”
Arias’s eyes narrowed. “What betrayal?”
Caelum raised her hand, and the tapestry glowed.
From its shifting threads, a story emerged — one of the First Keeper, a woman named Solenya. She had forged the Magic Pot, bound her memories within the Ember, and chosen twelve Guardians to protect it. But one of them, corrupted by the Hollow Kings, betrayed them. In a desperate act, Solenya sealed the cave and fractured time itself to prevent the Kings from reaching it.
The traitor was never named. Until now.
As the image crystallized, Arias felt his breath vanish.
The betrayer looked… like him.
Not exactly — but close. The same eyes. The same crest of white in dark hair. The same scar by the brow.
Elira stepped back, stunned. “That can’t be.”
Caelum spoke slowly. “This is the truth. You are a blood-shadow of the Betrayer — a time-echo reborn through the pot’s call. But fate has gifted you a choice: to end the cycle… or repeat it.”
Arias’s hands trembled. “So, I was always meant to find the pot?”
“No,” Caelum said. “You were meant to remember why you left it.”
The room shuddered suddenly. Light burst from the pot — and from its mouth emerged a scroll, ancient and sealed with red wax bearing a sigil none of them had seen before.
The pot whispered, “To reach the Cave of Priceless, you must walk backward through time.”
Elira tilted her head. “Backward?”
Caelum turned pale. “Through the Shattered Spiral.”
The Shattered Spiral was a place buried beneath the ruins of Dovemark, once a thriving citadel now lost to fog and curse. It was a paradox of a realm — where time looped and folded, where the same hour could be lived a thousand different ways. No one who had entered had returned sane.
Arias clenched his fists. “Then that’s where we go.”
Dren groaned. “Wonderful. Can’t wait to go mad for the cause.”
But they all knew there was no other way.
As night fell, the pot pulsed again — not with warmth, but with cold certainty. The Cave of Priceless waited not in distance, but in memory. And only by mending what had been broken — both in history and in Arias — could the door be opened once more.
They had until the next moonrise.
Because by then, the One Who Waits would begin her bloom.
End of Magic Pot in the Cave of Priceless Chapter 32. Continue reading Chapter 33 or return to Magic Pot in the Cave of Priceless book page.