Magic Pot in the Cave of Priceless - Chapter 34: Chapter 34

They stepped into silence.
Not the absence of sound — but the presence of it. A silence so ancient, it felt alive. Heavy. Sacred.
The Cave of Priceless stretched out before them, vast and endless, yet enclosed as if time itself had folded in on the walls. There was no ceiling. Above them, stars shimmered like eyes — not in the sky, but suspended in black stone. The floor was smooth crystal, reflecting not just their bodies, but their inner truths — hopes, regrets, secrets not even they had confessed.
The entrance behind them dissolved into mist.
No turning back.
Arias held the Magic Pot tightly. It pulsed steadily now, as though the ember inside it was breathing — growing stronger with every step deeper into the cave. The pot was no longer just a magical relic. It was a beacon, guiding them toward something both terrifying and beautiful.
Dren whispered, “Where’s the treasure? Or the danger?”
Elira responded softly, “This place is the treasure. And the danger lies in not understanding it.”
The walls of the cave began to shift as they walked. Carvings lit up with every footfall — memories etched in glowing script. Not written with ink or chisel, but drawn from the lives of those who had once walked this same path. Some were beautiful — a mother holding her newborn beside the pot. Others were tragic — a warrior kneeling in regret, his hand outstretched to a love already lost.
Then they came to the Chamber of Echoes.
A massive circular room, ringed with twelve thrones — each carved from a different element: flame, water, wind, stone, vine, crystal, shadow, light, bone, blood, moon, and void. These were the seats of the Twelve Guardians — the original protectors of the Magic Pot.
And in the center stood a pedestal of woven roots and silver veins.
The pedestal was empty.
“Something’s wrong,” Arias said. “The pot… it should go here.”
The pot suddenly levitated from his hands. Its glow intensified, swirling with the golden hue of the ember, the crimson of old runes, and a faint silver thread — the same thread they had seen on the Weft of Ages.
Then the air shattered.
From the shadows beyond the thrones emerged a figure cloaked in vine and moonlight — tall, ageless, and crowned in silver thorns.
The One Who Waits.
Her voice was soft. Serene. Like a lullaby over a field of graves.
“You brought it to me.”
Elira raised her bow. “We brought it to its place of origin. Not to you.”
The woman did not blink. Her eyes were pools of moving stars — infinite, sad, and dangerous.
“You think the cave is a sanctuary,” she said. “But it is a cradle. And now it is time for the bloom.”
The Magic Pot trembled. The light within it began to flicker — not in fear, but resistance. Arias stepped forward, standing between the woman and the pedestal.
“Who are you?” he asked.
She tilted her head. “I am the First Flower and the Final Thorn. I was once Solenya’s sister. The Thirteenth.”
The Betrayer had not acted alone.
She raised a hand, and vines erupted from the walls, coiling around the thrones, cracking their foundations. The cave groaned — not collapsing, but awakening. Roots spread like veins of thought through the stone.
“You were never supposed to exist,” she whispered to Arias. “You are the echo of a broken promise.”
“But I’m also its fulfillment,” he answered. “The pot chose me.”
She smiled. “It chooses what it regrets. But regret is not salvation.”
She stepped forward, and the air thickened. The stars above dimmed. And then —
The thrones lit up.
One by one, the spirits of the Twelve Guardians appeared, flickering like phantoms made of memory and magic. They stood behind Arias — silent, watching, waiting.
The Magic Pot lowered itself onto the pedestal.
And from it burst a song.
Not music — but a resonance that struck the soul. A thousand voices singing as one — the voices of every keeper, every guardian, every soul touched by the pot’s purpose.
The woman staggered.
The cave itself began to split — not in destruction, but transformation.
Roots turned into stairways. Stone melted into trees. Time bent around them like a ribbon in wind. And in that moment, Arias understood.
The Cave of Priceless was not a hiding place. Not a door.
It was a seed.
And the pot — was the water.
The woman howled as light poured from the thrones. The Guardians stepped forward, surrounding her. Arias moved with them, pot in hand, and said:
“This ends now. No more echoes. No more cycles.”
She smiled one last time — not cruelly, but with strange peace.
“Then bloom, child of regret.”
And with that, she vanished — not destroyed, but absorbed into the cave’s rebirth.
A great silence followed. Then light.
The Cave of Priceless began to shine from within — glowing with life, with memory, with every piece of forgotten magic now restored.
The thrones crumbled — not in ruin, but fulfillment.
And the Magic Pot, now whole and still, whispered its final word of the night.
“Planted.”