Magic Pot in the Cave of Priceless - Chapter 39: Chapter 39
You are reading Magic Pot in the Cave of Priceless, Chapter 39: Chapter 39. Read more chapters of Magic Pot in the Cave of Priceless.
Morning came slowly over the Reach.
The light that touched the once-ashen land was not just dawn—it was rebirth. Dew clung to the petals of the silver flowers surrounding the place where the Magic Pot had been buried. They shimmered faintly, as though remembering the battle fought and the boy who chose to bloom rather than burn.
Arias sat quietly beside the mound, his fingers resting on the cool soil. He had not spoken since they placed the pot into the earth. Not from sorrow, but from reverence. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, silence didn’t feel empty—it felt sacred.
Elira approached, her steps soft. She carried with her a woven wreath of willow leaves, each threaded with the feathers she had once kept for herself.
“For Valemorra,” she said, placing the wreath where the soil met the light.
Dren followed, a leather-bound book in his hands. The title read: “Lessons from the Bloom.” He had started writing it the night after the battle. In it, he recorded every spell, every mistake, every truth they had unearthed—and the new magic that had been born from forgiveness.
“People need to know what happened here,” he said. “And not just for memory. For protection. For growth.”
They stood together, the three of them, not as warriors or bearers of legacy—but as gardeners of something precious.
That afternoon, they began the slow journey back to Eldermoor.
But the Reach followed them.
Not literally—but in signs. Along the paths that had once been twisted and hostile, flowers bloomed where none had grown before. Trees whispered soft songs as they passed. The sky—once tinged with the bruises of magic—now bore the blue of clarity, scattered with thin white clouds.
When they arrived, the town felt different.
Not just quieter—but listening.
People gathered to hear the story, not with awe, but with empathy. Mistress Caelum wept openly when Arias told them of Valemorra’s final words. Children brought offerings of painted stones to the temple garden, laying them in the spiral shape of the Echo Root. Eldermoor became more than a village again—it became a keeper.
Weeks passed.
And one evening, as Arias walked alone through the Everdeep Forest, he heard a familiar pulse.
He turned.
In a small grove, surrounded by wildflowers, grew a single silver petal.
And beside it, barely peeking above the surface, was a sprout.
Not born from the pot. Not from any known root.
But something new.
He knelt beside it and felt the thrum in the soil.
Memory.
Love.
Promise.
He didn’t need to speak. The world was speaking for him now.
He stood, smiled gently, and whispered:
“Let it grow.”
Far away, deep beneath the earth, the Magic Pot rested in stillness.
Its glow faded into the roots of the world.
It had no more spells to give.
Only seeds.
The light that touched the once-ashen land was not just dawn—it was rebirth. Dew clung to the petals of the silver flowers surrounding the place where the Magic Pot had been buried. They shimmered faintly, as though remembering the battle fought and the boy who chose to bloom rather than burn.
Arias sat quietly beside the mound, his fingers resting on the cool soil. He had not spoken since they placed the pot into the earth. Not from sorrow, but from reverence. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, silence didn’t feel empty—it felt sacred.
Elira approached, her steps soft. She carried with her a woven wreath of willow leaves, each threaded with the feathers she had once kept for herself.
“For Valemorra,” she said, placing the wreath where the soil met the light.
Dren followed, a leather-bound book in his hands. The title read: “Lessons from the Bloom.” He had started writing it the night after the battle. In it, he recorded every spell, every mistake, every truth they had unearthed—and the new magic that had been born from forgiveness.
“People need to know what happened here,” he said. “And not just for memory. For protection. For growth.”
They stood together, the three of them, not as warriors or bearers of legacy—but as gardeners of something precious.
That afternoon, they began the slow journey back to Eldermoor.
But the Reach followed them.
Not literally—but in signs. Along the paths that had once been twisted and hostile, flowers bloomed where none had grown before. Trees whispered soft songs as they passed. The sky—once tinged with the bruises of magic—now bore the blue of clarity, scattered with thin white clouds.
When they arrived, the town felt different.
Not just quieter—but listening.
People gathered to hear the story, not with awe, but with empathy. Mistress Caelum wept openly when Arias told them of Valemorra’s final words. Children brought offerings of painted stones to the temple garden, laying them in the spiral shape of the Echo Root. Eldermoor became more than a village again—it became a keeper.
Weeks passed.
And one evening, as Arias walked alone through the Everdeep Forest, he heard a familiar pulse.
He turned.
In a small grove, surrounded by wildflowers, grew a single silver petal.
And beside it, barely peeking above the surface, was a sprout.
Not born from the pot. Not from any known root.
But something new.
He knelt beside it and felt the thrum in the soil.
Memory.
Love.
Promise.
He didn’t need to speak. The world was speaking for him now.
He stood, smiled gently, and whispered:
“Let it grow.”
Far away, deep beneath the earth, the Magic Pot rested in stillness.
Its glow faded into the roots of the world.
It had no more spells to give.
Only seeds.
End of Magic Pot in the Cave of Priceless Chapter 39. Continue reading Chapter 40 or return to Magic Pot in the Cave of Priceless book page.