THE EMBER CROWN

The stables were cold, even in summer. Cael Everen curled tighter into the threadbare blanket he shared with the dogs, the hay scratching his cheeks as he pressed closer to the floor. The horses shuffled in their stalls, snorting and stamping in their sleep. Outside, the wind whispered like a voice too old to speak clearly. He would have slept through it all, if not for the sound. It wasn’t loud. Not even sharp. Just… wrong. Like a string pulled too tight. A hum, barely audible, vibrating in the air behind his teeth. He sat up slowly, heart thudding. “Again?” he whispered to himself, brushing the straw from his hair. This was the third night that strange pull had woken him. A tug, low in his chest, not pain exactly—but pressure. Like something wanted him to move. He stood, pulling his coat over his tunic. The cold bit through the holes at the elbows, but he ignored it. He padded barefoot between the stalls, past old Mareen the mule, who blinked at him sleepily. She’d been here longer than he had. Cael reached the back wall—the part no one touched anymore. The stone here was blackened, scorched from a fire long before he was born. Most said the lightning had done it, but the stable master muttered of darker things when he drank too much. The strange pressure was stronger now, centered beneath the floorboards. He dropped to his knees and pulled aside the loose plank he’d found last summer when chasing a rat. Beneath it, dirt. Just ordinary dirt, dry and packed from years of neglect. But the sound came again. Hummmm. He didn’t think—he just dug. Fingers worked fast, even when they started to bleed. The dirt came up in dry clumps. Then something hard. Smooth. Cael’s breath caught. It was a disc. Small enough to fit in his palm. Bronze or gold—he couldn’t tell. It shimmered faintly in the dark, even without moonlight. As he reached for it, something behind him stirred. A cough. He froze. “Boy,” came a voice. Cracked like dry leaves, but not angry. “That should’ve stayed buried.” Cael turned. The old groundskeeper stood there—Tibbs, they called him. No one knew his real name. He hadn’t spoken to Cael in months. “I… I didn’t mean to—” Cael began. But Tibbs was looking at the disc. His eyes had gone wide, pupils like pinpricks. “The relic sings,” he said softly. Then he dropped. Just—collapsed. No sound, no warning. One second standing, the next crumpled like an empty sack. Cael stared, shaking. “T-Tibbs?” He rushed to him. The old man wasn’t breathing. Dead. Cael’s hands trembled. The disc pulsed once in his grip—warm, alive. A sound rose outside. Hooves. Many. He looked toward the stable doors. Lantern light danced through the cracks. Not patrol. Not at this hour. Cael didn’t know much about magic. But he knew this wasn’t ordinary. And whatever that relic was—it had just killed a man. Or worse. He had seconds to choose. Leave it, or run. He ran.