Crown Of The Forgotten

The wind always carried dust in the lower quarter of Kaelstead, dust that burned the eyes and bit the lungs and left a taste like ash at the back of the throat. Most people cursed it. Arin Vale had learned to live with it. She pulled her hood tighter around her face, narrowed her storm-grey eyes, and slipped between the shouting merchants and bony horses that clogged the market square. It was just another morning in the city, or at least it looked like one. People argued over prices, children darted through the crowd with nimble fingers searching for purses, and somewhere a minstrel sang about a war nobody cared to remember. But beneath it all, Arin felt it—the weight, the watchfulness, like the stones themselves were listening. She hated that feeling. Her boots scuffed over cobblestones as she moved past a fishmonger yelling about his “fresh catch” that smelled far from it. Arin’s stomach growled, but she didn’t stop. Hunger was normal. She had grown up with it gnawing at her bones, as familiar as her own heartbeat. Besides, stopping in one place too long was dangerous when you carried other people’s letters under your cloak. “Vale,” a voice hissed from an alley. Arin paused, muscles tense, hand sliding instinctively to the small dagger at her belt. Out of the shadows stepped Bren, wiry and grinning, his hair sticking out in all directions as though even his scalp refused order. “You’re late,” he said. “You’re impatient,” she shot back. “Which one is worse?” He smirked, flashing the gap where two teeth were missing. “Depends who you’re asking.” She dug into her cloak, pulling free a small leather pouch and tossing it at him. Bren caught it with both hands, eyes widening at the weight of coin inside. “Delivery made,” Arin said. “Now stop following me like a stray dog.” “You don’t like company?” “I don’t like strays.” She turned, ready to vanish into the crowd again, but Bren called after her. “You ever wonder why people trust you with their secrets?” Arin froze for a heartbeat. Then she glanced back over her shoulder, her hood shadowing most of her face. “All the time,” she said. “That’s why I don’t keep them.” And then she was gone, swallowed by the noise and dust of Kaelstead. --- But the city wasn’t the only one watching her. Far above the market, in the crumbling tower of what had once been a temple, something stirred. Beneath broken statues and faded runes, a faint light flickered inside a stone chest sealed by age and magic. The wind shifted. The dust carried a whisper, too soft for anyone to hear. Not yet. --- Arin’s small room was barely more than a loft above a cooper’s workshop. She climbed the creaking ladder, ducking her head against the slanted roof beams, and dropped onto the straw mattress with a sigh. The day had drained her, but rest never came easy. Not here. Not anywhere. Her fingers traced the scar on her left hand, a pale line across the knuckles. She could still remember the baker’s shout, the rough grip of the guard, the taste of blood when she bit down on fear. She had been eight years old then. Alone. Already forgotten. She rolled onto her side, staring at the single candle flickering on the table. Its flame bent with the draft sneaking through the roof tiles. For a moment, she imagined it speaking to her—like the city’s dust, like the stones, like something older than all of them. She shook her head hard. “You’re tired,” she muttered to herself. “That’s all.” But deep down, a chill settled into her bones. The kind of chill that never really left. --- That night, the dream returned. She stood in a vast plain of ash, grey stretching in every direction. Towers lay broken, palaces reduced to jagged teeth of stone, statues shattered with faces she almost recognized. The air reeked of fire long since burned out. And in the center of it all sat a crown. Blackened, cracked, but still gleaming faintly with veins of silver light. Arin felt herself step toward it, though her legs trembled and her chest screamed to run. Each footfall sank into the ash, leaving no prints behind. The crown waited. Its broken points rose like jagged mountains, cruel and beautiful all at once. She reached out. Her fingers hovered inches above the cold metal when— A voice. Low. Whispering. Ancient. Do you remember me? Arin jolted awake, breath tearing from her lungs, her hand outstretched toward nothing. The candle had guttered out. The loft lay dark. But the whisper lingered, like a shadow clinging to her ears. She pressed her palm against her chest, feeling her heart hammer. “Just a dream,” she whispered. “Just a stupid dream.” But even as she said it, she knew it was a lie. --- That morning, Kaelstead woke to bells. Not festival bells, not temple bells, but alarm bells—deep, urgent, rolling across the rooftops like thunder. Arin shoved on her boots, grabbed her dagger, and leaned out her tiny window. Smoke was rising from the eastern gate. People were running, shouting, pointing. “Attack?” she muttered. No. Not attack. Something worse. She leapt down the ladder, sprinted into the street, and joined the flood of people heading toward the square. Guards in dented armor pushed through the crowd, shouting for order. Arin craned her neck, trying to see over the mob. And then she saw it. At the gate, chained between four horses, dragged like a prisoner of war, was a chest. Ancient stone, carved with runes that flickered faintly even under the sunlight. Cracks ran across its surface, but it still pulsed as if alive. Arin’s breath caught. It was the same chest from her dream. She stumbled back, heart pounding, the crowd pressing against her from all sides. The bells rang on, and in the dust-heavy wind, she swore she heard it again. That whisper. Do you remember me?