The sky blazed with the fading hues of sunset, casting long, golden shadows over the graveyard. The last rays of light caught the edges of the gravestones, making them glow faintly before surrendering to the encroaching dusk. Theron walked with a measured stride, his red cloak trailing over the dry, sun-warmed grass. Akeem followed close behind, his tall form silhouetted against the dimming sky, filling him in on what he saw at the night of Luminara.

  “Arion Faris?" Theron began, "I still don’t understand why you didn’t strike the boy there and then,” his tone dripping with contempt as he kicked a small pebble, sending it skittering across the path. “The Grand Overseer’s son, the one I saw at the Temple?”

  Akeem’s gaze remained ahead, unflinching. “Yes, my lord. That’s the one.”

  "The sheer audacity of this lowborn custodian…” Theron’s lips curled into a sneer, the dim light carving cruel lines across his face. “And my step-sister... that’s the best she can do? Fitting, I suppose, for Keriosi blood. Pathetic."

  They walked in silence for a while, the fog thickening around them as they passed through the rows of worn-down gravestones, looking for any sign of the old man. Theron’s frustration grew, his hands clenched at his sides. He needed to find the man again, he needed more.

  “Where could he be?” Theron muttered impatiently. His eyes scanned the endless rows of tombstones and crooked trees. He’d expected the man to be waiting for him, but the graveyard was empty, save for the two of them.

  They halted before an ancient well, its crumbling stone rim half-concealed beneath a tangle of thorny bushes. Akeem stepped closer, peering into the abyss. His brow furrowed.

  "An empty well… but there's a ladder inside," he murmured. "Looks more like a tunnel than a well. The old man might be hiding down there."

  Theron’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of distaste crossing his features. “So uncouth!”

  Theron looked at Akeem and gestured toward the well with a wave of his hand. “Lead the way.”

  Akeem nodded, stepping to the edge of the well. With a grunt, he shifted his weight on the ladder descending inside the dark well, its rungs clanking softly against the stone. The ladder was old and creaky, but it seemed sturdy enough. Theron’s eyes gleamed with a mix of irritation and anticipation as he followed Akeem, the air growing colder and damper with each step. The weight of his armor causing the ladder to sway slightly.

  As soon as they descended, it became clear—this was no well, but an underground tunnel. The dim light from the well’s opening and a few cracks above barely illuminated the passage, casting shifting shadows along the rough, uneven walls.

  Dust swirled in the stale air, disturbed by their movements, like ghostly whispers of the past. The tunnel had been abandoned for years, its stone walls coated in grime and neglect. Theron’s boots crunched against the dry, sandy floor, the sound magnified in the confined space, confirming the long-forgotten nature of the passage.

  Akeem unhooked a small lantern from his belt, striking flint against steel until a flame flickered to life. The soft glow pushed back the darkness, casting eerie shadows along the crumbling walls and revealing the years of decay. Theron’s gaze darted around the tunnel, his unease growing in the heavy silence before he finally spoke.

  “Why is there even a fully developed tunnel here?” Theron asked, his tone sharp, though curiosity edged his words. “And with such a hidden entrance in the graveyard?”

  Akeem adjusted the lantern’s angle, the light catching the rough texture of the stone. “During the war with Kerios some 200 years ago. When the city was under siege, tunnels like this were made to safeguard the people. They were escape routes, shelters,” he replied. “My guess is this is one of those.”

  Theron let out a scoff, shaking his head. “And now my father thinks Kerios can be our allies,” he muttered bitterly, his voice dripping with disbelief. Akeem didn’t respond, his stoic silence leaving Theron’s words to hang in the air, heavy with tension.

  As they ventured deeper into the darkness, the stench of rot and decay grew stronger. Theron wrinkled his nose, his lip curling in distaste. The lantern’s light revealed a disturbing sight ahead, a trickle of dark, crimson liquid flowing sluggishly down the incline of the tunnel, pooling at their feet.

  “What in the gods’ names,” Theron’s words trailed off as they approached the source of the blood. The tunnel opened into a larger, cavernous chamber, lit by the flickering glow of several candles.

  In the center of the chamber, the old man from the graveyard was hunched over a grotesque scene. He was butchering dead wild animals with a grim efficiency, his hands stained with blood. A few animal corpses lay in heaps, their blood draining into wooden buckets beneath them, the contents spilling over in a macabre display.

  Theron’s eyes widened in horror and fascination. The old man’s movements were deliberate, unhurried, as if this was a ritual he had performed countless times before. The rhythmic thunk of the knife against the animals grew louder as they approached. Theron’s stomach churned at the sight, but he steeled himself, forcing his revulsion aside.

  “I expected you to be living underground like this,” Theron called out, his voice cutting through the sound of the chopping, “but I didn’t expect you to be sacrificing animals for dark magic.”

  The old man paused for a moment, as if considering his words. He let out a soft, almost amused chuckle, not even bothering to turn around.

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  “Dark Magic,” the old man repeated, his voice raspy. “I thought you of all people would not be so simpleminded, to call something magic.”

  He finally turned, wiping his bloodied hands on a rag. His face was still hidden beneath the shadows of his hood. “Is it magic if it can be explained?” the old man continued, his tone almost mocking. “Only the minds of fools call it such… Those with limited knowledge and without the heart to wield its power, they cower and call something ‘magic.’”

  Theron’s eyes narrowed, trying to decipher the meaning behind his words. “Then what would you call it?”

  “Someone enlightened would perhaps call it knowledge. Wisdom.” The old man’s voice dripped with condescension. He raised his bloodstained hand, gesturing to the carcasses around him. “Tell me, Theron, which side do you fall into? Ignorance or wisdom?”

  Theron paused for only a moment, his response cutting through the silence with cold certainty. “I stand with what delivers results. And your concoction... delivered.”

  Theron’s gaze swept over the lab’s chaos—scribbled notes pinned haphazardly, scrolls spilling from shelves, and a burlap sack of green sand leaking through a tear. The workbench was a grim display: a magnifying glass, a butcher’s knife, and a bowl of blood scattered among burnt candles and shattered glass. Formulas and fragmented phrases covered the surface, evidence of dark, methodical experiments. This was no mere workspace—it was an obsession laid bare.

  “I need more. You’ve done something, something powerful. But it’s not enough.”

  The old man sighed, his gaze drifting back to the bloodied animals. “I’ve done what I can, Your Grace.”

  Theron’s fingers curled at his side, his frustration barely contained. As the old man shifted, his hood slipped back just enough for the firelight to catch his face. Theron’s breath hitched—his gaze drawn, not to the man’s words, but to the contrast between his two eyes. One dark and sharp with awareness. The other, milky white, blind and unseeing. But it was the scorched symbol on his temple that truly unsettled him.

  “That mark…” Theron murmured, his tone shifting, curiosity cutting through his frustration. “What is it?”

  Before the old man could answer, Akeem’s gravelly voice cut through the air. “That’s no ordinary mark. It’s the brand of banishment. He’s been exiled from Aetheria.”

  A crease formed on Theron’s forehead as he straightened, “Is that true?”, turning back to the old man.

  The old man tightened his grip on his crooked staff. With slow, deliberate steps, he moved closer, the dim light flickering across his withered features. The staff tapped softly against the stone floor, the sound echoing through the tunnel. Stopping just in front of them, he lifted his head slightly, allowing Theron a closer view of the brand.

  “I was banished,” the old man said steadily. “Branded and cast out.”

  Theron’s jaw tightened, but he remained silent.

  “By incompetent fools who feared what they could not understand.” Caretaker scoffed. “They claimed I was an apostate. A blasphemer.” He spat the word. “The Temple couldn’t allow someone like me to challenge their divine authority.”

  Theron felt a cold anger stir in his chest. It didn’t surprise him that they would banish someone for merely thinking differently. Knowing his father, he assumed he had been complicit in it—that stirred something deeper.

  “And who banished you?” Theron asked, though he already suspected the answer.

  The old man’s eyes narrowed, amusement flickering across his face. “The great King Eldrion himself.” His lips curled slightly. “He listened to the Temple’s counsel, let them fill his ears with fear and superstition. And in the end, he condemned me.” He sighed. “If only he had listened, just once.”

  Theron’s fists clenched at his sides. He had long resented his father’s decisions—always serving the kingdom’s image over its progress. Hearing this only confirmed what he had always suspected. His father was blind to real power. Blind to real progress.

  “I understand the Temple’s shortsightedness,” the old man continued, his voice low and dangerous. “But your father… it was a shame, really, that he couldn’t see the truth. The advancements we could have made. The breakthroughs we could have achieved. The kingdom would have thrived. We would have wielded power like no other, ruled with knowledge and innovation.” His voice hardened. “But the King? Too fearful of what he didn’t understand.”

  Theron exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “That’s our King.” His voice dripped with mockery.

  The old man smirked. “Young prince is wiser beyond his years.”

  Theron’s anger simmered, but there was something in the old man’s words that resonated with him. Something that made him feel a strange kinship with this banished figure.

  “What’s your name?” Theron asked, his voice demanding.

  The old man chuckled, a dry, brittle sound that echoed off the stone walls. “My name?” He tilted his head. “My name… names are just masks. What matters is who wears them.”

  He exhaled, as if the thought bored him. “Some folk from the outskirts of the kingdom, those the Temple won’t help… they come to me. They call me the caretaker.” He waved a hand dismissively, as if the title meant little.

  Theron raised an eyebrow, “Caretaker?”

  The old man nodded, though the faintest trace of bitterness clung to his words.

  “Yes. Probably due to my choice of location, but it’s fitting considering I take care of those left behind like me, who the temple has shunned. I do what I can... but I’m no miracle worker.”

  Theron’s gaze darkened as he shifted the conversation to what weighed on his mind. “And what about my mother? She's breathing again but unconscious as before. Can you bring her back to full health?”

  The old man sighed, shaking his head slowly. “I’ve done what I could with the meager Aether flow down here I can conjure and a few ingredients I can gather.”

  “You can see the state of my... laboratorium,” he added, letting out a strange, humorless laugh as he gestured to the dark, cluttered space around them. “I’m limited by my circumstances. The queen’s condition... that is as far as I can go, your highness.”

  Theron wasn’t satisfied. His fists clenched, and his mind raced. “What if I provided you with what you need? A better place, the ingredients, everything you require?”

  The old man’s smile faded, and his one good eye locked onto Theron’s with a sudden, unsettling intensity. "Bound as I am by banishment, these tunnels are my refuge. I am not even meant to be here, yet here I remain—out of sight, out of reach." His voice dipped, cold and resolute. "But more than that... I cannot channel the Aether beyond the kingdom’s borders."

  Before Theron could argue, the old man tilted his head slightly, his gaze piercing.

  “A prince cannot overturn a king’s decision,” old caretaker said calmly as he stared right into Theron's eyes, “You know this as well as I do.” The old man said, as though he could read Theron’s thoughts before they even fully formed.

  Theron’s jaw tightened, and a wave of helplessness washed over him. For a moment, the weight of his powerlessness pressed down on his chest, and he felt a flicker of doubt, of frustration at the reality he could not change.

  He turned sharply, the old man’s words still ringing in his ears, and began to walk away. His boots echoed off the stone floor, each step more determined than the last. Akeem, ever silent, followed close behind.

  "A shame, truly..." the voice of the old man rang from behind, "But perhaps the future of this kingdom will not be as blinded by its present. There may yet be hope for Aetheria, after all." Old main said softly.

  Theron didn’t respond. He didn’t look back. But the words lingered in his mind as he and Akeem disappeared into the darkness of the tunnels, the flickering light of their lantern fading away.

  ***