Kingdom of Yabla Vol.1: Aric Valen's Journey

Chapter 7: The Secrets of the Stronghold

The chamber's dim glow seemed to pulse in rhythm with the Obsidian Crown, as if the ancient stones themselves were attuned to the relic's power. Aric stood in the center, struggling to focus as the whispers of the crown grew louder, more insistent. The air was thick with tension, the weight of centuries pressing down on him.

Alistair moved quickly, though his injuries slowed him. His face was drawn, but his eyes were sharp, scanning the walls and shelves that lined the chamber. Dust-covered scrolls and books, forgotten by time, were piled high, their worn pages filled with the knowledge of the Seekers. Aric watched as Alistair sifted through the texts with urgent precision, searching for something, anything, that could help them.

"This stronghold was built to guard against the crown's power," Alistair explained, his voice low and strained. "The Seekers studied it for centuries, trying to understand how to control it. There's knowledge here—rituals, wards, secrets that may give us a chance."

Aric's hands trembled as he clutched his satchel, the weight of the crown pressing into his side like a constant reminder of the burden he carried. The magic pulsed stronger now, almost alive, and he could feel it trying to worm its way into his thoughts. Every second he held it, he felt a part of himself slipping, like grains of sand through an hourglass.

"I'm losing control, Alistair," Aric said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know how much longer I can resist it."

Alistair looked up from the scroll he had been examining, his brow furrowed in concern. "We'll find a way," he said, though there was an edge of desperation in his voice. "There has to be something here."

But as Alistair continued to search, Aric's vision began to blur. His head throbbed, the whispers of the crown growing louder, more distinct. They no longer felt like distant murmurs—they were voices, urgent and commanding, urging him to submit.

"Take the power. Use it. You are the one it seeks."

Aric squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the voices, but the pressure only mounted. His heartbeat quickened, and a cold sweat broke out on his skin. He could feel the crown's energy thrumming beneath his fingertips, tempting him with its ancient power.

"You are the heir of Valen. Claim what is yours."

The words echoed in his mind, louder than ever before, and Aric stumbled backward, his back hitting the cold stone wall of the chamber. He gasped for breath, his hands shaking uncontrollably.

"Aric!" Alistair's voice cut through the haze, sharp and commanding. "Stay with me!"

Aric blinked, his vision clearing for a moment, and he saw Alistair rushing toward him, concern etched on his face. "The crown's magic is trying to take hold of you," Alistair said, gripping Aric's shoulders. "You have to fight it."

"I'm trying," Aric whispered, his voice cracking. "But it's so strong."

Alistair's gaze hardened. "Then we have to act fast. There's something here that can help. I know it."

With that, Alistair turned back to the shelves, frantically searching through the ancient texts. Aric slumped against the wall, his mind a swirl of conflicting thoughts. He knew the danger of the crown, knew that if he gave in, he would be lost. But the pull was so strong, the power so vast. It was like trying to hold back the tide with his bare hands.

"The crown is yours. You are its master."

The voice in his mind was undeniable now. It wasn't just the magic—it was the crown itself, alive, sentient. It wanted him to submit. It wanted him to wear it.

Aric's hand drifted toward the satchel, his fingers brushing the leather, but he jerked back as if burned. No. He couldn't let it control him. Not yet.