Up the slope they climbed, pressing onwards as trees were replaced with stone.
His bones ached. His fingers blistered. Still, they pushed higher, till the air thinned and the earth was the fog beneath them.
Never had Skyre known such heights. Not when they crowned him on Bráth Aghmuir, not when he came to his throne in Rhyd-hal. Not even that day upon the pines in the grove.
Closer and closer they drew to the top, till he thought they would touch the sun itself. He craved it. Fresh strength burned in his muscles and he strove upwards. He passed Cían, with his youthful heart, and was beyond Torin, who knew the earth, and went higher than Eirn, who came from the cliffs, until he crested the peak.
His palm gripped the stone and he hoisted himself over, his feet again finding purchase as the slope levelled upon the mountain’s collar. Skyre gazed out above a sea of cloud. He laughed and hollered across white waves. The wind was warm and wild and his lungs drank deep.
He knew in that moment: it was not the province of a king, but the power of a man.
And it was beautiful.
Cían laughed and patted his shoulder. “A second wind, sire?”
Torin joined them, catching his breath. “He could give a hound a run for its wares.”
“Have we made it?” asked Eirn.
“Here!” cried Cían with excitement. “There’s a tunnel! I think it leads to the summit!”
It was a tight fit, hardly high enough for their heads nor wide enough for their chests and they had to duck and squeeze in one by one.
Skyre went first.
Despite its size, it had almost certainly been hollowed out and made smooth by human hand. A theory which proved true when, near the mouth, his eyes caught strange markings upon the wall. They were half-carved and painted, though the pigment had long faded.
“My Vaich, what do you see?” Cían called from the bottom.
The images depicted an ancient scene. A woman in white amongst a sprawl of forest. He supposed the trees might once have been green, though now were dark, gnarled and… familiar.
They were Urna’ha.
He could just make it out—a vision of birth; of men hatching from the womb of the wood.
This was the story of the Awakening.
He knew the tales of the first men and of those who had traversed the mountains into Escgalia. Had this been chiselled by the hands of ancient tribes?
His eyes drew back to the pale figure at the center and his heart twisted.
Undeniable.
“Youhavebeen here before…”
“Sire, we’re coming up now!”
Skyre hurried along the tunnel. Curiosity burned within him. If men had come there long ago, what else would they find at the top?
The mountaintop dipped down, a depression in rock and stone. Earthen pillars were arranged like idle sentries, the hardened spokes of the mountain’s mighty crown. Before them stretched the summit—its guts dark and cavernous. Climbing to the pinnacle seemed almost certainlyimpossible, but the cave mouth beckoned hungrily. Despite the bright afternoon sun, Skyre shivered in its shadow.
Cían balked. “Incredible! Oh, that Grandpa might see this! His story dinnae do it justice!”
“Aye,” muttered Eirn, “but it seems he wisnae wrong, either.” He dug in the dirt with the toe of his boot, revealing a long, yellowed bone.
“Think these are the men who came for the monster? Or the golden warrior?”
“Those are just stories!” snapped Torin, startling the younger.
