Cael stood at Tomas's grave.
Simple marker. Wooden cross. Name carved deep. "Tomas Grenn - Builder of New Haven - He Paid the Price."
Nothing grand. Nothing elaborate. Just what Tomas would have wanted.
It had been six months since the sacrifice. Since the caves. Since the Unmaking Engine consumed fifty-one lives to seal the Wurm Lords.
Six months of coordinating. Leading. Lying.
"You'd hate this," Cael's voice was barely above a whisper. He came here often. When the weight became too much. When he needed perspective. When he needed to remember why he kept going. "The politics. The compromises. The lies."
The grave didn't answer. Graves never did.
But Cael talked anyway. Talking to Tomas—even dead Tomas—was easier than facing the living. Easier than pretending confidence. Easier than bearing the weight alone.
"Damien brought news last week. The seals are failing. Not fifty years like we thought. Five years. Maybe less." Cael sat. Ground was cold. Hard. Uncomfortable. The earth smelled of decay and winter—a damp, mulchy odor that clung to his clothes. "Something about the Unmaking Engine straining them. Accelerating decay. The Progenitors built to last millennia. But we broke their work. Forced it to activate early. And now we're paying the price."
Wind blew. Cold. Carrying ash from distant fires, bitter and acrid on his tongue.
"I'm lying to the Council. Keeping it secret. Because if I tell them we have five years until extinction, they'll panic. Kael will use the fear to justify his power grab. The Confederation will fracture." Cael looked at the marker. "You always said truth matters. That lies corrupt. That the moment you start keeping secrets, you become what you fought against."
Still no answer. Just wood and dirt and the memory of sacrifice.
"But what's the alternative? Tell twenty settlements the apocalypse is coming? Watch them tear themselves apart? Watch Kael claim dictatorship to 'save' them?" Cael's voice was rough. "I'm choosing the lie. Choosing expediency. Choosing to become what you hated. Because the truth is too dangerous."
He sat in silence. Grieving. Doubting. Hating himself.
"Tell me I'm wrong," he said finally. "Tell me truth matters more than stability. Tell me I should confess everything and trust people to handle it. Tell me something. Anything. Because I'm drowning here."
"He can't," a voice said behind him. "He's dead."
Cael turned. Aldric stood there. Forty years old. Senior military advisor. Family man. The voice of caution on every council.
"How long have you been standing there?"
"Long enough to hear you confessing to a grave." Aldric walked forward. Sat beside him. "Damien briefed me yesterday. Five years. That's not long."
"No. It's not." Cael pulled at the grass, releasing the sharp green scent of crushed stems. "We need to find a way to reinforce the seals without mass sacrifice. Damien thinks Progenitor artifacts could substitute for human lives. Power sources. Energy cores. If we can find enough. Transport them to the Deep Forge. We might activate the Engine without blood."
"How many artifacts?"
"Dozens. Maybe hundreds. Scattered across the Ashen Kingdoms. In ruins. Tombs. Dangerous places most explorers don't return from." Cael looked at him. "We need to mount expeditions. Quiet. Secret. Say we're scavenging. Exploring. Building resources."
"That's a lie. Another one."
"Yes. But what's the alternative?"
Aldric was quiet. Thinking. Processing. Finally: "We tell a truth. Just not the whole truth. We're preparing for the future. Securing resources. Exploring ancient sites. All true. Just not explaining why. Not explaining the deadline."
"That's still deception."
"It's survival. There's a difference." Aldric pulled at the grass too. Matching Cael's nervous energy. "Tomas would understand. He sacrificed himself. Killed himself and fifty others to buy time. You think he wouldn't approve of small lies to buy more time?"
"He'd hate it. Hate the compromise. Hate the politics." Cael looked at the grave. "But he'd do it anyway. Because results mattered more than purity. Because saving people trumped principles."
"Then honor his memory by doing what needs doing. Lie to the Council. Prepare in secret. Find the artifacts. Save the world without telling everyone how close we came to losing it." Aldric stood. "And when it's done. When the seals are reinforced. When we've bought another fifty years. You can confess everything. Tell the whole truth. Let them judge you. But do it after everyone's safe. Not before."
The argument rose in Cael's throat. Truth mattered more. Tomas wouldn't approve. He'd—
But Tomas had made the hardest choice. Had chosen brutal pragmatism when idealism failed. Had sacrificed himself without hesitation. Without regret. Without demanding purity.
"What do we need?" Cael asked.
"Expedition teams. Military escorts. Scholars to identify artifacts. Resources to transport them. And secrecy. No one can know the real reason. Not the Council. Not Kael. Not anyone."
"How do we justify mobilizing resources? Kael already thinks we're weak. If we start sending teams into dangerous territory, he'll ask why. He'll use it against us."
"We say the truth: we're preparing. Building strength. Exploring opportunities. Securing the future." Aldric smiled slightly. "All true. Just vague enough to avoid specifics. Politicians do it every day."
"I hate politics."
"So did Tomas. But he was good at it when necessary." Aldric touched the grave marker. "You're better at this than you think. Six months coordinating twenty settlements. No civil war. No famine. No collapse. That's more than competence. That's leadership."
"That's luck. I'm a sailor pretending to be a coordinator. Every day someone will notice. Call me out. Demand someone competent take over."
"And every day you keep going anyway. That's what leadership is. Doing the job despite doubting yourself. Despite the fear. Despite the urge to quit." Aldric turned to face him. "Tomas chose you. Not because you craved it. Because you'd do it despite not craving it. Because reluctance makes you careful. Makes you question. Makes you better."
Cael stood. Brushed dirt off his pants. Looked at New Haven in the distance. Three thousand people. Unaware. Living their lives. Trusting leadership.
Trusting him.
"I'll talk to Damien. Get a list of potential artifact sites. Prioritize by accessibility and likelihood." Cael started walking. "We'll start with three expeditions. Small teams. Quiet. Say we're exploring. Building maps. Securing resources."
"And when we find artifacts?"
"We transport them to the Deep Forge. Store them. When we have enough, we activate the Engine. Save the world. And hope the cost isn't too high."
"What if we don't find enough? What if we run out of time?"
Cael stopped. Turned. Met Aldric's eyes. "Then we make a different choice. Mass sacrifice to power the Engine. Or extinction. Those are the options. Hope we find artifacts. Or choose who dies to save everyone else. Or watch everyone die."
"And you're prepared to make that choice? To select victims? To order executions?"
"No. But I'll do it anyway. Because the alternative is watching three thousand people die. Watching civilization burn. Watching everything Tomas built disappear." Cael's voice was steel. "I'll become a monster if that's what's required. I'll damn myself. I'll carry that weight forever. But I won't let everyone die because I was too principled to make hard choices."
Aldric nodded. Satisfied. "Then we have a plan. We search. We hope. We prepare. And if it comes to sacrifice, we make that choice when there's no other option. Not before. Not while there's still hope."
They walked together. Back to New Haven. Back to the work. Back to the lies and compromises and impossible choices.
Behind them, Tomas's grave stood silent. Witness. Memorial. Foundation.
The price had been paid. Fifty-one lives for six months of peace. And now the bill was coming due again.
Five years. Maybe less.
Cael would make that choice when the time came. Would become what was necessary. Would damn himself to save everyone else.
Just like Tomas had. Just like the founders had. Just like every leader in the Ashen Kingdoms eventually did.
He'd compromise. He'd lie. He'd sacrifice. He'd become the monster.
Because the alternative was letting the real monsters win.
Five years to find enough artifacts. Five years to save the world without mass sacrifice. Five years to prove that hope and effort could substitute for blood.
Or five years to choose who dies. Who lives. Who pays the price.
The countdown had begun. The race had started. The deadline was set.
And somewhere deep below New Haven, in the darkness of the Deep Forge, something stirred.
Not the Wurm Lords. They were sealed. Contained. Dormant.
Something else. Something older. Something the Progenitors had built alongside the Unmaking Engine.
Something that had been waiting. Patient. Silent. Dormant.
Until the Engine activated. Until fifty-one lives poured their power into ancient machinery. Until the seals strained against forces they were never designed to contain.
And then. In that moment. In that surge of power.
It woke.
Not fully. Not yet. Just a flicker. A stirring. A breath.
But enough. More than enough. Sufficient.
To begin. To prepare. To remember its purpose.
Deep below. Where no one went. Where no one looked. Where expeditions feared to tread.
It waited. Patient still. But awake now. Aware now. Ready now.
For the next sacrifice. The next activation. The next surge of power.
When Cael and his expeditions came seeking artifacts. Seeking solutions. Seeking hope.
They would find it instead. Ancient. Hungry. Patient.
And the Ashen Kingdoms. Already teetering on the edge of extinction.
Would discover that some prices were higher than anyone imagined.
Some costs couldn't be paid.
And some things. Once woken.
Could never be put back to sleep.
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