The Warden's staff hummed against the earth, sending echoes through the cracked stone as she and David descended into the gorge revealed by the Husk's collapse. No sun reached here. Only mana-light guided the way — thin strands of silver dancing along the tunnel walls like veins beneath skin.
The deeper they went, the more the Well inside David stirred.
But it didn't pulse with power this time.
It listened.
The Cradle wasn't a place of strength.
It was a place of origin.
---
"This place was once a sanctuary," the Warden said, her voice quiet. "Before the Hollow, before the wars. The first Wells came here to be tempered."
David touched a carving along the wall. A spiral etched in stone. Beneath it, dozens of names.
Some he recognized from old texts.
Others… from the Eye of Accord.
He frowned. "They came here willingly?"
The Warden nodded. "It was never about gaining more power. The Cradle was meant to teach restraint. To remind those who carry the Well that growth without foundation leads to collapse."
They stepped into a cavern so vast it swallowed sound. At its center stood a single stone monolith — plain, undecorated, humming faintly with mana.
David approached it.
The Well pulsed once, steady.
Then twice.
Then a third, deeper rhythm.
And suddenly—
He was elsewhere.
---
The Cradle did not test with force.
It tested with truth.
He stood in a plain room of white light. Before him, three doors appeared — each identical in size and form.
A voice, his own yet not, whispered:
"Each door leads to a future you might become."
"Only one leads forward."
David stepped toward the first.
The moment his hand touched the frame, images flooded him:
A kingdom beneath his feet. Cities bearing his name. Armies bowing to his will. He had mastered the Well. Every breath reshaped the land.
But behind it all—emptiness.
No family. No faces. No friends.
Just worship.
And loneliness.
He stepped back.
---
The second door pulsed warmly.
He touched it.
A peaceful life. A cottage by a lake. A woman with soft eyes. Children laughing. He never grew too powerful. Never fought again.
Just lived.
But in the distance—smoke.
He had left the Hollow untouched.
Others had suffered for his peace.
He released the door.
---
The third stood silent.
When he touched it, there was only one image:
Himself, walking endlessly forward. No crown. No home. No end. Only trial after trial. Facing pain. Bearing witness. Protecting. Failing. Learning. Growing.
And always, behind him, light followed.
Not glory. Not praise.
Just hope.
David breathed deeply… and stepped through.
---
He awoke on the stone floor.
The monolith glowed with steady rhythm.
The Warden stood nearby, eyes closed, a faint smile on her lips.
"You chose the path of burden," she said.
"I didn't see another choice."
She nodded. "Then the Cradle accepts you."
David looked down.
On the back of his hand, a new mark had appeared — a circle made of thorns. No pain came from it. But the mana within his Well slowed.
Not weakened.
Refined.
---
He sat for hours, breathing, letting the new rhythm settle in.
His strength didn't rise faster now. It rose cleaner. Each moment of growth was more intentional, more tied to his clarity of self.
He no longer grew because he could.
He grew because he must.
Because the world would demand more than power.
It would demand sacrifice.
---
They left the Cradle in silence.
As they reached the surface, the wind had shifted.
Dark clouds swirled over the horizon.
And above them… a rift had opened in the sky.
From it, a voice rolled like thunder:
"You are seen, Wellborn."
David stared up, his hand on the hilt of his iron blade.
"I see you too."
---
At that moment, across the lands—
The Hollow moved openly for the first time in centuries.
A thousand Whispered — its shadowborn — marched from the old ruins of Velhura.
The kingdoms rallied.
The Seeress sent visions to her people.
The Ironmarked stood from their watchposts.
And far away, in the chapel ruins of Orinel, Leira looked to the sky and whispered:
"Walk forward, David."