Within the mead halls of the once-grand castle, Faelan caught rainwater from leaking roofs in ceremonial vessels that, many years ago, had held Mazerholme’s renowned mead; a golden drink so distinct that travellers crossed all of Silvani just to taste it. Those glory days were over. Mazerholme now stood abandoned amid silent orchards and fields of tall, yellowed grass. Its bones were warmed by sunsets, forgotten and left cracked and rotting. His inheritance had been squandered by a father consumed by greed.

Faelan, the young knight, wandered the corridors where great brewing vats had stood. Pale rectangles adorned the walls where family portraits once hung, sold and gone. His father’s ledger gathered dust on the high table, its pages bursting with debts. His dark amber gaze traced over an old tapestry, a bustling harvest celebration gracing its fading threads.

As nature reclaimed the barren halls, wild bees found their nests in the corners of the castle’s crumbling skeleton. Their constant buzz was the only melody that still haunted the halls. He found them stubbornly building combs in the most unlikely places. In alcoves. In the ruined towers. Beneath the stairs. In the vaulted corners of honey-coloured windows coated in layers of dust. As though they were waiting for something to return. But for what? Even Faelan wondered.

Moments later, a mud-spattered herald bearing the royal emblem entered his halls, tasked with spreading the king’s proclamation across Silvani to any knight brave or clever enough to seek out and find what the king had been searching for. Faelan welcomed him in despite the sceptical look on the messenger’s face. The herald scanned the main hall and, judging by Faelan’s shabby clothes, initially mistook him for a servant. Embarrassment flared hotly in Faelan’s chest as he identified himself as the knight of Mazerholme.

“By command of His Majesty, the King of Silvani…” the herald began with a doubtful look. “Let it be known throughout every province, township, estate and holding of the Crown that His Majesty seeks the retrieval of an ancient treasure…”

The young knight squashed the urge to send the messenger away. Two desires warred in his chest. He longed for adventure, but he needed proper gold to restore his family’s legacy; a legacy that tied him to his father’s failures.

The herald went on, “…known as the Dragon Emblem of the Storymaker.”

Mazerholme’s halls fell quiet all at once. The bees fell utterly silent at the mention of the Storymaker’s name. The abrupt stillness sent a shiver up Faelan’s spine. Even the herald noticed it.

The messenger paused, glancing around before continuing. “…Any loyal subject who discovers and delivers it, whole and unharmed, shall receive a reward of ten thousand gold coins, lands granted under royal protection, and a title befitting the service rendered to the Crown and realm.”

Faelan’s attention was captured. His amber gaze locked onto the message in the herald’s hands.

“…The true emblem bears the likeness of a dragon curled about a six-pointed flame, its wings bound by a shattered circlet, with the words ‘What is remembered cannot perish’ inscribed in Elvish beneath it.”

Having delivered the proclamation, the herald bowed, leaving Faelan with the echo of his parting words, “Seek the Dragon. Serve the Crown. Claim your fortune.”

The young knight was left with the buzzing of possibility. The sum of gold and the promise of a title ignited a new hope in his heart. But it was the hushing of the bees that stirred his wonder. What had caused them to still? The legend of the Storymaker’s magic emblem ensnared him, its visage carved into his mind’s eye. He had seen a similar crest. His dark gaze was drawn to the tarnished goblet.

A dragon’s curled form etched into once-polished bronze.

Had his family known of such a treasure? The melody of the bees resumed, but differently now: concentrated, as though they had all relocated into one of the deeper halls. He followed the sound, coming to a crumbling cellar. Thousands of tiny, striped, straw-coloured bodies gathered around a forgotten doorway. One leading to an old storage room that had held a stock of Mazerholme’s finest. Its shelves had long been emptied in the final breaths of the castle’s glory days.

Curiosity tugged him through the iron doors, though he remained wary of the bees congregating around their worn edges. Oddly, they cleared the way as though ushering him deeper. Among the wreckage within, only a single bottle remained intact on a high shelf. Beneath it sat old brewing equipment, vines tangled around it and growing from a nearby nook between the castle’s crumbling mortar.

His fingers coiled around the bottle’s neck. An old memory of his mother’s final harvest swept through him, bringing a fond smile to his lips. It was a precious relic from golden days spent under the heavy boughs of the fragrant orchards. From the corner of his eye, he spotted an old brewing barrel. Its lid marked with his family’s crest. The smell of warm honey and the distant sharpness of apples clung to its wood.

Now the vessel lay empty, but the echo of an old family tradition played in his head. His grandfather always poured a few drops of the final bottle of each batch onto the lids of the newer ones. A blessing for the harvests yet to come. With a soft, breathy chuckle and a heavy heart, he broke the wax seal and took a small sip. The rounded sweetness and warmth nearly brought a tear to his eye. Then, following tradition, he poured a few drops onto the lid of the barrel. The amber mead settled into the scorched grooves, glowing and swirling into once-faded words, revealing their meaning.

“No treasure begins with gold. It begins with what gold remembers.”

The words were reminiscent of the phrase etched into the Storymaker’s emblem. Before the glowing light faded, the young knight caught glimpses within it of a far-off woodland. A split white oak and an old stone arch surrounded by elderflowers. He recognised these woods. It was a message left behind—a direction to follow.

His heart thundered in his chest. The journey called to him. Unable to surrender the final taste of Mazerholme’s glory, he gathered the last of the mead into a flask, took his father’s worn sword, and headed east in search of the split white oak and the stone arch surrounded by elderflowers.

Behind him, the abandoned hives began to hum.