"Before me stood a towering maze—so vast its end was swallowed by the sky.
It loomed before me like a silent dare, urging me to step into the unknown, to begin a journey whose outcome I could not foresee. I could not move; fear rooted me to the ground. Yet the maze called out to me.
Not loudly—no, but like a soft, desperate whisper. A plea.
It begged me to embrace the path instead of fleeing from it.
But how could I heed the voice of something I did not understand?
So in my stubborn attempt to escape what lay before me, I turned away… only to find myself trapped inside.
I didn't know how I entered—only that the maze had swallowed me whole. Unlike Alaric, I had not been given a choice. I simply awoke on a path I did not choose, carrying burdens whose weight was never mine to bear.
I wandered endlessly, searching for a way out, though I had no understanding of the rules of this place.
Strange inscriptions covered the walls—etched in a language I did not know, yet somehow recognized. There was an eerie familiarity to them, as though I had seen them somewhere before.
Deep within me, a quiet truth stirred—something I could not explain, something I did not want to believe:
The inscriptions were made by me.
When? How?
That was a mystery I could not unravel."
"And how do you know it was inscribed by you?" Zyrelle asked.
"I… don't know," Edmund replied, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't even understand the language. But the moment I saw it, I was certain—I am certain—it was written by me. The only things I could truly make sense of were the drawings on the wall. I could be wrong, but… the drawings told the story of someone long gone."
"And do you know this story?" Rowenne asked, her voice low.
"Yes," Edmund said, almost whispering. "Somehow, I do. I only needed to see the first part to know the rest. It felt like memory… but not a memory I remember. More like—like I could predict what came next before it even appeared."
Rowenne exchanged worried glances with Zyrelle before leaning in.
"Edmund, tell us this story. It is possible we may have heard it before."
The tension in the room tightened, coiling quietly around them. Even Alaric, who had been silent until now, looked at Edmund with unblinking focus—waiting, listening, as though what Edmund was about to say might change everything.
"I don't think you've heard this story," Edmund began quietly. "The author was alone—at the brink of death—and terrified the world would remember the wrong version of his story. So he carved the truth into the walls, hoping someone… someday… would find it.
The story spoke of a long-awaited hero. A hero on a journey to find his way back home. He wrote about how his people would be waiting for him, how he dreamed of their reunion. He imagined a grand welcome—a hero's welcome. A large part of the wall was filled with those dreams.
The little space left was used for directions… I believe they were the paths he followed. I followed the same path myself, reading the story while trying to get out. The tunnels twisted and turned so much that, without those markings, I would have believed I'd been walking in circles—back to where I started.
I read his dreams so often I could vividly see them. But the walls also held his pain… his suffering… every step of the road he endured. And I felt it all. I felt every part of it, and it was almost unbearable. But the belief that there was a place waiting for him—that he wasn't forgotten—kept him going.
At his lowest moments, he carved a single phrase over and over again: 'successus vel defectum, errando discimus, cadendo crescimus.'"
Edmund fell silent.
The others stared at him quietly.
None of them knew what the words meant.
"And what does it mean?" Alaric asked.
"The meaning was hidden from me—almost intentionally," Rowenne replied. "Across different parts of the wall, the same phrase was etched again and again, yet not a single clue was given as to what it meant. I tried to uncover the meaning, truly I did. It felt… important, as though it carried weight. But I failed."
"What happened then?" Rowenne pressed gently. "Did he find his way? Did you find your way out of the maze?"
"He traveled the distance," Edmund said softly, "and he finally made it home. But what awaited him was no hero's welcome. He had been gone for so long that his people no longer remember him. They had no idea who stood before them."
He paused, the sadness in his voice deepening.
"It broke him. He was disappointed—not just because the welcome he dreamed of was gone, but because he had left for them in the first place. Everything he did was for his people, to save them, to help them. And now… they had forgotten he ever existed."
Edmund's gaze drifted downward.
"He gave his life, his time, even his very identity to his mission. But in that moment, he wasn't sure anymore if he had made the right choice. Yet—when he saw the bright smiles on the children's faces, the cheerful grins as they played… that felt like the appreciation he never received."
"Did he write this part of his story?" Draven asked.
"No," he answered quietly. "The inscription ended when he reached home. I had no idea about this part… not until now."
"Do you also know what happens next?"
"Yes." His gaze drifted, as though he were watching the memory unfold before his eyes. "The home he had long dreamt of—he left. He travelled to another land… a land he wasn't sure would welcome him. But when he arrived, he received the hero's welcome he had always yearned for. Everyone came out to greet him—young and old. They celebrated him as their savior."
He paused, his voice softening.
"You see, no one ever wanted to find themselves in this land. It was considered a failure. And he knew it. But what lay before him was no failure. They prepared a feast in his honor, and they made fireworks light up the sky. All his life, he believed he was searching for a home that did not know him. But now he realized… this was the place he had been searching for all along."
His voice trembled, not with sorrow, but with awe.
"He understood then that this was the home he had been promised from the beginning. Yet he still wondered why fate had led him to the land called failure. He questioned himself—had he failed? But he knew one thing with absolute certainty."
He smiled faintly.
"He was not a failure. Something burned within him, a flame he had never felt so strongly before."
His eyes gleamed as he spoke the final line.
"He looked around him—at the joy, the warmth, the welcome—and he was happy. And in that moment… he made a promise to himself."
Edmund paused for a moment, and something shifted within him. A quiet light rose behind his eyes, and before he even spoke, his entire presence changed—his face firm, his tone deeper, nobler, as though something ancient had awakened in him.
"This may not have been the home I wanted," he began, "but it is the home I needed. And so, let the heavens bear me witness. Let the sun that shines above bear witness to this day and every day that follows.
This is the promise I make—to this land, and to myself.
This land, long mocked as a failure, shall be so no more.
This land shall be known for abundance.
Once looked down upon, they shall lift their eyes to behold your rise.
I will rewrite your history.
And all who know you shall bear witness to your success before their days are ended.
Your enemies shall tremble at the mention of your name, and never again shall any nation upon this earth look down upon you.
Where you once failed, you shall now succeed.
This land will become a kingdom—and then a nation—and we shall ascend to realms others dare not even dream of.
This is my vow to you. I give my life to this cause.
I will spend the rest of my days fighting for it.
And I shall either see it fulfilled…
or die trying."
"This is all I know of his story… but mine continued from there," he said quietly. "I walked different paths—endless, shifting, unfamiliar—and somehow found myself standing before a throne. It looked ancient, older than memory itself… yet it also seemed newly carved, as if no time had touched it at all."
He paused, recalling the sight.
"Above it, I saw the same inscription again: successus vel defectum, errando discimus, cadendo crescimus. And this time… it felt alive. As though the words themselves were watching me, calling to me."
His breath shivered.
"It beckoned me to ascend the throne."