The Hollow Vault
A Tale of False Gold and True Worth
The Chalice
Eddric the Golden kept his finest treasure buried deeper than all the others. Past the towers of sapphires, past the mounds of glistening trinkets and ancient blades, hidden behind a golden curtain in the deepest vault chamber, sat the chalice.
He had stolen it, of course. From a palace overgrown with thorn and fog, nestled atop Mount Ferros. A sorcerer’s place. The kind of ruin no sane man dared enter. But Eddric had walked its cracked marbled halls with nothing but a torch and an eye for glitter. And when he found the chalice — gold-veined, jewel-studded, humming with unseen power — he took it.
He told himself the sorcerer had abandoned it. Told himself it was no crime. Told himself a lot of things, really.
Since that day, he'd hunted treasure from the Forsaken Fens to the Wyrm-Split Coast. And every prize had found its way back to his vault.
To him, it was a fortress beneath the earth. Secure. Majestic. Worthy of a king.
The Theft
The thefts began on a moonless night.
A topaz ring gone. Then a velvet pouch of fire rubies. Then, worst of all, his mirror-of-the-moonstone, which he swore whispered secrets to him in his dreams.
Eddric flew into action. Reinforced the runes. Questioned the owl sentries. Posted warning sigils at the entrance.
But the losses continued.
He began sleeping in the vault, clutching his dagger, dreams fogged with thieves and whispers.
One night, he saw movement. Tiny figures, flitting shadows vanishing through a crack near the roots. He bolted after them, bare feet pounding the forest floor.
They led him through moon-dappled brush and into a hollow ring of stones.
What he found there nearly stopped his heart.
The Thieves’ Village
They had built with it.
His treasures.
Ladders of pearl necklaces. Fences strung with glinting rings. Roofs thatched in golden thread. Mossy huts wallpapered in flattened brooches.
Fairies.
Dozens of them. Laughing, flying, drinking nectar out of his prized thimbles. Children splashing in a fountain made of what he had believed was an enchanted basin of eternal youth.
He drew his dagger. "Thieves! Robbers! Return what is mine!"
A hush fell. One of the fairies, older than the rest and wearing a pinecone cap, drifted forward. "Yours? These things?"
"Stolen from my vault," Eddric hissed. "They are rare. Magical. Beyond value."
The fairy looked him over. "And yet, they built no joy. Not until we touched them."
"You dare mock me?"
"We dare help you," she said. "Come. There is one who can explain."
The Physician
They took him to a crooked hut built of woven grass and dandelion fluff. Inside sat an old man by the fire, robes patched with ivy, stirring something that smelled like cedar smoke and forgotten things.
Eddric froze. Something about the man felt... familiar.
"He is not well," said the pinecone-capped fairy.
The old man looked up, his eyes clear and sharp. "So. The chalice led you far indeed."
Eddric blinked. "You know of it?"
"You took it," the man said simply. "And it took you."
The wizard — for Eddric now saw him as such — stood and placed a hand on his shoulder. "If you would be free of the enchantment, you must return the thing that bound you."
"You want me to give it to you?"
"No trades. No tricks. A gift. Freely offered."
The Gift
Eddric returned to the vault.
Or rather, the place he still thought was a vault.
Down the twisting tunnel, past the crumbling columns. The glitter had dulled. The air smelled of mulch.
Only the chalice remained. Untouched. Untakeable.
He held it.
Memories surged—of pride, of grandeur, of a thousand imagined glories.
He walked the path back in silence.
The wizard took the chalice without a word. For a moment, the world hung still.
And then the spell shattered.
The Hollow Vault
His cloak dissolved into damp leaves.
The mighty vault? A hollow tree, barely standing.
The golden curtain? Spider silk.
And his treasures—sticks, shells, feathers, stones.
Eddric fell to his knees.
The fairies watched him. Not with scorn. With gentleness.
"Now," said the elder fairy, "let us show you what became of your gift."
True Worth
They took him back to their village.
But now, he saw it. Truly saw it.
The twig fences were clever. The mossy roofs cozy. The ladders strong, the stream dammed with brilliant bits of quartz and shell.
He wept.
Not from shame.
From awe.
From gratitude.
And when he asked if he could stay, the fairies only laughed.
"There is always work for a good gatherer."
And so Eddric the Golden remained. Not hoarding. Not guarding. Not deceived.
But gathering.
For others.
For joy.
For the first time, truly rich.
Fairy tales are special. Not enough people write them or are interested in them. Good work!
Great job with this! I enjoyed it.