Chapter 70

  The air was icy—almost too still. Each breath froze halfway down my throat as I kept my eyes on the guards atop the palisade. Maira knelt beside me, still tense between two small ice rocks, her fingers wrapped around the hilt of her dagger like she might strike at any moment. Her gaze was sharp—focused on the fortress, but also on me.

  "Why is he taking so long?" she finally whispered. Her voice was calm, but the impatience beneath it was unmistakable. "Did he betray us?"

  I shook my head. Not quickly, not irritated—just with steady conviction.

  "Arik has no reason to," I said quietly. "He said himself that he wanted to join us."

  Maira glanced at me from the corner of her eye. Then she raised one eyebrow—slowly, mockingly.

  "And? Did you say yes?"

  I hesitated. What was I supposed to say? That I was undecided? That I hadn’t turned him away, but hadn’t given a clear yes either?

  "I told him I'd decide once our mission is complete," I finally answered. Honest. No deflection.

  Maira nodded. Not disappointed, not surprised. Maybe even satisfied.

  Then she turned her eyes back to the wall. I followed her lead.

  But something made me pause. A slight pull in my gut—not physical, but instinctual. Something was off. Two guards still stood at the entrance, but the others—the three on the palisade—were gone. Simply vanished. No shift change. No patrol. Just... gone.

  I narrowed my eyes. Then I heard it.

  Footsteps. Soft, but not silent. Snow crunched under heavy boots—rhythmic, yet casual. As if someone wasn’t trying to sneak—because they thought they didn’t need to.

  I sensed something moving. Behind us. Not visible yet, but present—in the way the cold shifted. How the wind hesitated.

  They had surrounded us. And they thought we hadn’t noticed.

  I looked at Maira. She had seen it too. A brief nod—barely perceptible. I returned it.

  "Gravor?" I asked silently.

  "Ready," he answered at once, brimming with anticipation. I could almost feel his broad grin.

  A shimmer of dark power gathered in my limbs. My grip on the demonblade tightened. Maira raised her dagger, her movements fluid, silent. Then—at the exact same moment—we spun around, ready to strike.

  But before we could, a voice rang out through the snow. Loud, clear, almost triumphant.

  "We have your friend!"

  -

  "Your friends are being surrounded as we speak," the man said calmly, almost casually. Not arrogant, not triumphant. Just… knowing. As if he hadn’t just expected it, but had already seen it. As if the future to him was nothing more than a filed-away memory.

  He still stood there, by the bookshelf. Hands folded, eyes not on me, but fixed on some invisible point beyond my presence—like he was seeing straight through me to the scene outside the palisade.

  I slowly shook my head, letting the ash particles I had formed from drift gently around me like a veil. Now I stood before him—fully formed, physical, clear.

  "You have no idea what that… false paladin really is," I replied quietly.

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  There was no scorn in my voice, not even distrust. No sarcasm. Just a matter-of-fact observation.

  Maybe Luken really was a false paladin. Maybe not. But I knew—with every fiber of my being—that his power was real. Tremendous. Raw. Tainted by something dark, yes, but under control.

  Something had changed since the fight with the Icestomper. In him. In how I perceived him.

  I was impressed. Maybe even in awe. Not because of his strength or his relentlessness. But because of his choice—because of what he didn't do, despite the dark power within him.

  That thought made me remember how I had handed him command of Ice Mountain. Just like that. Fanatically, uncritically, in some childish hope for redemption. Thinking back on it now… I felt ashamed. Deeply ashamed.

  The man before me—whom I assumed to be the rebel leader, old and wise, with a voice that needed no volume—slowly unfolded his hands.

  "Perhaps," he said calmly, "but Luken will come before anyone dies."

  I frowned.

  "I doubt a single word will be spoken before he draws his sword."

  The man didn’t respond right away. His gaze remained fixed on that invisible line in the air, as if my words hadn’t surprised him in the slightest.

  Then… he smiled. Not kindly, not arrogantly. Just knowingly. That damn knowing look again, the one that was starting to drive me mad.

  Why was I still here? Why didn’t I just dissolve into ash, call upon wind and shadow, and go help them?

  I couldn’t say. I wanted to help, truly. And yet… I felt I was meant to stay. That I was needed. Here. Not out there with the guards. Here—in this room, with this man, who knew more than he let on.

  "No," he suddenly said. His voice cut through my thoughts like a soft blade.

  "That's why you're here."

  He turned. Slowly. Unhurried, he walked to the table in the corner of the room. There stood a simple carafe made of dark glass, beside it a single, slightly chipped clay cup.

  With measured movements, he poured himself some tea. Steam rose—herbal and faintly sweet. The scent reminded me of something… something distant. Maybe childhood.

  "So am I the prisoner now?" I asked. The words weren’t hostile. More ironic. Almost curious.

  The man took a sip. Looked at me again.

  "No," he said. His voice no firmer or softer than before. Just… honest.

  "No one here is a prisoner. Not even Vin."

  He sat down at the table—unhurried—and took another sip from his simple clay cup.

  Given the tension outside—armed guards, frayed nerves, a paladin ready to kill everyone here—it felt almost grotesque. Not ridiculous, that would’ve been the wrong word. But absurd.

  Like a man calmly sticking to his tea ritual the night before an earthquake.

  “We all merely play our part,” he said eventually, as if he were swallowing thoughts with the tea—thoughts that had long waited to be spoken.

  “Our part… in the fight against Reyn.”

  Something shifted in his face as he said the next part. Almost imperceptibly—a shadow, a flicker in the eyes, a tiny crack in the otherwise controlled fa?ade.

  Just for the blink of an eye.

  But with a man like him—someone whose very presence radiated calm and unshakable certainty—it was an earthquake.

  “In the coming war.”

  I didn’t know exactly what he meant.

  A war against Reyn? Against Thulegard? Against the Order itself?

  But his words echoed in me. Like cold air slipping through every pore.

  Something in me shivered. And yet I understood. Not everything. But enough.

  “I’m here,” I began—quietly, almost humbly, but with a flicker of pride—“hoping that Luken and Maira will come without killing anyone. That they’ll enter the camp, find Vin, who’ll tell them she was never taken by force. And that somehow… they’ll come to see Reyn for what he really is. Not the savior. But the enemy. And then, together… we’ll strike Thulegard.”

  I said it the way one inserts a key into an ancient lock. Hesitantly—but sure it fits, even if you don’t know what lies behind it.

  A part of me knew this wasn’t my plan. It was their plan. The plan of this man, of these rebels—maybe even Vin herself.

  But I understood it. And in that moment, that was enough.

  The man didn’t nod. He didn’t confirm anything. But he looked at me—in a way that was enough.

  “You’ve understood,” he said quietly.

  And still… I wasn’t finished.

  “What about Reyn’s Order?” I asked. My voice now carried an edge. Not harsh. Not loud. But sharp.

  “He brought peace. After centuries of hatred. After persecution, after war. He created… harmony. In Thulegard, all races live side by side. Even I…”

  I felt my hands clenching into fists.

  “Even I get to live in peace. Without fear. Without chains. I run an inn—in a city that would’ve once burned me alive. And all of it—because of him.”

  I knew how it sounded. Like a weak defense. Maybe even a last flicker of loyalty hiding in my tone.

  But I couldn’t help it. It was the truth. A truth I didn’t want to abandon—just because someone else offered me a different one.

  The man sighed. A soft, sorrowful sound. Not a rebuttal. Not a disagreement. Just an exhale—like from someone who had walked that path before.

  “Perhaps,” he said, simply.

  Then he stood. Not abruptly. Not threateningly. Just… with purpose.

  And before I could react—he was standing before me. I hadn’t felt him cross the room. No sound. No gust of air. No creaking floorboard. He was just there. He raised his hand. Slowly. Open.

  I wanted to step back. Dissolve. Vanish. Flee—or strike. But I didn’t. I stood still. Rooted.

  And his hand rested gently on my forehead. No pressure. No force. Just contact.

  And in that moment—I saw. I saw… the truth.