31

  Outside the northwest gate of Aurum, wind brushed across an open plain, cold and biting. On a low ridge overlooking the road, a man in a dark red and black cloak watched without being seen. He stood utterly still—no breath, no presence, as though he were only a stain in the air. His eyes tracked two figures below: a white horse bearing Prince William and a dark brown stallion bearing Marco. He observed, silent, calculating, and unseen—like a shadow with intention.

  Prince William’s posture was rigid, but not from the cold. His jaw was set, eyes focused forward, chest heavy with everything he could not say. Marco rode slightly behind him, worry evident on his face.

  “You’re certain about this?” Marco asked, the hooves of their horses clopping rhythmically over the frost-laced earth.

  William didn’t answer immediately. His fingers tightened around the reins.

  “Ever since that night,” he finally said, voice low, “I have felt… useless. My sister suffers, and I cannot even stand by her door. I am not needed in the court. I am not trusted. So I must find strength elsewhere.”

  Marco looked down, unable to respond.

  “The Redwind Bastion calls to me,” William continued. “Since childhood, I’ve dreamed of it—the valley where swords whisper to those who would wield them. If I cannot change what has happened… then I can at least become someone who will prevent it from happening again.”

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Marco exhaled, frustrated and sad all at once. Still, he nodded. “Then I will come with you.”

  William gave a faint smile of relief—not gratitude, but companionship understood.

  The shadowed man on the ridge learned forward slightly, interest flickering like quiet embers.

  The journey was relentless. The two young men traveled across the rocky passes of Mt. Bitan, where the air was thin and sharp, and through the cedar-clad slopes of Mt. Shobik. They spoke little—words felt small compared to the silence inside their chests.

  On the third day, the land began to change. The mountains opened into an enormous wasteland of stone—not dead, but humming with something ancient. Blades—thousands, tens of thousands—were embedded in the earth, jutting like metallic reeds in a frozen field. Swords of every kind: rusted, pristine, broken, gleaming. Some large as men, some small as knives. They stretched farther than the eye could see.

  The Redwind Bastion.

  The air itself vibrated faintly, like a distant chorus of metal singing.

  Marco swallowed. “How does anyone find the right one in this?”

  William dismounted, eyes unfocused, as though listening to something far away.

  “You don’t search,” he murmured. “You answer.”

  Wind picked up between the forest of blades. Some swords rattled. Others glowed faintly. A few hummed low, rich notes like voices calling.

  William walked forward, leaving footprints in dust that had not been disturbed in decades. The swords resonated. Some sang. Some screamed. Some remained silent.

  Marco followed, unease twisting in his gut.

  On the ridge, the man in the red-black cloak smiled beneath his hood.

  He too knew this place.

  The place where destinies were chosen.

  Where the swords did not choose the righteous.

  But the ones who had cause.