The road to Aeltharion was a winding ribbon of ancient stone, flanked by whispering pines that stretched toward a sky the color of bruised plums. Caelen walked with an easy, ground-eating stride, his gaze fixed on the distant, shimmering spires of Aeltharion. Fileyele, however, seemed less preoccupied with their destination and more with the journey's puzzling necessity.
"Again," she prodded, her voice a low, melodic hum that carried easily in the quiet air. "Why do we need their help? We've managed well enough on our own. You're the troublesome human, and I..." She gestured vaguely, as if to encompass her own considerable abilities. Caelen sighed, the sound a soft gust against the chilly morning. "Because, Fileyele, there are some things even a helpless human such as I and a witch can't simply 'manage.' Your... markings." He gestured to her exposed forearms, where intricate, swirling tattoos peeked from beneath the loose sleeves of her travel cloak, hinting at more elaborate patterns on her neck and legs. "They aren't just pretty designs, are they? They scream 'witch' to anyone who knows what they're looking at. Even if you covered them completely—which is a feat in itself—curiosity is a potent force. And let's be blunt, your beauty, that otherworldly grace that seems to hum with latent power, it attracts all the wrong sorts. Witches aren't just beautiful by human standards, are they? It's like mana itself weaves through your very essence."
Fileyele hummed, a note of amused agreement. "A hazard of the craft, I suppose."
"Precisely. And Aeltharion is no mere village. It's a kingdom of laws, and prejudices. Better to seek their aid than to invite suspicion."
As they neared Aeltharion's formidable outer walls, the air thickened with the scent of woodsmoke and damp earth. Towering gates of wrought iron and polished darkwood loomed before them, flanked by stone bastions manned by vigilant guards. Before the first challenge could be issued, Fileyele's fingers twitched, and a subtle shimmer passed over their forms. The plain, functional cloaks they wore now seemed to deepen in color, their faces shadowed by the illusion of deep-set hoods. A low thrum of protective magic settled around them, a whisper of a disguise.
A burly guard, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, stepped forward. "State your business, travelers. And drop your hoods." Caelen held up a hand, subtly signaling Fileyele to keep hers precisely where it was. With a practiced motion, he pulled back his own, revealing his face to the light. The guard's eyes, previously narrowed in suspicion, widened comically. His jaw went slack, and he stumbled backward. Surprise flickered across Caelen's features. "What in the..." he began, but more guards rushed forward, eyes locked onto his face. They stared, not with recognition, but with shock bordering on horror, as if gazing upon a specter.
"What's wrong?" Caelen asked, genuinely bewildered. One of the guards, a younger man with a face pale as alabaster, pointed a trembling finger. "Hands up! Imposter!" "Imposter?" Caelen spluttered. "It's me! Caelen, the Knight-Hero! What is this nonsense?" Before he could finish, spears were drawn, polished tips glinting. "Woah, woah, calm down," Caelen urged, his hands rising. "Let's not escalate this." A grizzled veteran squinted past Caelen to Fileyele. "And you, girl! Show your face!" Tension thickened the air. "Now! Or we'll assume the worst!"
Caelen jumped in, "She's my sister! Sensitive to light." Another guard snorted. "If you truly were the Knight-Hero, you'd be lying. He never had a sister. The guy was four hundred years old! He's a legend!" Caelen winced. "Right, yes, well—distant relative! Separated at birth!" "He was the only survivor of the Aurelwyn massacre. No mention of family." "She was in another village! A visit! She missed the whole ordeal."
Fileyele's voice, curious and sharp, slipped beneath her hood. "How are you still alive after four hundred years? Are you even human?!" Caelen snapped toward her. "Thank you, dear sister," he said through clenched teeth. "But as I've always told you, I don't age." "And she doesn't know that?" a guard pressed. "We've been apart for long! She has... memory problems! Born with them. Short-term amnesia!" From her hood, Fileyele's eyebrow lifted. "If all that you say is true, how is she still alive after so many years?" "Because," Caelen declared, lunging for something new, "she has another rare disease. Prevents aging!"
Fileyele opened her mouth to protest, but Caelen clamped a gentle hand over it. The knights exchanged skeptical glances. Then, unexpectedly, they nodded. "It is permissible for you to enter," one of them said. "But you must speak to the Queen." The gates opened with a resounding thud, and the two were led into the heart of the kingdom. As they passed through the city, murmurs followed them. Eyes widened, some filled with awe, others recoiling in fear. Caelen waved, hopeful but no one waved back. They reached the castle gates—larger, grander. Two new guards took charge, leading them through a golden arch into a vast garden. Fileyele gasped, then quickly masked it. But not before Caelen had a glimpse at it.
"Remember," she whispered, sharp and low, "if I die, you die." Caelen nodded once. "Nothing is going to happen." But even he felt the knot of dread curling beneath his ribs. The throne room opened like a cavern of silk and stone. The Queen sat distant on her dais. Fileyele stiffened. "Caelen... is she truly human? Her beauty rivals that of a witch." "Don't say that aloud," Caelen muttered.
He bowed in the queen's majesty. Fileyele didn't. The Queen's gaze locked on her. Caelen grabbed her arm, pulling her into a bow. She hissed mana crackling at her her fingertips. "Later," Caelen whispered. "Not here nor now." "I'm not bowing to her," Fileyele snarled. "I'm only kneeling to keep you alive." The Queen's voice cut through. "Should I be worried?" "No, my Queen." "Then why the whispers?". "If I may..." Caelen asked. "You may." The queen permitted. "Why does everyone look at me like I'm a ghost? Even the guards... they were terrified."
Silence.
"Who are you?" Caelen looked up. "I dont understand my queen it's me, Caelen." "No," she said coldly. "We buried Caelen. And half our army. He is dead." The words struck like stones. "Where were you when we needed you?" she continued. "We died while waiting."
"I was gone for four hours."Caelen claimed. She laughed—a bitter, tired sound. "You were gone for days. We searched for you in every corner. Its like you vanished." Caelen looked to Fileyele. Her eyes quickly and evasively darted to the corners. "What good is a hero who is never there when it matters?" She uttered. "Hero?" Fileyele whispered, stunned.
"Krannoch nearly wiped us out. He only retreated because he lost too many men. And because—" The throne room doors swung open. The Princess entered. Caelia. Radiant, composed—her presence soothed like balm to open wounds. "Good evening, Mother. Caelen. Everyone." And suddenly, the room felt like it was holding its breath.
Far to the west, shadows stirred at sunset. A rift yawned wide, spilling green light and cold air. From it stepped four cloaked figures, Rose, Leira, Nivah and Syrae, the Crown's elite. They didn't speak at first. They vanished into the dusk like smoke. Syrae's dry voice marked their movement. "Lights to the east. Fires to the south."
"Just humans, squabbling again," Leira scoffed.
"Quiet!" Rose snapped at Leira. "If trees had ears, they'd best learn silence," Leira shot back.
Nivah landed beside them. "If we can't work together, we will fail the mission."
"Then we find them," Rose said. "And end them."
Leira grinned. "Finally." "Must we end her to?" Syrae asked. "Yes," Nivah said simply. "Both." "No more arguing," Rose said. "East we go."
In the eastern palace, Thallen woke. He washed his face, met his reflection, and spoke without turning, "Enter."
A soldier appeared. "Prepare the royal guard." "For whom, sire?" Thallen only smiled. "Guests," he said. And behind his eyes, something stirred—a knowledge heavy with consequence, as though he had seen this all before. And knew how it might end.