“In the silence of sheltering stone, a shadow settles, a whisper echoes… and darkness grows.”

  Days after the Gala Night, the fortress hummed with preparations for the Blades — a duel between Huntsmen. I still didn’t know much about it. The Blades were said to be held somewhere high, an arena cloaked in mystery, the truth deliberately veiled.

  I sat alone in the dining hall, the empty echoes pressing in around me as light crept through the high windows. Plates clinked quietly in the background. Servants whispered.

  A heavy step broke the silence.

  Beltrom appeared, more worn than I’d ever seen — dark circles beneath bloodshot eyes, a rough beard unkempt, the scent of alcohol heavy on him. His royal cloak was missing, and his shirt was wrinkled, half-tucked. He looked less like a king and more like a man who hadn’t slept in days.

  “Vincent,” he muttered, voice low and frayed. “Why awake so early? You should be resting.”

  “Is it unusual?” I asked, watching him carefully.

  He gave a short laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “A man eating alone at dawn. Uncommon.”

  I didn’t respond. Something in his tone — a heaviness — lingered. So I asked what had been quietly building in my mind.

  “What do they mean by the Blades?”

  His face changed.

  “The Blades,” he said slowly, “is a duel between Huntsmen — a trial to prove they have what it takes to protect the Royals of the Hunt.”

  “And if I lose?” I asked, my voice quieter than I intended.

  “It’s not about winning or losing, Vincent,” he said with a sigh. “It’s about whether you trust yourself enough to step into that fight at all.”

  I stayed quiet for a moment, then found myself asking, “And you? Do you trust me?”

  His head turned slightly, his voice dropping. “To tell you the truth, the Royals are already questioning every bit of my decision to allow my niece into the Hunt — and even more, the fact that her Huntsman is a stranger to the kingdom.”

  The weight in my chest deepened.

  Then, without warning, his thundering laugh cut through my thoughts.

  “Don’t worry, Vincent!” He clapped a heavy hand onto my shoulder. “I already told them to shove it.”

  He smirked, then his tone sharpened. “Ivy trusts you. And I trust she made the right call.”

  He turned, taking a few steps toward the exit. “After all, someone once told me there’s a power in you, waiting to be found. If ‘he’ believes in you… then maybe you’re truly worth the shot.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  He only chuckled. “You’ll meet him soon enough.”

  And with that, he left — a ghost of a laugh trailing behind him, swallowed by the hall’s emptiness.

  Disappointed and still trembling from my conversation with Beltrom, I decided to walk—just within the safety of the castle walls. The corridors of Ironhill were quiet, lit by flickering sconces and bathed in the soft hush of early morning.

  I told myself I was just exploring, but every turn, every step felt heavier. The Blades. A ceremonial trial, they’d called it — but I’d seen enough in people’s eyes today to know it meant more. I didn’t even know who I was days ago, and now I was walking toward a place where history judged people like a blade at the throat. I kept wondering if I’d measure up… or if I’d simply be another person who falls victim to the weight of his failure.

  Fort Ironhill was unlike any place I had seen or imagined. It rested at the foot of a massive mountain, its northern face pressed directly into the stone, as if the keep itself had grown out of the cliff. From above, the fortress might’ve looked like a crown cast in stone — a wide circle of walls and towers guarding the last southern reach of the Four Houses of East.

  A great circular wall, thirty feet tall, enclosed the entire fort. It curved outward in every direction, interrupted only by the main gate to the south — a massive portcullis framed by statues of kings and creatures whose names had long since faded.

  The castle stood nestled against the mountain’s base, and from its heart rose three towers, each one slender and steep, each claiming a corner of the sky.

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  The northern tower was Ivy’s. It pierced the mountain’s shadow, half veiled in mist even in midday. No one else entered it. From the courtyard, I could sometimes see her standing near its highest window — still, unreadable, framed in pale light. That tower was hers entirely. Cold. Quiet. Watching.

  To the west, the armory loomed darker than the rest. That was where the royalty trained — where sword met sword, where sweat stained stone. I’d passed it once, heard the clang of metal on metal echoing from within. It sounded less like training and more like something trying to escape.

  And to the east… the Royal Garden.

  A quiet place.

  One that held more memories than I could count.

  Lost in thought, I wandered the unfamiliar halls of the west wing of the castle. The corridors here carried the same tall, window-lit arches as the east wing, the same shafts of pale light spilling across the flagstones, and the same majestic view of the stretching garden.

  The Blades — “to prove one’s honor in a showcase of skill” — skills I do not have. And if I ever did, they’re buried somewhere in the hollow of my missing memory. I don’t know how I’m supposed to survive that test, let alone protect Ivy if the time comes.

  Almost without noticing, I found myself beneath the archway of the Western Tower.

  The clang of blades had faded. Morning drills must’ve ended, leaving the air thick with the scent of oil, sweat, and steel. The armory tower rose ahead — darker than the rest, its edges worn smooth from years of use. At its base, the doors stood open, revealing a glimpse of shadows and racks of weapons inside.

  I stepped through.

  Inside, the space was vast and dim. Spears lined the far wall. Blades of every shape sat sheathed in iron grooves. The air carried the weight of discipline, of repetition — a silence more commanding than noise.

  A soft rustle of fabric pulled my attention.

  I turned.

  Ivy stood just beyond the threshold, wearing a set of light leather armor, close-fitted and supple enough to move with her body. The pale stitching ran in clean, deliberate lines, built for speed over brute force.

  “It seems you’ve found yourself in the training grounds,” she said, her voice carrying that faint lilt between curiosity and challenge. “Thinking of trying out your skills?”

  “Kind of,” I admitted. “Though I’m not sure I have those skills to begin with.”

  “Perhaps,” she replied, stepping toward a nearby rack where a pair of wooden short swords rested. “Your hands might remember what your mind cannot.”

  She tossed one lightly toward me. I fumbled, the hilt smacking against my palm before my fingers closed around it.

  The moment my grip settled, she moved.

  A blur of motion — stance low, steps silent. The narrow blade streaked toward my abdomen in a thrust as precise as it was quick.

  I barely brought my sword up in time. Wood cracked against wood with a sharp, jolting sting that shot up my arm. My balance wavered.

  She shifted, the twist of her wrist sending a jolt through the lock of our blades, and the weapon ripped from my grasp entirely. It clattered across the armory floor, the sound bouncing through the rafters until it came to rest against the far wall.

  I felt it then — the shift in her presence. The gentle, measured composure of a princess falling away, replaced by the precision and intent of a trained warrior.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured, crossing the room toward my fallen weapon. “I’m just… worked up about the Hunt.”

  I stayed quiet as she returned and offered it back to me.

  “Where did you learn to fight like that?” I asked.

  She turned away slightly. “My father taught me,” she said, voice quieter now. “Unlike the others, he believed I wasn’t just meant to be a princess.”

  “I am sorry to ask but...what really happened?” I asked quietly.

  She didn’t turn. “He led an expedition to find the cause of the Cold a few years ago.” Her voice slowed, the edge softening into something heavy.

  I gripped the wooden hilt loosely, the grain rough under my fingers, the realisation of what she meant about the cost of one's duty.

  Silence pooled between us, the kind that makes you feel the weight of words unspoken.

  When she faced me again, her expression was caught between grief and resolve. “That’s all in the past now. To honor his memory, I have to grow stronger.”

  I tried to lighten the air. “You know, maybe blades just aren’t my thing. I should try my luck somewhere else.”

  Her eyes narrowed with faint amusement. “A bow, maybe? Or a spear?”

  I instinctively waved my hand to decline, but the motion stalled as an idea surfaced, “perhaps… you could show me the way to this Arena they’ve all been talking about.”

  She paused, perhaps giving it a thought. With a gentle smile, she nodded, “I could.”

  I hesitated. “Then will you take me there?”

  For a long breath, she studied me — weighing something. Then she stepped closer.

  “The trail begins behind the throne room,” she said. “We go from there.”

  We didn’t speak as we walked down the staircase of the tower. The stones beneath us trying to whisper their own stories as our steps echoed. I was consumed by my own thoughts, trying my best to understand the gravity of Ivy’s responsibilities and just now realizing the weight of the loss she’s been carrying as well.

  We entered through large doors of the throne hall. As a gentle breeze rode before us—banners held by the towering columns danced to its beat.

  It was empty — almost.

  Light spilled in through the stained-glass windows, fractured into reds and golds across the polished floor. The high ceiling echoed the faintest breath. At the far end, the throne stood quiet, carved into the mountain itself. Behind it, the wall of stone marked the point where the keep ended and the climb began.

  But it wasn’t the throne that held my attention.

  A man stood near the base of the stairs, his hands behind his back, gaze tilted upward — not toward the throne, but the steps leading to it. He didn’t turn as we entered, though I knew he’d heard us.

  His hair was streaked with silver, cropped close, and his posture spoke more of study than command. He wore a long robe — dark silk that fell to his ankles, the hem stitched in a fine gray seam that shimmered when the light struck it. Rectangular spectacles rested on the bridge of his nose, glinting faintly, giving him the look of a scholar or old magistrate — someone who measured words like weights.

  He didn’t move at first.

  Then, with the slow precision of someone not in any rush to impress, he turned.

  His eyes, framed by the polished edges of his lenses, found mine. For a moment, he looked every bit the solemn figure I’d imagined — unreadable, stern.

  But then he smiled.

  A soft, unhurried thing. The kind that made the cold in the room ease, just slightly.

  “It’s good to finally meet you, Vincent,” he said, voice smooth, unbothered. Almost amused — like the moment had arrived exactly as it should.