A bell tolled once in the distance.
Its peal was soft, almost shy — not the resounding clang of war or alarm, but rolled gently across hills and rooftops, announcing a new hour to those who didn't care much for counting them.
Resting among gently climbing and declining hills of green, the castle rose.
It wasn't built so much as grown, some had once said. A structure of marble white, wide and tall, standing not on flattened land but along an outcropping that coiled above the countryside like the spine of a sleeping beast.
From afar, the fortress seemed impossibly serene — towers kissed the sky, crowned with gently sloping roofs, and endless white flags waving in the warm breeze. The walls weren't squat and brutal like most castles, but elegant, etched with veins of silver and pale gold that caught the morning sun and scattered it down over the nearby villages like glitter.
The trees surrounding it rustled, not ancient oaks or scattered timber, these were slim, tall, white-barked trees, their leaves a muted green housing faint traces of blue. Each tree bowed slightly toward the castle.
Birds chirped, a herd of deer wandered just beyond the outer ramparts, unbothered by the distant sound of metal boots pacing the inner courtyard.
It was a holy place.
The courtyard itself was massive — not paved with stone, but covered in brilliant grass the color of winter clover. Sunlight pooled in the center where a sculpted basin of water glimmered. People moved through the space — dozens, maybe hundreds, all clad in shades of white.
The armored ones were impossible to miss.
Polished plate, clean and pure, not dulled by dirt or rust. Their helmets glinted in the sun and were all shaped nearly the same, a smooth, seamless oval front with no eye slits, as if sight came not through their face but through something else entirely.
The cloaks draped across their shoulders flowed nearly to the ground, and each bore the same symbol on their chest: two hands cupping a single radiant star.
And yet, among them, were many others, people in robes, tunics, white dresses and pale belts, many carrying papers or trays or armfuls of woven cloth.
Pages, clerics, aides. Every face, when visible, seemed warm. Greetings were exchanged with hands raised, backs lightly patted, names spoken with fondness.
It was hard to imagine this castle had ever seen battle.
Somewhere at the far edge of the courtyard, where the sunlight was cut at a sharper angle by the taller of the twin towers, two figures passed beneath an archway.
One of them walked slowly, not a hint of hurry in their steps.
The other danced circles around them like a leaf caught in a gentle wind.
She was small — a girl no older than ten, wrapped in a long white smock that trailed behind her like a cloak of her own.
Her hair was the color of honey, pulled into a thick braid that bounced with every excited step.
"They all smiled at us again!" she chirped, walking backward to face the taller figure as they strolled. "Did you see? I told you! They always do!"
The figure beside her stared and simply said: "You are the Saint, after all."
The knight was tall, but not towering. Their armor bore the same pure white gloss as the rest, but the shoulder plates were marked subtly, a faint indent in the shape of a downward-pointing triangle.
Their helmet remained on, smooth and featureless, and yet those who looked upon it never mistook them for anyone else.
The Warden.
Every step they took was perfect, as if considered and approved-of beforehand. Their cloak swayed behind them, disturbed not by wind but by motion, and even the birds atop the archways seemed to quiet in their presence.
The girl ran a few steps ahead, then pivoted to walk at their side again, humming some nonsense tune before asking with a grin, "Are we going to the High Terrace again, Warden?"
The Warden paused, then answered, voice a low and level tone, "You are. Not I."
The girl stopped.
Her brow furrowed.
"But… you always come with me."
The Warden's head inclined slightly, almost imperceptibly.
"Today, the Chief Warden will accompany you."
"Ugh." She crossed her arms, dragging her feet. "She's scary."
"She is not."
"She is!" the girl insisted, skipping back into step with a huff. "She's quiet and always just stares at me. She doesn't say anything extra, ever! You're quiet too, but at least you try."
The Warden gave no response to that.
"She's not like you," the girl added almost to herself. "It feels like she's always thinking about something far away. Never here with me."
She glanced up, expecting a rebuttal, maybe even a soft scolding.
Instead, the Warden simply said, "Give her a chance."
The girl pouted.
They turned the next corridor and began ascending the wide marble stairwell, steps so broad even three adults could walk shoulder to shoulder without brushing arms. Every step echoed their steps, soft clicks from the girl's sandals, dull thuds from the Warden's armored greaves.
The light here came through tall arched windows, the panes laced with threads of gold that shimmered as the sun shifted behind clouds.
At the top of the stairs, two figures waited.
One of them stood perfectly still, hands folded behind her back.
Her armor was different, still white, but with edges sharpened like blades and a helm that jutted upward with a single horn-like prong from the center of the brow. A Y-shaped opening in her helmet revealed two eyes — elegant, cutting green with a hint of copper beneath.
From behind her helmet flowed a long, red plume like a trail of spilled silk.
Beside her stood a shorter, broad man with a small leather pouch tucked under his arm. His hair was a pale gray, though not from age, and his face bore the creases of a man who smiled easily.
The Chief Warden did not move as the pair approached.
The young girl instinctively stepped closer to the Warden's side, her voice now a whisper. "She's already looking at me…"
The Warden made no reply.
Instead, they approached with the same calm pace as before, stopped a few steps short of the waiting two, and inclined their head.
"Chief," they greeted.
The Chief Warden inclined her head back, but not in return — in acknowledgment. Her eyes moved to the girl, staring a moment too long, unreadable behind her exposed pupils.
"And our little Saint," the shorter man beside her said warmly, smiling wide. "It's good to see you in the daylight again. What trouble are you dragging the Warden through this time?"
The girl blinked, then grinned. "No trouble! We were just walking! Besides, the Warden never gets in trouble. Everyone else just messes things up around them."
The man chuckled. "That does sound like them."
The girl stood a little straighter, but then her smile faltered. Her gaze returned to the Chief Warden.
She wasn't glaring. Not frowning. Not smiling either. Simply still like a statue.
'She's not even blinking...'
The Chief Warden turned away, walking toward the open doors that led to the upper terrace.
"Come," she said without turning.
The girl hesitated.
The Warden lowered their head slightly toward her.
She looked up.
'I hate this.'
But she followed.
They ascended the final few steps and stepped into the High Terrace.
White stone gave way to soft moss. The sky opened above them, and the castle walls fell away to a wide expanse of distant hills, rivers threading through the land like veins.
The terrace was lined with trees — the same pale-barked trees that bowed inward — their trunks spiraling as though shaped by wind.
The Chief Warden stopped in the middle, her back still to the girl, hands still folded behind her.
"Shall we begin?"