The citadel did not sleep.
Even in ruin, its towers seemed alive, watching the clearing below with hollow eyes. Smoke drifted from cracks in the stone, curling upward like breath. The men whispered about curses, about ghosts, about the girl who had fled here. Kael listened, but he did not join them.
He had learned long ago that fear spoke louder than truth.
The morning was cold. Frost clung to the edges of the campfire, melting into ash. Horses stamped nervously, their breath steaming in the air. The men moved slowly, their armor stiff, their eyes darting toward the citadel as though expecting it to move.
Kael rose early, as always. He strapped on his armor, checked the edge of his sword, and walked to the edge of the clearing. The citadel loomed above him, jagged against the pale sky.
It was not just stone. It was memory.
He remembered standing in halls like these, years ago, when the kingdom was whole. He remembered banners hanging from towers, voices echoing through corridors, the smell of bread and smoke from kitchens.
Now there was only silence.
The men argued about whether to advance. Some wanted to wait for reinforcements. Others wanted to burn the ruins and be done with it. Kael said nothing.
He knew the king's orders. He knew what was expected. But he also knew the weight of silence.
The citadel was not empty. He could feel it.
Not in sight, not in sound, but in the way the air pressed against his chest, heavy and insistent.
Something waited inside.
Kael walked the perimeter of the camp, his boots crunching against frost and ash. He studied the land — the broken walls, the jagged stones, the faint trails leading toward the citadel's gates.
He saw no footprints. No signs of life.
And yet, he felt watched.
The sensation was familiar. He had felt it on battlefields, in forests, in villages before the fire came. It was the weight of eyes unseen, the promise of danger.
Kael did not fear it. He respected it.
The men grew restless. One of them, a young knight with a scar across his cheek, approached Kael.
"Do you believe the stories?" the knight asked.
Kael looked at him. "Which stories?"
The knight hesitated. "About the girl. About her magic. About the crown."
Kael's gaze returned to the citadel. "I believe in fire. I believe in steel. I believe in fear. The rest is words."
The knight frowned, but said nothing more.
As the day wore on, the men prepared to move. They tightened straps, sharpened blades, whispered prayers. Kael watched them, noting the tension in their shoulders, the way their hands lingered near their weapons.
Fear was a dangerous companion. It made men reckless.
Kael sat apart, as he always did. He cleaned his sword, the motions steady, precise. The blade gleamed faintly in the fading light, its edge sharp, its surface scarred.
He thought of the battles it had seen. The lives it had taken. The oaths it had upheld.
And he wondered if it would soon turn against the girl.
Night fell quickly. The stars were faint, hidden behind smoke. The fire burned low, its glow weak against the darkness.
Kael lay awake, listening. The men snored, muttered, shifted in their sleep. The horses stamped restlessly.
And beneath it all, he heard something else.
A whisper.
Not from the men, not from the wind. From the citadel itself.
It was faint, almost imagined, but it was there — a voice older than stone, heavier than silence.
Kael closed his eyes.
And he listened.
The whisper grew stronger.
It spoke no words he understood, but he felt them. They pressed against his chest, heavy and insistent. They carried weight, like the moment before a blade fell.
Kael's hand tightened on his sword.
He did not draw it.
Instead, he breathed slowly, steadying himself.
The citadel was watching.
Dawn came pale and cold. The men rose reluctantly, their faces drawn, their eyes shadowed. Kael rose with them, his movements calm, deliberate.
The citadel loomed closer now, its towers jagged against the sky.
Kael felt the weight of silence pressing down.