The citadel loomed closer with every step.
Kael walked ahead of the column, his boots crunching against frost and ash. The men followed reluctantly, their voices hushed, their eyes darting toward the broken towers. No one wanted to be here. No one wanted to enter. But the king's orders were clear, and orders carried weight heavier than fear.
Kael felt the weight too. Not of the king's command, but of something older. Something that pressed against his chest, heavy and insistent, like the moment before a blade fell.
The gates were shattered.
Once, they had been tall, carved with symbols of fire and steel. Now they lay broken, half-buried in ash. The walls were cracked, the towers jagged. Smoke drifted from the spires, faint but steady, as though the ruins themselves still breathed.
Kael stopped at the threshold. He studied the stone, the cracks, the shadows. He saw no movement, no signs of life. And yet, he felt watched.
The men muttered behind him. Some crossed themselves, others spat. One whispered about curses. Another about ghosts.
Kael ignored them.
He stepped forward.
The courtyard was silent.
Ash covered the ground, thick and brittle. The air was heavy, carrying the scent of old fire. Broken statues lined the walls, their faces worn smooth by time.
Kael moved slowly, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He did not draw it. Not yet.
The men followed, their armor clinking, their steps uneven. They looked around nervously, their eyes wide, their breaths shallow.
Kael kept his gaze steady.
He had seen ruins before. He had walked through villages burned to ash, castles reduced to rubble, temples desecrated by war. But this place was different.
This place was alive.
He felt it in the stones.
Every step carried weight, as though the ground itself resisted him. Every breath tasted of smoke, as though the air itself remembered fire.
Kael paused near a broken fountain. The water was gone, replaced by ash and dust. He touched the stone, feeling its rough surface, its cold weight.
And he heard it.
A whisper.
Faint, distant, but unmistakable.
He closed his eyes.
The voice carried 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 opened his eyes.
The citadel was watching.
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.
They moved deeper into the ruins.
The halls were dark, the air heavy. Broken banners hung from the walls, their colors faded, their symbols worn. The men whispered, their voices echoing through the corridors.
Kael walked ahead, his steps steady, his gaze sharp. He studied the shadows, the cracks, the silence.
He felt the weight of the citadel pressing against him.
And he knew: something waited here.
They reached the great hall.
Once, it had been a place of power. Tall pillars lined the walls, carved with symbols of fire and steel. A throne stood at the far end, its surface cracked, its edges worn.
Now it was silent.
Kael stepped forward, his boots echoing against the stone. He studied the throne, the pillars, the shadows.
He felt the whisper grow stronger.
It pressed against his chest, heavy and insistent.
He closed his eyes.
And he listened.
The voice carried no words he understood, but he felt them. 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.
The men shifted nervously. One muttered about curses. Another about ghosts.
Kael ignored them.
He stood in the great hall, listening to the silence, feeling the weight of the citadel pressing against him.
And he knew: the true journey had not yet begun.