Minas Tirith rises before Arthur, a city of stone and legend that tests his place in both worlds.
Chapter 4 – The White City
The towers of Minas Tirith appeared first as teeth against the horizon.
Arthur had ridden through two more days of empty roads and watchful nights, the encounter with the brigands lingering like a half-healed scar. George moved steadily beneath him, tireless as his rider, though Arthur dismounted often to walk and think.
The city grew from rumor to reality. First the Pelennor Fields—vast grasslands ringed by ancient earthworks, dotted with farmsteads and grazing herds. Then the Rammas Echor, the great wall that enclosed the plain, its gates guarded by stone-faced wardens who eyed Arthur's black armor with professional suspicion.
"State your business, rider," the captain called from the battlements, voice carrying over the wind. He was tall, weathered, with a helm crested in white horsehair.
Arthur removed his gauntlets, showing empty hands. "Arthur, a healer from the north roads. Seeking shelter and honest work."
The captain leaned forward, squinting. Black steel, mithril work by the gleam. Not Easterling make, nor Southron. And that face—too gentle for a sellsword.
"Pass," he decided. "But keep to the lower circles. The Citadel has no love for wandering blades these days."
The gates groaned open. Arthur rode through into a world of ordered stone.
Minas Tirith unfolded in seven concentric tiers, each circle rising above the last like steps to the heavens. White walls gleamed under the afternoon sun, towers spiraling upward with impossible grace. Banners of the White Tree snapped from every parapet. The air hummed with life—merchants haggling, smiths hammering, children darting through crowds with laughter that echoed off the stone.
Arthur's senses sharpened, drinking it in. This was no Arnach. This was the heart of men, pulsing with purpose and peril.
He stabled George in the First Circle's stables, where grooms stared openly at the horse's calm intelligence and the rider's rune-traced armor. "No charge for such a beast," one muttered. Or its master.
Leading his mount by hand, Arthur climbed the winding ramps between levels. Each circle revealed more: market squares alive with spice merchants from distant Harad, forges belching steam, herbalists hawking salves beside fountains carved with ancient kings.
People noticed him. Whispers followed.
A knight without colors. Look at his sword—mithril, true.
Healer, he claims? In that plate?
By the Fourth Circle, a commotion drew him. A crowd ringed an open square where city guards wrestled a screaming man to the stones. Blood slicked his tunic; a deep gash ran from shoulder to ribs.
"Plague! He's got the fever!" someone shouted.
The guards recoiled, hands on sword hilts. No one approached.
Arthur pushed through without thinking. "Let me see him."
The captain of the watch—a stern woman with cropped hair and a scarred jaw—turned sharply. "Back, stranger. We don't know what filth he carries."
Arthur knelt anyway, ignoring the murmurs. The man writhed, skin hot and slick with sweat, wound festering black at the edges. Not plague—poisoned blade, deep infection. His breaths came in wet rasps.
"I can help," Arthur said, meeting the captain's eyes. "If you let me."
She hesitated. Desperate eyes, steady hands. Not the look of a fraud.
"Do it quick," she ordered. "If you worsen him, your armor won't save you."
Arthur nodded, stripping off vambraces and rolling his sleeves. His fingers probed the gash—precise, unhesitating. The crowd leaned in, breath held.
"Fetch clean water, boiled if possible," he called. "And strong spirit—ale or wine." A boy darted off.
He pressed the wound's edges together, stemming blood with controlled pressure. The man screamed once, then quieted under Arthur's calm voice. "Breathe through it. The worst is past."
The boy returned with a bucket and flask. Arthur poured spirit over the gash, ignoring the acrid smell. Then water, cleansing. His hands moved like extensions of thought—suturing invisible lines of flesh, packing herbs from his satchel to draw poison.
No tremor. No doubt. Sequence 9 steadied him utterly.
When he finished binding the wound, the man's color had returned. His breathing evened.
The captain exhaled slowly. "You've a gift, stranger."
"Practice," Arthur replied, rising. "And a body that doesn't tire."
Word spread faster than the wind. By evening, Arthur found himself in the Fourth Circle's infirmary—a vaulted hall of white stone filled with cots and the moans of the wounded. Guards, laborers, fevered children from the lower tiers.
He worked through the night. Setting fractures. Draining abscesses. Cooling fevers with damp cloths and murmured reassurance. His endurance held—no blurring vision, no leaden arms. Dawn found him washing blood from his hands as the first patients stirred, improved.
The captain—her name was Lirael—watched from the doorway. He hasn't sat once. Hasn't eaten. Just… works.
"You fight like that too?" she asked finally.
Arthur paused, drying his hands. "Only when I must."
She nodded toward the training yard beyond. "Prove it tomorrow. The Wardens need men who mend and break with equal skill."
He agreed.
Morning brought the yard—a wide expanse of packed earth ringed by stone benches. Two dozen knights gathered, armor gleaming, weapons oiled. Veterans with notched blades eyed the newcomer. Recruits shifted nervously.
Lirael introduced him. "Arthur of the roads. Healer first. Let's see if he knows a sword from a scalpel."
His opponent: a broad knight named Torin, captain of the outer wardens. Grizzled beard, hammer scars on his knuckles. Let's test this pretty blade, Torin thought, hefting his longsword.
They circled. The yard fell silent.
Torin lunged first—solid, practiced thrust. Arthur sidestepped, mithril blade flickering up to parry. Sparks flew.
The knights leaned forward. Smooth. Too smooth.
Torin pressed, raining blows. Arthur flowed between them—deflecting, never clashing fully. His footwork was surgical: minimal steps, perfect balance. Sequence 9 whispered timing through his veins.
A feint. Torin overcommitted. Arthur's hilt struck his wrist—not hard enough to break, but enough to disarm. The sword spun into the dirt.
Torin blinked, rubbing his hand. The yard erupted in murmurs.
"Not bad," Torin grunted, retrieving his blade. "Again."
Three bouts followed. Arthur won each—disarming, tripping, once catching Torin's full overhead smash on his forearm, armor humming. No fatigue showed on his face.
Lirael stepped forward. "Enough. Wardens—he's one of us now. Trial period. Prove your steel on patrol, healer."
The knights murmured assent. One veteran whispered to another: He fights like he's reading our bones.
That night, alone in a spare barracks room, Arthur felt the stirrings.
His body thrummed—not from exertion, but resonance. The brigands. The healing. The sparring. Conditions aligning.
Sequence 8 awaits.
He slipped out under moonlight, finding a shadowed alcove near the city's ancient Moon-Gate. George waited nearby, sensing the ritual's pull.
Arthur knelt, drawing a circle in the dust with his sword tip. Words surfaced from deep memory—Twilight Giant incantations, simple yet profound.
"The Seven Tests of Strength," he whispered. Voice steady. Spirituality flowed unbroken, physical form anchoring it.
He struck his palm against stone. Cracks spiderwebbed outward.
Lift. He hefted a fallen pillar, muscles unstraining.
Endure. He stood motionless as wind howled, unmoved.
Focus. Meditation deepened, spirit coiling like endless breath.
One by one, the tests unfolded. Hours passed. Dawn pinked the sky before the final release—a pulse of inner energy, surging through veins and soul alike.
Arthur rose. His body felt… refined. Edges sharper, resistance humming beneath skin. Pugilist. Gladiator.
George snorted approval.
A horn sounded from the walls—patrol call. Arthur donned his helm, mithril longsword at ready.
The White City had claimed him. Now the roads beyond would test what he had become.