The road to Valewynn felt narrower than Kael remembered.
It was not the road itself that had changed, but the world around it. Fields that once carried the quiet rhythm of farmers at work now lay unattended. Scarecrows leaned at odd angles, their straw bodies sagging as if exhausted. The wind passed through tall grass without resistance, carrying with it whispers of unease rather than the earthy scent of harvest.
No banners flew along the outer watchtowers.
That alone told Kael more than any messenger could.
They approached the capital just after midday. From a distance, Valewynn still looked proud—white stone walls rising strong and unbroken, towers catching the light of the sun. But as they drew closer, the illusion cracked. Smoke drifted from within the city in thin, restless columns. The main gate stood open, yet guarded by twice the usual number of soldiers, their faces tense and suspicious.
"Something's wrong," Sir Bren muttered unnecessarily.
Roth gave a humorless smile. "You mean more than usual."
Kael said nothing. The sword at his side had begun to hum softly the moment the city came into view, not in alarm but in recognition. As if Valewynn itself were part of the Cycle's design.
At the gate, the guards stopped them sharply.
"State your business."
Sir Bren stepped forward, but the guard's gaze flicked immediately to Kael and the sword. The hum grew faintly stronger.
The guard swallowed. "You'd better come with us."
---
A City on the Brink
Inside the walls, Valewynn was restless.
People gathered in clusters along the streets, speaking in urgent, hushed voices. Shop doors were barred despite the daylight. Several streets bore the marks of recent violence—splintered wood, overturned carts, dark stains hastily scrubbed from stone.
More troubling than the damage was the absence of order.
Knights passed swordsmen without acknowledgment. Patrols that should have been coordinated moved independently, each group watching the others as though expecting betrayal.
Kael caught fragments of conversation as they walked.
"They say the king knew—"
"No, the orders hid it—"
"The old records were burned for a reason—"
Every rumor pointed in a different direction, yet all of them carried the same underlying tone: trust had been broken.
The symbol appeared again and again. Chalked onto walls. Carved shallowly into wooden doors. Painted crudely on scraps of cloth tied to poles.
The broken circle.
"They're not hiding anymore," Lysa said quietly.
"No," Roth replied. "They don't need to."
---
The Court Divides
The Great Hall was full when they arrived—and dangerously so.
Nobles argued openly in raised voices. Representatives of the knightly orders stood in rigid clusters, hands never far from their hilts. Swordsmen leaned against pillars, arms crossed, eyes sharp and untrusting.
King Alaric sat upon the throne like a man besieged, his presence commanding silence only when he forced it.
When Kael was brought forward, the noise dimmed—not out of respect, but curiosity.
"This is the boy," someone whispered.
"The swordsmith's son?"
"The one with the relic?"
Kael felt their eyes on him like weight pressing against his chest.
"Speak," King Alaric said.
Kael did.
He spoke of the shrine beneath the earth, of the sword that had answered him, of the vision of the First Turning. He described the ancient leaders of the Five Kingdoms standing together, afraid, choosing to seal darkness rather than destroy it.
He told them of the Cycle.
Some listened in silence. Others scoffed openly.
"This is blasphemy," one noble snapped. "Fairy tales meant to frighten children!"
The sword responded before Kael could.
A low, resonant hum filled the chamber, growing steadily louder until it vibrated through the stone floor. The blade shimmered, reflecting light that had no clear source.
Several nobles stepped back instinctively.
King Alaric rose slowly. "Enough," he said. "That weapon does not answer lies."
The hall fell into uneasy quiet.
---
Truth Without Unity
The quiet did not last.
Arguments erupted anew—fiercer now, sharper.
"If the Cycle is real," one lord demanded, "why was it hidden?"
"Because humanity feared its own failure," another countered.
"The knights swore to protect us—yet they kept this from the people!"
"Or perhaps the swordsmen wish to weaken the crown!"
The accusations flew freely, untethered from proof. Kael realized then what the kidnapper had truly done. They had not merely revealed truth—they had revealed it without context, without guidance, allowing fear to shape it into a weapon.
King Alaric pounded his staff against the floor. "Enough! We stand at the edge of ruin, and you bicker like children."
But even his voice lacked the authority it once carried.
The court was already fractured.
---
The Kidnapper's Reach
Far from Valewynn, the kidnapper observed the chaos through a surface of polished obsidian.
"They argue," a subordinate said. "They fracture."
"As they always do," the kidnapper replied calmly.
They traced a finger across the obsidian, watching the image shift to show a different scene—Pandoran envoys gathering atop wind-lashed cliffs, preparing war banners weeks ahead of tradition.
"Let them prepare," the kidnapper said. "Preparation becomes provocation."
Another gesture shifted the view beneath the sea, where Downy elders debated ancient prophecies in echoing chambers of coral and stone.
"They hesitate," the subordinate noted.
"They will," the kidnapper said. "Until hesitation costs them everything."
They turned away, satisfied.
---
A King and a Boy
Night fell over Valewynn, but sleep did not follow.
Kael was summoned again—this time alone.
The throne room stood empty save for the king and a handful of torches. Shadows clung to the walls like silent witnesses.
"You didn't seek this burden," King Alaric said quietly.
"No," Kael replied.
"And yet it found you."
Kael met the king's gaze. "The Cycle doesn't choose kings. It chooses those who will move."
Alaric exhaled slowly. "My daughter is a symbol. To the people. To our enemies. And now to this Cycle."
"Yes," Kael said. "And as long as she remains taken, fear will rule this kingdom."
The king was silent for a long time.
Finally, he asked, "What would you do in my place?"
Kael hesitated. Then answered honestly. "I would let go."
The words seemed to echo painfully.
"Let go of control," Kael continued. "Of appearances. Of trying to hold the world still. The kidnapper wants you frozen—reacting instead of acting."
Alaric nodded slowly. "And you?"
"I will leave," Kael said. "If I stay, I become another excuse for division. If I move… I draw the Cycle's attention elsewhere."
The king's hands clenched. "I am sending my daughter into greater danger."
"She's already in it," Kael said softly. "But so is the world."
At last, Alaric nodded. "Go. And bring her home."
---
Departure
Dawn painted Valewynn in pale gold as Kael stood at the eastern gate.
Roth, Lysa, and Sir Bren joined him. Others had chosen differently—some bound by duty, others by fear.
Sir Bren removed the Crimson Order insignia from beneath his cloak and placed it in Kael's hand. "Until my order remembers what it stands for."
Lysa adjusted her pack. "The forests will not remain neutral much longer."
Roth mounted his horse. "Well, boy. Looks like you've upset the entire world."
Kael smiled faintly. "I'll try to make it worth it."
As the gates opened, the sword pulsed—steady, resolute.
Behind them, a kingdom trembled.
Ahead lay fractured alliances, ancient truths, and the unseen hand of the kidnapper tightening its grip.
Kael stepped forward.
The choice had been made.
And the Cycle turned on.