The citadel was not silent.
It seemed silent to the men — to their ears, to their eyes, to their trembling hands clutching steel. But Kael knew better. He felt it in the marrow of his bones, in the weight of each step, in the way the air pressed against his chest.
The citadel breathed.
Every crack in its walls, every jagged tower, every broken gate carried memory. Not the memory of men, but of fire, of ash, of something older than kingdoms.
Kael walked ahead of the column, his boots crunching against brittle stone. The men followed reluctantly, their voices hushed, their eyes darting toward shadows that seemed to move.
No one wanted to be here.
The courtyard stretched wide, littered with broken statues and shattered banners. Once, this had been a place of power. Kael remembered hearing stories of the citadel's glory — of feasts held in its halls, of warriors sworn to its throne, of fire that burned not to destroy but to protect.
Now there was only ruin.
Ash covered the ground, thick and brittle. The air was heavy, carrying the scent of old fire. The men muttered about curses, about ghosts, about the girl who had fled here.
Kael ignored them.
He studied the stone, the cracks, the shadows. He saw no movement, no signs of life. And yet, he felt watched.
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.
But the citadel was not empty.
Kael felt it — not in sight, not in sound, but in the way the air pressed against his chest, heavy and insistent.
Something waited here.
Something older than kingdoms.
Something stronger than steel.
The men did not see it. They saw only ruin, only ash, only silence.
But Kael knew better.
He had walked through villages burned to ash, castles reduced to rubble, temples desecrated by war. He had seen ruin before.
This was not ruin.
This was memory.
This was prophecy.
This was a wound that refused to heal.
Kael stood in the great hall, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He did not draw it. Not yet.
He listened to the silence.
He felt the weight of the citadel pressing against him.
And he knew: the true journey had not yet begun.