The scent drifting down from the heights was indescribable, a living blend of fresh pine, sun-warmed stone, and biting wind. The mountain, under the sun, was a sleeping colossus: golden, imposing, its rivers shining like silver blades.
But when the moon settled on its summit, everything changed. The shadows grew like ancient presences, the ice gleamed a spectral white, and the peak rose like a forbidden altar, guarding secrets that only the night dared to whisper.
They were our secrets, or so I believed.
Until I looked at her.
She was sitting on the damp grass, her white dress spreading around her like waves of fallen snow.
Her fingers toyed with the grass, but it wasn't idle play: it was escape. The cold wind passed, and her long, wavy black hair danced in the pale light, revealing fragments of her dark face, beautiful, unreadable.
Her brown eyes didn't settle on anything in this world; they searched for something higher, as if the stars could answer.
And there was weight in that gaze. Anxiety. Apprehension. The mark of a longing that wasn't mine. Her lips parted in a half-sigh, but the words died before they were born. Then, suddenly, she turned to me, and smiled.
A warm, vivid smile that set the night on fire. But in her eyes... in her eyes lived a restless sea, an abyss of pain and distance that not even the moon would dare to light.
My chest tightened. A nameless, unreachable ache. My hands were too small to hold what I saw. My mind, too simple to decipher it. All I could do was feel, and keep it. Even if it was denied me. Even if it was a secret destined never to be mine.
Then her face changed. The smile died, replaced by fear.
Before I could understand, she leapt to her feet and came toward me.
Thud.
✦ ✦ ✦
“Huh...?” My eyes opened slowly, heavy, as if torn from a dream.
“These dreams again…” It was already the second time; thankfully, it wasn't as disturbing as the other one. “But still, it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.”
They were images I had never seen before. They appeared in my dreams for the first time, always accompanied by a migraine.
'The believers of Velmior, the God of Destiny and Wisdom… claim that dreams often reveal things the soul hides, or would it be memory?'
I shook my head.
'Whatever, what matters is that there might be a message… but what could it be?'
As I woke up, I began to take in my surroundings more carefully.
'Huh?'
That was the first reaction that came to mind.
The last thing I remembered was being in the library, talking for hours and hours with the librarian, but now that I was awake, my surroundings were strange.
The shelves, tables, and chairs had vanished, replaced by a wide, austere, almost solemn space. The air had a faint smell of wax and old wood, and candelabras hung from the high ceiling, casting a flickering light that wavered across the walls, revealing heavy tapestries and dark wooden doors.
The silence was broken only by the distant echo of footsteps and the rustling of pages, yet everything still seemed wrapped in a tense calm, as if the room were waiting for something.
“The sword... Axel?!” That was the second thing that came to mind. I turned and felt the familiar weight on my back, the long, sturdy sword that Galdrick had entrusted to me. It hung firmly from a strong vine on my back, though I didn't remember putting it there.
“What a relief...” I thought. My eyes searched for Axel, and I found him at my feet.
He then looked at me with his golden eyes half-closed, the confusion plain in the way he tilted his head to the side.
“What the hell…” Another voice sounded, more childlike and hoarse. A boy with reddish skin, broad shoulders, and defined muscles was approaching. His hair was short and messy, his face covered in freckles that stood out under the light of the candelabras.
He stopped a few steps ahead, crossing his arms, as if trying to work out on his own what was happening.
“Hey, you…” A third voice, a female one this time, cut through the silence. A girl with fair skin and delicate features, with piercing lilac eyes, stepped forward. There was something in her bearing, in the slight lift of her chin, that betrayed a careful upbringing, an aristocratic presence that needed no stating.
“Do you know where we are?”
I looked around. There were more children scattered around the hall, some sitting in small groups, others standing, watching everything with a mix of fear and curiosity.
Their expressions varied as much as their ages: some frowning, others biting their lips, and some clearly trying to make sense of the situation with the ease only children could have in the face of the unknown.
“I… would like to know too,” I answered, feeling the weight of the sword and the discomfort of being just one more among so many watching eyes.
“I think we have a clue.” The voice came from a tall boy with dark blue, almost black hair cut in fine layers, and piercing golden eyes. His posture was relaxed, far from the confusion that gripped the others, as he pointed to a raised balcony at the back of the hall.
We turned, and my face twisted into a grimace as I realized who was there.
He wore blackened plate armor, adorned with fine details, and a longsword fastened at his waist. In his hands he held a plain glass of water, an absurd contrast with his imposing appearance. His gray hair fell lightly over his shoulders, and a mischievous smile lit his golden eyes.
“That crazy old man…” I muttered, unable to hide the mix of frustration and surprise.
✦ ✦ ✦
The night before.
Inside the fortress that housed the Waiting Camps, the silence hung heavy, but not absolute. A few lights still burned in the corridors, illuminating training rooms where shadows moved with slow, measured steps. Everyone could choose their own hours, but freedom was not always synonymous with peace.
In the central building, where the Guard's Headquarters was located, Sir Alaric Thornevale was reviewing documents, stamping reports with precise hands. The yellowish light of a candelabra flickered over the desk, casting dancing shadows across the floor. Every sound seemed amplified in that space, the ticking of a clock, the rustling of parchment.
The door suddenly opened.
"Commander!"
The door slammed. Kyle was already inside, heavy steps, the metal ringing on the floor with each stride, as if the room itself announced his arrival.
His steel fist rose and struck the breastplate of his armor. Once. Twice. The thud echoed hard and hollow, filling the silence. Then came the third, slower, more deliberate, metal against metal in a deep, firm sound, held a moment longer.
Alaric raised his eyes. “What's the hurry, Kyle?” His voice was calm, almost bored, but it carried weight.
“Commander… it's… it's serious. 50 children, 97 teenagers, and 153 preteens… have disappeared.” Kyle swallowed hard, eyes wide.
Alaric raised an eyebrow, but kept reviewing the papers.
Kyle continued: “We are certain,” he began softly, but quickly composed himself, “It is suspected… that this is Sir Issack's doing.”
The name fell like a stone into the silence. Alaric let out a short sigh, leaned back, his shoulders relaxing for a moment.
Kyle blinked, confused by the Commander's calm. “Commander… your… reaction?” His voice sounded hesitant, unsure.
Alaric rose slowly, walking to the window overlooking the training grounds.
The moonlight drew hard lines on the commander's tired face. “Kyle… you went through Sir Issack's training, didn't you? Then tell me: even knowing about his… eccentricities, why do we keep him on as captain?”
Kyle swallowed, scratched the back of his neck. “To… maintain discipline and above all, as a way of honoring his deeds, sir.”
“Correct… but still, wrong.” Alaric turned slowly, his piercing eyes fixed on the boy.
“As for his deeds, we could retire him with honors, castles, and so many other things, but he's still here with us.” Alaric continued.
“Besides that, every single day I order them to capture him, even knowing they'll fail. Because failing is what teaches them. Attention, positioning, endurance… Sir Issack tests everything. And sometimes he lets himself be captured, just to show the guards not only that they still have things to learn. But also that they are capable if they so choose.”
Kyle swallowed, feeling his stomach turn. His mind spun, but he stayed silent.
Alaric continued, lower now, almost a murmur: “Now answer me, Kyle. If someone who was once Commander of the fortress and Captain of the White Squadron decides to disappear with 300 children… do you think I would run to rescue them?”
Kyle hesitated. "Rescue them?"
He knew what Sir Issack's training consisted of. He had lived it. The thought hung suspended for a moment before he pushed it away.
"Of course!" His voice came out a notch louder than intended.
Alaric shook his head slowly. The smile that appeared on his lips had nothing joyful in it. "No." A short pause, long enough. "I would leave them. In his care."
He looked at Kyle. "You understand, don't you? You went through it too." Another silence. "Apart from the kidnapping, of course."
Kyle flinched. He made as if to speak, but swallowed the comment. His hands began to move nervously, clenching and unclenching, as if the gesture helped him process.
Alaric murmured, almost to himself, but audible: “Even though you gave up in the end…” His eyes softened for a moment, a shadow of sadness crossing the determination of his face.
Kyle stood still, feeling each word weigh on him. The silence returned, thick. He took a deep breath. One step. Another. Still hesitating. He saluted and turned slowly, leaving the room with a mixed expression.
The night went on, calm on the outside. But inside, nothing was simple. Not even breathing.
✦ ✦ ✦
Back to the present.
“That crazy old man…” I muttered, unable to hide the mix of frustration and surprise.
“Good morning, future of Dracknum.” Issack advanced along the parapet, each step measured, until stopping right at the edge. His smile was wide, almost childlike, but his golden eyes carried a hint of ancient mischief.
Silence ruled the group. No one dared speak, not because they didn't want to, but because everyone knew that man's reputation. Some had seen him, or heard stories: an old man in heavy armor who escaped the guards daily, without making a single sound, as if he were shadow or wind.
“Strange…” Issack sighed, shaking his head slightly. “You should be surprised, shouldn't you? Shout at me? Question my intentions?”
'This guy really isn't right in the head…'
I sighed, watching the old man's theatrical air. The way he moved along the parapet, with slow, calculated steps, made my stomach turn.
Finally, someone broke the silence.
“Mr. Retired Knight, where the hell are we?” The voice sounded irritating, full of impatience, as if it tolerated no delay.
Issack raised his eyebrows and smiled, white teeth standing out against the black armor. “Ah! Finally someone asks the right question…”
The owner of the voice took a few steps forward, approaching the edge of the crowd. Shoulders tense, fists slightly clenched. “If you have nothing else to do, how about sending us back to our families? I'm tired of being in this cold, lifeless place!”
It was Oswin. His tone carried defiance, audacity, and a touch of disdain, typical of someone who believes he can be heard above any authority.
Issack tilted his head, golden eyes fixed on him, and his smile widened. “Interesting… you have courage. I like that.”
The rest of the group remained still, some visibly tense, others merely curious. The cold wind cut across the parapet, carrying the metallic smell of the armor and the faint aroma of wax from the hall, and each gust seemed to add weight to the moment.
“In reward for your courage, I will answer… but only after a little game.” Issack's expression turned serious, almost cutting the atmosphere with its intensity.
“Shi—” I tried to protest, but an invisible pressure spread through the air, pressing on our bodies, forcing short breaths. I almost bit my tongue.
The pressure wasn't enough to bring us to our knees, but it was undeniable, every step, every movement demanded care, as if we were being measured.
And then, what caught my attention was the impossible. As I watched Issack, something began to form on his back.
“Since when does this guy have wings?” I asked. A white, luminous energy emerged, swirling and gathering, forming two pairs of majestic wings that shone with supernatural intensity. His golden eyes glittered, reflecting the light like beacons.
“What wings?” The lilac-eyed girl was confused by what I'd said, her voice trembling slightly.
“Oh! Impressive.” Issack exclaimed, looking at us, still standing.
“Now that we can begin, here is the game.” He raised one hand and the wind rose, whipping the hair and clothes of the crowd. “Look at those holes in the walls.”
Before anyone could ask, the walls began to warp, irregular openings appearing at different heights and sizes. A metallic crack, a grinding of stone… and the feeling that something deadly might emerge at any moment.
“Each of these holes contains a ‘little surprise.’” Issack smiled, light steps on the parapet. “Your goal is simple: reach me.”
He raised his arms, letting the light reflect off the wings. “I will call this game ‘The Path of Shadows.’ Let those who have the courage to face their fears begin.”