The road to Vaelthra was worn but not abandoned. Hoofprints, wagon ruts, and the soft signs of many boots told Cael that this was no ghost path. Life still pulsed here.
The farther he walked, the clearer the capital became. It rose like a blade from the earth—ivory towers, spiraling bridges, and great crimson banners dancing in the breeze like tongues of flame.
Then, smoke—gentle, grey, rising in thin strands from a chimney over a nearby ridge.
He crested the hill and found a humble farmstead nestled in a sun-dappled field. Wheat swayed golden around a two-story cottage with a slanted roof and a crooked fence. A barn slumped to the side like it had grown tired of standing.
A woman stood out front, bent over a trough, feeding a pair of oxen. She looked up, squinting at Cael's approach.
"Traveler?" she called, hand on her hip. Her voice was strong—cautious, but not unkind. "You lost?"
Cael stopped a respectful distance away. "Not lost. Just… walking. Towards Vaelthra."
She glanced past him, then back. "You're unarmed. That's bold these days."
"I noticed," Cael muttered to himself.
The woman gestured him closer. "You look like you haven't eaten in days. Come. I've got bread and root stew. You can sit and tell me what kind of fool walks the king's roads without a blade."
A little later, Cael sat at a rough wooden table. The food was simple, but it was warm. The woman's name was Linna, and her eyes had the hardened edge of someone who had survived much, but not lost her generosity.
"Why did you allow me in? Aren't you worried I might be some scoundrel?"
Cael Asked.
"You are unarmed, wearing ragged clothes and I'm quite a fighter myself"
Cael looks around and sees an axe hanging from the wall.
Cael needs information on the land, he has never been to Vaelthra when he was still alive.
"You said the king's roads," Cael noted between bites. "Vaelthra still has a king?"
"Aye. King Halrian the Third, gods bless his iron gut." She snorted. "But it's not his rule I worry about. It's the Silver Court. Nobles with too much time and too little spine. They run the inner city like they're playing games with knives."
Cael leaned in. "And what of the people?"
"Depends on who you ask," Linna replied. "Folk like me, we just keep our heads down. There's talk of unrest—some prophet types preaching in the gutter, claiming some nonsense about the Heart of the World's breaking or something. Nobles ignore it. But then again…" She lowered her voice. "One of them went missing. A countess, I think. Vanished with her whole retinue two weeks ago."
Cael's blood stirred. He started getting a slight headache.
"You ok stranger?"
He pushed gently. "I'm fine. Any news of… strange individuals? Odd happenings?"
Linna laughed bitterly. "You'll need to narrow that down. Half the court is strange, and the other half is possessed by ghosts of their ancestors."
He smiled despite himself. Then cleared his throat. "I need a weapon. Armor too, if possible. Is there a blacksmith nearby?"
Linna pointed down the road. "Half a mile past the crossroad. Look for the forge with the scorched anvil sign. Old man Belric runs it. Ex-knight. Keeps to himself, but if you've got coin or a story, he might trade."
Cael blinked. Coin.
"I… don't have anything."
She eyed him curiously. "Then you'd best hope your story's good."
He stood. "Thank you, Ma'am."
She tilted her head. "You're polite. But I've got to ask—what's your name?"
Cael hesitated. He searched inside himself, but nothing came. No surname. No legacy. Just the first name, like a name spoken over a grave.
"Cael."
She nodded slowly. "Well then, Cael. If you survive long enough to come back this way, I'll have stew waiting."
He nodded, grateful.
As he turned toward the forge road, the wind shifted—and just for a moment, he heard a whisper. Not from Linna. Not from the wind.
From inside.
"The blade is not gone. Only buried."
He followed the path to the forge and there he saw it.
The forge stood where Linna said it would—tucked into a stone alcove between two slanted trees, smoke curling like a serpent from the chimney. The sign was old: a scarred anvil with a blade scorched across its surface, blackened by fire, edges dulled by age.
Cael stepped closer, the hammer's rhythm already thundering in the air like a war drum.
CLANG.
CLANG.
CLANG.
He found the smith inside—bare-chested despite the sparks, his skin tough and dark like smoked iron. A thick, greying beard framed a set jaw, and his eyes were pale with age but sharp as knives.
"You're not a courier," Belric grunted without looking up. "And you're not buying. So what do you want?"
Cael cleared his throat. "I need a weapon. Anything—sword, dagger, even a hammer."
Belric stopped hammering and looked up, finally taking in Cael's unarmored form.
"No coin. No armor. No blade. You must be blessed by all the gods to have made it this far without being gutted."
"I'm… newer to the road than most," Cael said carefully. "But I intend to survive it."
The old smith snorted. "Bravado doesn't pay for steel."
Cael nodded. "Then maybe I can earn it. What do you need?"
Belric raised a thick brow. "You offering work?"
"If it'll get me a blade, yes."
The blacksmith turned and nodded toward a half-finished breastplate on the wall, freshly hammered and glowing at the edges.
"I'll only give you leftovers and failures"
"That is fine with me. So what's the job?"
"My supplier's three days late. I've got orders stacked higher than a royal's ego, and no ingots to finish even half of them."
Cael's eyes flicked to the benches. War gear. Dozens of swords, breastplates, gauntlets. All polished to gleam—not the make of farmhands or caravan guards. Military grade.
"Quite the customer you have" Cael said quietly.
Belric grunted again. "Commission from the Inner Court. Bastards want five hundred pieces ready in a month. Half of 'em ceremonial, but the rest? Meant for fighting. Real fighting."
Cael paused. "War coming?"
The blacksmith stared at him for a second. Something passed behind his eyes, but he shook it off.
"Wouldn't know. Wouldn't ask."
Belric turned back to his work. "The courier's name is Larn. Should've come from the Ember Quarry with twenty crates of refined steel and duskwood. Said he'd avoid the main roads. Safer, he claimed."
Cael nodded. "Where was he last seen?"
"Near the old Rook Trail. East ridge. You'll know the place. It smells like burnt salt and rot. If Larn's in one piece, drag him back. If he's not… just bring the crates."
"How dangerous?"
Belric grinned, a flash of yellowed teeth. "Dunno friend."
Cael leaves the forge and follows through trail to a forest.
The Rook Trail earned its name well.
The trees were gnarled and thin, their branches clawing at the grey sky like skeletal fingers. Black birds circled in slow spirals above the canopies, cawing softly like whispers of the dead.
"So much for a safer path. This Larn guy must be quite the idiot"
And then a scent. The scent was unmistakable—blood.
Cael rushed and saw dead guards and bandits around.
He crouched low beside the rut lines etched deep into the dirt. The wheel marks told a hurried tale. The rear right wheel had buckled slightly—he could see the uneven drag. Someone had tried to flee.
But what caught his eye were the footprints. At least half a dozen. Sloppy, some staggered. Different boot sizes, disorganized spacing.
He followed quietly. Something old inside him stirred—the way his feet adjusted naturally to avoid brittle branches, the way his breath slowed without effort. His body remembered something his mind did not.
After twenty minutes of careful tracking, he heard it: muffled voices, laughter, and the low snort of tethered horses.
He pressed against the tree line and crawled toward a ridge overlooking a ruined stone outpost—half-collapsed, choked in ivy and soot.
There they were. Seven bandits, lounging like bloated ticks.
The wagon sat lopsided near a crumbled wall, crates still tied down. Larn, the courier, was slumped against a pillar, wrists and ankles bound, a gag over his mouth. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, but alive.
Cael stayed hidden and observed.
Three bandits sat around a fire, passing a skin between them—drinking. One was nodding off. Another stood by the cart, lazily inspecting ores from one of the crates. The remaining three seemed more alert, posted near the edge of the ruins like makeshift sentries.
Seven men. Four armed. Three likely drunk. The one at the cart looked distracted, turning the blade awkwardly. No armor. Leather at best.
Cael breathed in. Calm. Steady. His muscles hummed like a bowstring—something inside was guiding him, calculating angles and steps.
He had no blade. No armor.
But his fingers reached instinctively for something at his belt that wasn't there—and yet, he didn't falter.
Cael eyed the camp again.
"I need to plan this carefully"
Cael looks around and considers his current gear which is nothing.
"Looks like sneaking is my only option. I can't believe I'm doing this for old leftover weapons"
He sighs.
"Here we go then"