Celestial Blade Of The Fallen Knight

Inside the border village, people watched from behind glass: not curious, but accounting the odds of who would leave in the morning. Mira peeled off to find supplies. Soren steered the Lady to the inn, single story, heat from the roof promising at least one working stove. He checked the windows, the exits, the bottleneck at the corridor. The Lady said nothing, just found the chair with its back to the wall and took it.

He sat across, hands flat on the table.

She looked at them, then at him. "You don't like being a bodyguard."

He grinned, the real one. "I like it more than the alternative."

She almost smiled. "What's the alternative?"

He shrugged. "Not being here at all."

She traced a finger along the rim of the cup, voice low. "You know why they want to stop me, Vale?"

He hesitated. "Because you're important."

She laughed, once. "No one's important. They just want to see if Meridian can be embarrassed. Or if it lives up to its stories."

He watched her, trying to read the part she wasn't saying.

She said, "If someone comes tonight, don't play hero. I can talk my way out."

He nodded, but didn't believe it.

At dusk, Mira returned, arms stacked with bread, dried fish, a bottle of something that looked like old paint. She set the supplies on the table, then dropped into the chair beside Soren with the boneless exhaustion of someone who'd run three jobs in one day.

She said, "You see the roster at the gate?"

Soren shook his head.

She slid a slip of paper across the table. A list of names, and under each: "pass," "return," or "cancelled." Soren scanned for his own, found it near the top. Under his, a fresh entry: Vale, C. No status, just a blank line.

He looked at Mira.

She said, "They know you're out here."

He folded the paper, pocketed it. "They always do."

The Lady watched the exchange, then uncapped the bottle and poured three measures. Soren drank first, because it was expected.

The rest of the night passed, slow and tight. Nobody talked about the attack on the trail, or the three men who might be waiting at the next bend. Soren thought about the old city, the blue-glass walls, the way the bells always rang in advance of the event, never after.

He slept with the blade unsheathed and the fragment at his wrist burning like a live wire.

Morning. They packed, ate, and moved. No sign of the men, no trouble at the gate. Just a new guard, younger than the last, shivering as he stamped their papers.

Up the trail, once the village disappeared behind the shoulder of the mountain, Mira slowed and let Soren catch pace with her.

"You need to get this under control," she said, eyes straight ahead.

He didn't answer, not right away.

She added, "Whatever you did yesterday. Learn to do it on command. If they sent three, they'll send twelve next."

He nodded. "I'm working on it."

She grinned. "You always are."

In his wrist, the fragment twitched, as if in agreement.

*One correction at a time. You rush, you fail.*

He didn't need her voice to know the truth of it. Still, he let the thought linger, then twisted his wrist, acknowledging the presence. The cold steadied, not warmer, but familiar now.

They crested the ridge by noon. The sky ahead was cloudless, the air so thin it felt like standing in a bell tower.

Below, the next relay. Beyond that, the city. And somewhere between, the trouble both sides were waiting for.

He checked the blade, felt the Aura just beneath the surface, quiet, but not gone.

He walked on, letting the silence of the world fill the places the training had left empty.

It would be enough, or it wouldn't.

Either way, he'd make it to the line.The narrows were exactly what the name implied: a kink in the mountain's backbone, tall walls of frostbitten stone pressed so close it felt like the world was trying to grind the road into paste. The path funneled into a single line, ice rimed and littered with the bones of old accidents, cart wheels, a snapped yoke, the iron nails from a winter shoe. Soren scanned the ridgeline and saw nothing but the scabs of last year's snow. Not a bird, not a sound.

He felt the Lady tense up behind him, a subtle recalibration of her stride. Mira's hand went to the inside of her coat, where Soren knew she'd secreted the little needle-blade she liked for close work. He drew his own sword, not wanting to be the one caught blinking.

The ravine's bridge appeared with no warning, just a sudden knife of black stone arching over a crack with no visible bottom. Two figures waited at the midpoint—one tall, helmeted, the other squat and wrapped in a scarf so dense it looked like a seed pod. Their posture said checkpoint, but the air was wrong. Soren had seen real guards: they lounged, gossiped, let the cold do the intimidation. These two stood braced, arms stiff, eyes impossible to catch.

Mira stopped first, raising her hand in the old, formal greeting. "Passage for three," she called, loud enough to bounce off the cliffs.

The tall figure nodded, stepped forward. No insignia on the coat, but the boots were newer than the border village's entire economy. Closer, Soren could see a line of pale stubble along the jaw, a small scar at the base of the left ear. The helmet was wrong, too—lighter, almost ceremonial.

"Papers," the figure said.

Mira produced the writ, but the tall one didn't even glance at it. Instead, the squat figure moved up behind, blocking the exit from the bridge. The air felt staged.

Soren's skin went tight with static. He adjusted, slotting the Lady behind his right side, then stepped up so the confrontation would center on him.

The tall one's eyes narrowed. "You're Vale," he said, flat.

Soren grinned, even though his pulse was tapdancing. "That's me. And you are?"

"Doesn't matter." The figure looked past him, to the Lady. "You'll come with us."

Mira: "On whose authority?"

The man shrugged, but there was nothing casual in it. "They said you'd ask that. Makes no difference after."