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CHAPTER 22 — The Gates That Do Not Welcome
The wind shifted as the forest thinned, carrying with it a scent Aren had not smelled since the day he fell into this world—smoke, metal, and something bitter that scraped at the back of his throat. Civilization. But not the kind he remembered.
He stepped out from the treeline, boots brushing through pale grass. Before him, rising from a cracked valley, stood the first human city he had ever seen in this world.
Or rather, what was left of one.
Tall stone walls loomed over the land, but every inch of them was scarred—scorch marks, claw marks, and places where entire chunks were ripped away, as if something immense had torn through the stone with its bare hands. Broken watchtowers leaned like dying trees. A river of blackened water crawled around the outer moat, thick enough to look alive.
Lirien's steps slowed beside him.
"It wasn't always like this," she whispered, her voice soft but trembling with old grief. "Olaris was once called the City of Dawn."
Aren swallowed hard. "It doesn't look like anyone here has seen a sunrise in a long time."
Reylan approached from behind, adjusting his cloak. "Be on guard. The remnants of the kingdom live under strict rule. Outsiders are not welcomed unless they carry a Crest or a tribute."
Aren considered the cracked gates. "What happens if you don't have either?"
"You're driven away," Reylan answered. "Or arrested. Or worse."
A sudden, sharp cry echoed from the wall—metal slamming against stone. Aren turned quickly, hand instinctively brushing the Whispering Relic at his hip.
A figure appeared atop the battlements.
A guard.
But even from this distance, Aren could see something wrong—its armor fused unnaturally to its skin, veins glowing faintly through the metal like molten threads beneath the flesh. Its eyes burned an eerie red, unfocused yet watching them with the intensity of a blade pressed against a throat.
Reylan exhaled slowly. "Warden-class."
Lirien's breath faltered. "They infected the guards…"
"Infected?" Aren asked.
"The Forgetting," she whispered. "It reaches everything."
Before Aren could ask more, the guard bellowed, voice echoing unnaturally through the valley.
"IDENTIFY YOURSELVES!"
Aren felt every muscle tighten. Reylan stepped forward, raising both hands.
"We seek entry for trade and rest. No hostility."
The guard stared at them for a long, silent moment. Then its head jerked oddly—as if listening to an invisible command.
"APPROACH. ONE AT A TIME."
Lirien leaned close to Aren. "Something is wrong. Wardens are constructs… they should not speak like that."
Aren's chest tightened. "We need shelter. And answers."
Reylan nodded grimly. "Then keep your head down. This city is a cage wearing the skin of a home."
As they crossed the ruined bridge toward the gates, Aren's heart pounded. The closer they came, the darker the air seemed to grow. He felt the Relic pulse weakly, as if recoiling.
When they reached the gate, four more Wardens emerged—silent, their armor fused to their bones.
One leaned forward, inspecting Aren. Its gaze lingered too long on the Relic.
"What is that?" it rasped.
Aren forced his voice to stay calm. "A tool."
"TOOLS ARE DECLARED UPON ENTRY."
Reylan stepped between them. "He is a traveler. He carries what all wanderers carry."
The Warden twitched. Then spoke:
"You. Summoned One."
Aren froze.
Reylan's blood ran cold. "Who told you that name?"
The Warden's jaw cracked as it tried to smile.
"THE KING AWAITS YOU."
Silence fell like a blade.
Aren's pulse thundered.
The king… already knew he was here?
Lirien reached for Aren's wrist, fingers trembling. "Aren. This is wrong. The kingdom shouldn't know—"
The gates groaned open.
Torches flickered inside.
Another Warden stepped forward and bowed in a twisted mockery of respect.
"Welcome, Summoned One… to the Kingdom of Silent Crowns."
Aren felt the world shift beneath him.
Whatever waited inside was not salvation—
It was the beginning of something far greater, and far more dangerous.
The second arc had truly begun.
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