CHAPTER 69: At the Gates of Sundara
What should have taken more than six days—accounting for fatigue, weather, and the necessary stops to rest through the night—had instead taken barely three and a half. The carriage, driven relentlessly forward by a seasoned rider who knew the roads as well as his own breath, cut through valleys and over hills with practiced efficiency. Horses were changed at outposts, wheels repaired before they could fail, and pauses were kept short and utilitarian.
Speed, however, did not come without cost.
By the time the towering walls of **Sundara Capital** finally emerged on the horizon, Zodac was barely holding himself together.
At first, it was relief that washed over him. The sight of those colossal stone walls—etched with ancient runes, reinforced by magic and steel—meant safety, or at least the possibility of it. The capital housed the High Chapel. The High Chapel housed what he needed to live.
But that relief was thin, fragile, and quickly overshadowed by the state of his body.
His left arm was no longer merely numb.
It was dead weight.
He could not feel his fingers. He could not flex his wrist. Even the faint tingling that once accompanied the curse's advance had faded, replaced by an unnerving emptiness, as though that part of him no longer belonged to his body at all. The bandages soaked in holy water clung tightly to his arm and shoulder, but their effect had weakened. The final dose Mr. Eli had provided had been pitifully small—enough to slow the curse, not enough to push it back.
Each breath felt heavier than the last.
The carriage slowed, its pace dropping steadily until it finally rolled to a halt. Zodac felt the change immediately. He opened his eyes and leaned slightly toward the window, peering through the narrow slit in the wood.
Knights.
Royal knights, clad in polished steel armor bearing the crest of Sundara, stood before the carriage. Their presence was rigid, formal—but there was something else in their posture. Not discipline alone.
Suspicion.
Zodac exhaled slowly.
Outside, voices carried faintly through the carriage walls as the knights questioned the rider. Zodac caught fragments of the exchange—where they had come from, what business they had in the capital, why they had arrived in such haste.
He didn't wait for the questioning to reach him.
With a sharp intake of breath, he shifted his body, forcing himself upright. Using his right hand, he reached up and pulled his hood forward, lowering it until it concealed his hair and most of his face. The movement was quick—but not painless.
"Aghhh—"
The sudden motion sent a violent surge of agony through his left side. It was like fire laced with ice, pain tearing up from his arm and spreading across his chest. His jaw tightened as he forced the sound down, refusing to let it escape again.
Moments later, footsteps approached.
A shadow fell across the carriage window.
The door did not open immediately. Instead, the knight leaned forward, peering through the glass. What he saw was a hooded figure sitting unnaturally still, his face obscured, his posture rigid.
Sketchy.
Suspicious.
*Knock.*
*Knock.*
*Knock.*
"Step out of the carriage," the knight ordered.
Zodac said nothing.
The silence stretched.
Annoyance crept into the knight's posture. He straightened and raised his voice, loud enough for his companions to hear.
"Step out. Now."
Metal clinked as other knights shifted, drawing closer. Zodac could sense them—five in total, if his instincts were correct. Five trained royal knights. In his current state, fighting them would be reckless. Perhaps even fatal.
He had only two choices.
And only one he could afford.
Slowly, deliberately, Zodac reached out with his right hand and pushed the carriage door open. The hinges creaked softly as he stepped down onto the stone road. His boots hit the ground with a dull thud, his balance wavering for just a fraction of a second before he steadied himself.
The hood kept his face hidden.
The knights studied him.
Their leader stood at the center—a man with broader shoulders than the rest, his armor more polished, his presence commanding. Zodac felt the man's gaze linger, not on his face, but lower.
On the cross bag slung across his side.
"Hand over that bag," the knight ordered. "Routine inspection."
Zodac did not respond.
The silence irritated them more than defiance would have.
"Or do we take it ourselves?" the leader added coldly.
Two more knights stepped forward, flanking their commander. Five in total now stood before Zodac in a loose semicircle.
Zodac hesitated.
Not out of fear—but calculation.
His right hand was still strong. His mana reserves, while strained, were not empty. In another circumstance, five knights would not have been enough to concern him.
But his left arm hung uselessly at his side.
One mistake. One misstep. And he would not make it to the High Chapel.
Slowly, he reached up with his right hand and lifted the cross bag over his head. He extended it forward, offering it without resistance.
One of the knights on the left stepped toward him to take it—
"Stop."
The leader raised his hand, and the knight froze instantly.
The precision of the response confirmed Zodac's suspicion. " He's the one in charge."
"Throw it here," the leader said.
Zodac's jaw tightened. Still, he complied. He tossed the bag forward. It landed at the knight's feet with a dull sound.
The leader bent down and picked it up. He opened the bag and began to rummage through its contents without ceremony.
An illumine crystal caught the light first, glowing faintly even in the daylight. Then pouches of silver clinked softly as they were pulled free. Finally, the cyber-toothed rabbit hide—untouched since Zodac had harvested it—was laid bare.
Zodac watched carefully.
Through the narrow slits of the knight's helmet, he could see it.
Greed.
It shimmered there, unmistakable.
"Are these yours?" the leader asked.
Zodac gave a slow nod.
That single confirmation emboldened the man.
"What are you?" the knight continued. "An adventurer?"
He didn't wait for an answer.
"Or perhaps a bandit," he added lightly, as though making casual conversation.
Zodac remained silent.
"Don't worry," the leader said, pulling one of the silver pouches free and weighing it in his hand. "Your secret's safe with us. For a small fee of course."
The knight beside him chuckled.
Then the leader's eyes flicked back to the bag.
"On second thought…" he said slowly, "…we'll take everything."
Zodac's face twisted beneath the hood, disgust burning through him.
"It's only fair," the leader continued. "For your safety."
"Imagine what would happen," another knight chimed in, "if the king found out about all this."
At the mention of the king, something dark flickered through Zodac's eyes.
Rage stirred.
Hot. Sharp. Dangerous.
"He'd have your head," the leader finished calmly.
Zodac said nothing.
His fists clenched.
Every instinct screamed at him to move—to act—to remind these men exactly who they were standing before. But he swallowed the impulse, forcing the anger down into a cold, controlled core.
*Not now,* he told himself. *Not here.*
The silence unnerved them.
It always did.
"Have a nice day," the leader said at last, turning away with a satisfied air.