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The road was new.
Not repaired—new.
Stone laid clean and deliberate, edges still sharp where weather had not yet learned how to dull them. Lanterns lined the path at even intervals, glass uncracked, flame steady. Banners hung where there had once been bare walls, their colors rich, unmarred by dust or age.
Rexor noticed it immediately.
This road had not existed six years ago.
Neither had the buildings flanking it—tall, pale stone structures with carved facades and polished doors. Their windows reflected torchlight like calm water, hiding whatever lay inside. The air itself felt different here. Quieter. Softer. Safer.
Too safe.
Voryn walked beside him, hands relaxed, eyes moving—not admiring, but measuring. He noted guard spacing, shadow angles, the distance between intersections. The rhythm of boots behind them told him exactly how many escorts they had.
Four.
Enough to observe. Not enough to restrain.
"This isn't the city," Rexor muttered under his breath.
Voryn answered without looking at him.
"No. This is what the city wants to look like."
They passed through an archway Rexor had never seen before. Its stone was white, unmarred by age, etched with symbols of authority rather than faith. Beyond it, the road widened into a circular plaza—clean, open, symmetrical.
At its center stood the building.
The royal court.
No towers. No spires.
Just weight.
It sat low and wide, built to endure rather than impress. Thick stone walls swallowed sound. Narrow windows allowed light in but offered no view out. This was not a place meant to inspire loyalty.
It was meant to enforce silence.
The guards halted them at the entrance. Weapons were taken—not with threat, but assumption. Rexor allowed it without protest. Voryn did the same.
Inside, the air changed.
Cooler. Drier. Heavy with something old and unspoken.
They were led down a corridor lit by lanterns embedded directly into the walls. No torches. No tapestries. No ornamentation. Every step echoed just enough to remind them they were being heard.
Then the doors opened.
The chamber beyond was dark.
Not unlit—controlled.
Light fell only where it was intended, illuminating the center of the room while leaving the edges swallowed in shadow. There were no visible guards inside, yet Rexor felt watched from every direction.
A voice spoke from the darkness.
"I am August Engelbert."
It was calm. Aged. Absolute.
"Rexor de Strauss."
Rexor lifted his chin slightly. Not defiant. Present.
"Do you understand what you've done to this city?"
Rexor answered without hesitation.
"I made them aware of what's coming."
A pause.
Not disbelief.
Evaluation.
"And how," August asked, "can you say that with such certainty?"
Rexor opened his mouth.
Then stopped.
Silence filled the chamber.
Not because he was afraid.
Because he didn't know.
He had felt it. Seen signs. Watched fear grow. But proof—true, undeniable proof—he did not have.
The truth settled in his chest like a stone.
August spoke again, voice cooler now.
"You spread fear without evidence. You claim catastrophe without confirmation."
Rexor met the darkness head-on.
"I would rather be wrong than silent."
A soft sound came from the shadows.
Almost laughter.
Then—
"May I speak?"
The voice was calm. Composed.
Voryn.
August shifted slightly, just enough for the light to catch the outline of a man seated deeper in the darkness.
"And who," August asked, "are you?"
"Voryn."
A pause.
"Your full name."
"Only Voryn."
A ripple moved through the room. Quiet amusement. Superiority unmasked.
August leaned forward just enough to be seen—an older man, posture straight, eyes sharp with long-held authority.
"Do you not even know who your father is?" he asked, smiling faintly.
Voryn did not flinch.
"I know exactly who I am."
The smile vanished.
"Then speak," August said. "On what grounds do you claim danger?"
Voryn's voice remained level.
"Do you even know that the Outer Lands are changing?"
The question landed wrong.
Not offensive.
Unsettling.
August's tone sharpened.
"What are you saying?"
Voryn took a single step forward—still within the light, never challenging it.
"As expected," he said quietly. "You don't."
The chamber shifted. Not physically. Hierarchically.
"I am the reason," Voryn continued, "the city has remained untouched this long."
Silence.
Then August's voice hardened.
"Are you claiming you protected us?"
A beat.
"Do you think our knights did nothing?"
Voryn answered immediately.
"Your knights killed demons," he said.
"Creatures without consciousness."
Another step forward.
"I killed the ones who were controlled."
The darkness seemed to tighten.
August spoke slowly now.
"Do you mean… the Seven?"
"Yes."
No hesitation. No fear.
"They are making their move," Voryn continued.
"And we are resting behind walls."
For the first time, August said nothing.
Seconds passed.
Then he stood.
Not in anger.
In calculation.
He gestured, and a guard emerged silently from the shadows. August leaned in and whispered something into his ear—words Rexor could not hear.
The guard stiffened.
Then left immediately.
"Send a message to Sir Thomas Aurelius," August said aloud.
The name carried weight.
Rexor felt it even without knowing why.
The room fell silent again.
Rexor leaned slightly toward Voryn and whispered:
"You're really good at this… I can't even do half of that."
Voryn did not look at him.
"I knew," he replied softly.
"That's why I'm here."
August turned back toward them.
"I will speak with the Royal Family," he said.
"I will analyze what you've said."
A pause.
"Until then… you will remain here."
Containment.
Not punishment.
Voryn nodded once.
"I accept."
Then added, calmly—
"But may we have two wooden swords?"
The chamber froze.
August stared at him.
Not offended.
Not amused.
Interested.
"…Why?" he asked.
Voryn's answer was simple.
"Because waiting does not mean idleness."
Another pause.
Then August nodded.
"Granted."
The lights dimmed further.
The doors opened behind them.
As they were escorted away, Rexor looked back once.
The chamber remained dark.
But something inside it had shifted.
Outside, the beautiful roads gleamed under lantern light—perfect, controlled, unreal.
Rexor finally understood.
These roads weren't proof of safety.
They were proof of denial.
And denial, he knew now, was the most fragile defense of all.
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