And so, The World Witnessed the Boy

The gates opened without a sound. No groan of metal. No echo of stone. Just stillness parting, like even the Tower was ready to let him go.

Elarion stepped out.

The sky met him like a wound—too wide, too bright, too alive.

The wind out here moved different. It wasn’t respectful.

It pulled at his cloak like it wanted to see what was underneath.

He didn’t look back.

The Tower stood behind him like a monument to something no longer breathing.

Black stone rising through cloud and myth, older than history.

Watching.

Always watching.

But he didn’t give it the satisfaction of a final glance.

The steps stretched long and pale beneath his boots.

At the bottom, the carriage waited.

Matte black. Unmarked. Practical.

No escort. No flags. Just a driver in a long coat, staring ahead like he’d been warned not to speak.

Two horses were hitched to the front.

Dark, broad-shouldered. Their breath steamed in the cold air.

Tired eyes. Scars on the flank.

They’d seen enough of the world to know not to ask questions.

Elarion paused.

Somewhere in the far distance, beyond the ridge and forest line, a lonely outpost stood.

He could see its roof catching the sun—and just beneath it, a figure.

Small. Still.

Watching.

Maybe a scribe.

Maybe a scout.

Maybe just someone told to wait and observe and say nothing unless the Tower asked.

Elarion didn’t wave.

Didn’t nod.

He just climbed into the carriage.

The leather seat was stiff. Cold.

It smelled like dust and mage-oil.

The door shut behind him.

And the world began to move.

No words.

No warning.

The Tower vanished slowly behind the trees, swallowed by grey branches and distance.

He didn’t say goodbye.

Not to Damien.

Not to Gareth.

Not to Zayed.

They didn’t ask for one.

The carriage rolled faster now, following a road carved through forest—cracked stone and tangled roots, branches bent by old wind.

Out the window, the world felt wider than he remembered.

More alive.

Less sacred.

A deer watched from between trees.

Didn’t run.

He didn’t blink.

Maybe it recognized him.

Or maybe it didn’t care.

Somewhere in the clouds above, the prophecy still whispered through his veins

He closed his eyes.

The Tower was behind him now.

But its silence was still inside him.

Outside, the silence wore a different shape—leaves rustling like whispers, branches groaning like old bones.

The road cracked beneath iron wheels, winding through a forest older than maps. Shadows stretched long across the trees, and birds watched in perfect stillness—not from fear, but reverence. The kind of stillness that came before a storm.

The deeper they went, the less the forest resembled memory.

The trees grew gnarled—twisting like they’d once been straight but had forgotten how. Moss clung to them like skin too long worn, and pale fungi bloomed along their roots in patterns that looked almost deliberate. Almost carved.

Once, these roads had names. Marked on parchment. Lit by wardlamps and patrolled by sigil-knights.

Now—

A rusted sign leaned sideways in the dirt. Letters eaten by rain.

The name was gone. But something had scratched a symbol into the wood.

A jagged eye. Watching.

Elarion said nothing.

The driver hadn’t spoken since they left.

No escort had been assigned. No scouts rode ahead.

The Tower sent him alone.

Not because it trusted him.

But because nothing out here was meant to matter.

A bridge came into view—stone arches slick with moss, its railings cracked. Beneath it, the river whispered against black rocks, too shallow to drown in, but deep enough to forget.

On the other side: a milestone snapped in two. One half gone. The other sunken in the mud, covered in tally marks.

Thirty-seven.

He didn’t count the others.

A shadow passed overhead—wide wings, silent.

Not a bird.

Not anymore.

He watched it vanish into clouds.

The air thickened.

The trees leaned in, no longer indifferent. Their silence had shape now. A shape that listened.

The carriage creaked.

The horses grew uneasy.

Still, Elarion didn’t move.

Didn’t reach for the blade beneath his cloak.

Didn’t call the name carved into his bones.

But something called his.

The carriage slowed.

Then stopped.

The horses didn’t flinch.

They just waited.

Elarion opened the door.

The wind shifted — dry, thin, sharp as bone.

He stepped out.

Seven men waited in the road.

Rust-scabbed armor. Predator stillness.

Smiles that didn’t reach the eyes—like wolves watching a limping deer.

The one in front grinned. “What’s this? Royal delivery?”

He paced forward, eyeing Elarion’s sword. “Bit fancy for someone traveling alone.”

Another laughed. “He’s from the Tower, ain’t he?”

He spit into the dirt. “Heard they raise ghosts and egos over there.”

“Look at him,” said a third. “Baby-faced. Barely old enough to bleed.”

The tallest one, older, with a gold tooth and a dead eye, chuckled.

“You lost, pretty boy? Should’ve stayed in your marble crib.”

Elarion said nothing.

The wind tugged gently at his cloak.

“You don’t talk much?” one sneered. “That’s fine. We’ll have your voice by the time we’re done.”

Another licked his lips. “I get the boots. You can have the blade.”

“I want his eyes,” the youngest said. “Pretty little things.”

They moved closer.

A semi-circle.

Swords unsheathed.

One crackled with runes. Another notched with old blood.

“You know how this goes, right?” the leader asked. “You kneel. We decide if you breathe.”

Elarion blinked.

Once.

Then stepped forward.

And drew.

The first man didn’t see it coming.

He laughed — then his head rolled sideways, mouth still open.

The second lunged in panic.

Elarion spun. One cut — deep, diagonal — shoulder to hip.

The man folded like wet parchment.

“Shit—!”

The third turned to run.

The sword left Elarion’s hand like a whisper.

It caught the man mid-stride. Pierced the spine.

He fell. Twitched once.

Four left.

The boy who wanted Elarion’s eyes froze.

“No—no, wait, wait—”

Too late.

Elarion was in front of him.

Blade through the sternum.

He choked.

Gurgled.

Collapsed like a prayer unanswered.

One swung wildly.

Elarion ducked low. Slashed the leg, then the throat.

Two motions. No pause.

The sixth man dropped his weapon. “I—I didn’t mean—!”

Steel met the base of his skull before the sentence finished.

Only one remained.

The leader.

The one with the gold tooth.

He took a slow step back.

The man stared at Elarion like he was looking at something inhuman.

“What… what are you?”

Elarion didn’t blink. “Irrelevant.”

The man raised his blade. Voice trembling. “I’ve fought worse than you.”

Elarion stepped forward.

“You’ve died slower than this? ”

And struck.

Fast. Brutal. Final.

The body hit the dirt hard.

Blood pooled fast under the boots that didn’t falter.

The world returned to silence.

No screams.

No mercy.

No survivors.

Elarion stood still.

Not panting. Not shaking. Not even interested.

Blood cooled around his boots.

Like it hadn’t been a fight. Just a formality.

He retrieved his sword from the third man’s back.

Wiped it clean without looking down.

Then climbed back into the carriage.

No breath. No prayer. Just movement.

The forest was quiet…

But not peaceful.

The wheels turned.

The forest crawled past in shades of green too dark to be alive.

And Elarion sat still.

The leather groaned beneath him.

Dust and mage-oil. The smell hadn’t changed.

But he had.

Something in him had.

Shifted. Quietly. Like a door closing behind him.

The sword was back in its sheath.

His hands, clean.

But the memory clung to his skin like something that had decided to stay.

Seven bodies.

It wasn’t the first time.

Wouldn’t be the last.

But it felt different this time.

Not heavier. Just... clearer.

Like the Tower’s silence had finally bled into his bones.

They’d looked at him like he was a child.

They’d died like they never understood why they were wrong.

He leaned his head back.

Closed his eyes.

Didn’t sleep.

Didn’t drift.

He just listened—to the wood creaking, the wind threading through the cracks, the steady churn of wheels over broken road.

The boy who wanted his eyes had choked on his own blood.

He remembered the sound.

Not loud. Not desperate.

Just... human.

He didn’t flinch at the thought.

But he didn’t discard it either.

Somewhere along the road, a tree stood broken.

Split by lightning or time—he didn’t know.

But it was still standing.

He watched it through the window until it disappeared behind them.

Didn’t know why.

Maybe part of him was looking for a metaphor.

Maybe part of him was just tired.

He’d left the Tower.

But the Tower hadn’t left him.