The path stretched ahead, winding through wide green fields, the tall grass swaying gently in the breeze. Sikakama raised a hand to her brow, shielding her eyes from the sunlight as she gazed toward the distant castle. Rising above the trees, its gray towers gleamed in the light, the battlements and high stone walls gradually revealing themselves with every step. Large arched windows lined the fortress, and from its towers, deep crimson banners fluttered proudly in the wind. As her gaze lifted higher, a crow descended gracefully from above, landing on her shoulder with a quiet rustle of wings.
They approached the water-filled moat surrounding the castle, where a low stone bridge spanned the calm surface. The reflection of the towers shimmered in the water, rippling with the movement of the wind. Crossing the bridge, Sikakama felt the weight of history pressing around her.
At last, they reached the massive wooden gates, reinforced with iron bands. Two guards stood on either side, their eyes sharp and watchful, their posture firm and commanding. As the gates slowly swung open with a deep, creaking sound, the echo of footsteps filled the wide space beyond.
Inside, the ground was paved with polished stones and framed by soaring towers and carved windows. Sikakama looked up in awe as pigeons wheeled above, while the distant tolling of the bells deepened the solemn atmosphere. Everything felt vast and overwhelming.
Juliette led her through a series of winding corridors. The vaulted ceilings arched overhead, while faded tapestries of battles and noble crests lined the walls. Silent suits of armor stood in alcoves, as if watching their every move.
Wah… this place feels like a vast maze, Sikakama thought, her eyes darting from one hallway to another. How do they not lose themselves inside all of this?
The chamber was vast and richly adorned, its grandeur echoing the legacy of old noble estates. Tall windows framed with heavy crimson velvet curtains, their golden tassels swaying slightly in the draft, allowed muted daylight to spill across the polished dark oak panels. Intricate carvings of vines and crests decorated the walls, while oil paintings of past battles and noble ancestors stared down from gilded frames. Gleaming suits of armor stood in silent vigil, and above, a grand crystal chandelier scattered soft light across plush chairs, embroidered settees, and rich tapestries.
A massive carved oak desk dominated the far side of the chamber, neatly arranged with quills, parchment, and a silver inkwell. Behind it sat Lady Grace, composed with effortless authority, her silver hair shimmering in the soft light. Her presence alone filled the room, exuding both elegance and command.
The heavy doors creaked open as Juliette entered, guiding Sikakama inside. The air was thick with the mingled scent of polished wood, aged parchment, and faint traces of lavender. Lady Grace's sharp eyes moved from Juliette to the unfamiliar girl beside her. Slowly, she rose from her chair, the motion deliberate, her gaze steady and commanding.
Her voice, calm yet edged with disbelief, broke the silence.
"Miss Juliette… who is this? And… where is the boy?"
Juliette stepped closer, her tone careful.
"My lady, this is the girl I found… not the boy we expected. They say she is the one who drew the sword."
Lady Grace's eyes narrowed slightly.
"A girl…? But she is a woman?"
Sikakama met her gaze steadily, her voice calm but firm:
"You are a woman too."
Lady Grace stared for a few moments, her expression unreadable, while Miss Juliette shifted nervously beside her.
After a brief pause, Lady Grace lifted her teacup, her gaze steady.
"These walls you see—this castle—were not built for study, nor for peace. Centuries ago, they stood as a fortress of kings and earls. From here, warriors marched to battle, their banners feared across the land. The intrigues of court, the rise and fall of rulers—all of it passed through these stones."
Her eyes turned to the window, where the sunlight glowed on the weathered towers.
"But those days are gone. The swords that once defended this realm now guide a new generation. This fortress, once a gate of war, has become an academy—for knights, not of conquest, but of discipline, courage, and service."
Lady Grace leaned forward, her voice dropping into a near-whisper, as though sharing a secret.
"You wonder, perhaps, why you are here. It was I who sent the letter—the invitation. Word spreads quickly when a sword of legend is drawn, especially by one so… unexpected. Fate has chosen you, child. And so have I."
Her tone hardened slightly as she continued, steady and unwavering.
"But the sword will remain in custody until you graduate and are granted the right to wield it. It is a weapon of immense power—too great to be placed in unskilled hands. If you prove yourself unworthy, it will be bound again, alongside the others."
Sikakama's eyes widened in shock, but Lady Grace did not pause. She lowered her gaze to the dark swirl of tea in her cup, her words calm yet weighty.
"These relics have the power to unleash destruction… or to forge peace."
She lifted her eyes once more, sharp and searching.
"Do you object to this?"
Sikakama bowed her head, her voice barely a whisper.
"I… I understand."
At her signal, the chamber doors swung open. Two guards stepped forward, one carrying a large, rune-engraved chest.
"The sword will be placed under the custody of the Order entrusted with guarding the sacred weapons," Lady Grace announced.
A tall man with a rigid posture and an unreadable expression approached Sikakama, extending his hand.
Sikakama hesitated, fingers tightening around the hilt. Reluctantly, she offered the blade.
The moment the man gripped it, his confident stance faltered. His knees buckled as a shiver ran through him. The second guard, carrying the chest, watched in astonishment.
Suddenly, his back arched sharply forward, and with a deafening crash, the sword dropped to the floor, gouging deep into the wooden planks.
Lady Grace rose instantly, startled by the sound, while everyone else froze in disbelief. The man strained with all his strength, yet the sword would not budge.
Sikakama observed quietly, then allowed a faint, knowing smile.
"I see… you don't want anyone else to wield you."
She bent gracefully, lifted the sword effortlessly with one hand as though it were weightless, and turned toward Lady Grace, her eyes shining with quiet defiance.
"I drew it, and I will not surrender it."
Lady Grace's voice cut through the tension, calm but firm.
"You will not wield it—not yet. The sword remains in their custody until you are officially granted permission to wield it.
Its bond with you is undeniable, but rules cannot be broken. You may be its master… but until you prove yourself, it shall not rest at your side."
Sikakama's whisper followed, steady and resolute:
"It is not my will… but the sword's."
Lady Grace glanced at the exhausted man, still strained from the weight of the sword that had injured his shoulder. She closed her eyes briefly, then settled back into her chair, composed.
"Very well… but promise me—you will not use it until you are officially granted the right."
"I promise," Sikakama replied with a confident smile.
"Good. We'll begin tomorrow, so rest for today. Miss Juliette will show you to your chambers."
Miss Juliette led her through these halls until they reached a modest chamber. Its wooden door opened to reveal a compact room.
A single narrow window let in a stream of sunlight, illuminating the neatly swept floor. A small bed with a plain blanket rested against one wall, and a sturdy wooden chair held the folded clothes: a white loose-sleeved shirt, tight black trousers, a dark vest, and long leather boots. A simple chest offered storage for personal belongings. Despite its size, the room felt purposeful, a young knight's space within the grand castle.
That night, Sikakama sat on the window ledge, the sword resting across her lap in its sheath. Her eyes lingered on the moon as its silver light poured over the castle walls, her thoughts drifting back to all she had witnessed that day.
On the ledge beside one of the tall windows, a crow perched, its black feathers gleaming in the moonlight. Sikakama's gaze met the bird's sharp eyes, and it fluttered closer, settling lightly on her arm.
"Mr. Crow," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "Don't you speak?"
The crow tilted its head, turning it slowly from side to side, as if weighing her words.
"Sometimes I feel you understand me," she continued softly, "and other times… you're just an ordinary bird."
For a long moment, they remained like that—girl and crow, silent companions beneath the silver glow of the castle. Then, with a soft rustle of wings, the bird leaned closer, brushing its head against her cheek as though offering quiet reassurance. Sikakama allowed herself a small, knowing smile, feeling an unspoken connection that was both strange and comforting.
The mind has a way of weaving voices where there are none, spinning threads of sound and meaning out of silence. In moments of profound solitude, imagination, hungry for connection, may conjure companions from the void. Shadows shift, the faintest noises take on significance, and even a still object can feel alive. Words are whispered into the empty air, sometimes forming whole conversations, sometimes fragments of comfort that exist only in the mind's eye. The illusion is fragile, yet intoxicating, a temporary balm against the ache of isolation. It allows a person to feel seen, heard, and understood—even if only by the shapes their mind has called into being. In these quiet hours, when the world seems distant and unresponsive, a bird, a shadow, or a flicker of light can become confidants, friends, or critics. The mind, in its relentless yearning, seeks companionship wherever it can, building delicate bridges of imagined voices over the yawning chasm of loneliness that stretches through the night.