Chapter 2: Echoes on the Northern Bridge
The night wind along Vaelmont's western frontier was cold, laced with the tang of iron. Theo, a young soldier of the Royal Guard, pulled his cloak tighter. Around him, his comrades marched in tense silence, the crunch of boots on gravel and the creak of worn leather the only sounds to break the stillness.
They were all thinking the same thing.
This order was madness.
Burning the Northern Echo Bridge—old and rickety though it was—still felt like severing one's own hand to heal a wound on the arm.
"Stay sharp," came the calm, steady voice from the front of the column.
Captain Philip Hanssen. Theo's gaze fell on his commander's back. Unlike the legendary but weary Commander Gregor, Captain Hanssen was young, vigorous, and burning with ambition to restore the Guard's honor. He was the kind of leader who would carry out even the strangest orders with absolute professionalism—and expected no less from his men.
They reached the edge of the gorge. Across it stretched the dark silhouette of the Echo Bridge. Silent. Too silent.
"Begin," Hanssen ordered.
Two soldiers moved forward with barrels of oil, working quickly to coat the bridge's wooden supports. Theo's grip tightened on his sword as his eyes swept the treeline beyond. A prickling unease crawled down his spine.
That was when hell broke loose.
Arrows whistled out of the darkness—not the wild volleys of common brigands, but precise strikes aimed at weak points in their formation. A soldier beside Theo fell with a strangled cry, an arrow buried in his shoulder.
"AMBUSH!" Hanssen roared. "SHIELD FORMATION!"
Figures burst from the treeline. Dozens of them. They moved in disciplined units, covering one another as they closed in. Their mail glinted under the wan moonlight; their swords were not scavenged steel but sharpened military blades.
These were no bandits. These were soldiers.
Outnumbered and out-equipped, Vaelmont's guards were forced onto the back foot. Theo swung his sword wildly, parrying blows from two directions at once. He saw Captain Hanssen fighting valiantly, but even the captain was being pressed hard. Hope felt like a luxury none of them could afford.
And then—something moved at the edge of Theo's vision.
A shadow.
From their own side of the gorge, a hooded figure emerged soundlessly from the treeline. He didn't run—he glided, his motions so fluid they seemed unreal. Before Theo could blink, the stranger was among the attackers.
What followed was not a battle. It was a massacre.
The figure moved with inhuman speed. His sword—a plain, unadorned blade of black steel—swept in arcs of perfect precision. No grand swings, only short, efficient flicks of the wrist. One motion—one enemy fell. Another—two more staggered, their arteries slashed open.
Theo's jaw went slack. The figure seemed to be everywhere at once—slashing left, stabbing right, a brutal kick shattering a man's knee behind him. He wasn't fast. He was echoes of speed, as if each motion resonated across the battlefield simultaneously. A phantom dancing in death's shadow.
The "bandits" who had pressed them so confidently now reeled in panic. Their formations shattered. They swung at him, but their blades met only air where he had been a heartbeat before.
"THE BRIDGE!" Hanssen bellowed, seizing the chance. "FINISH THE MISSION!"
Snapping from their shock, Theo and the survivors rushed to complete their task. With the stranger's horrifying assistance, they managed to set the bridge ablaze. The Northern Echo Bridge went up in a storm of fire, the old timber catching quickly and bathing the night in a hellish orange glow.
As they withdrew, Theo cast a glance back. The hooded figure stood at the gorge's edge, watching the flames for a heartbeat—then melted back into the trees. As if he had never been there at all.
What remained was silence, smoke, and a mystery colder than the night wind itself.
---
The faint scent of ash still clung to Captain Hanssen's uniform as he and Commander Gregor Vance stood before Prince Eldrin in his study.
"The mission succeeded, Your Highness," Gregor reported, his hoarse voice even. "The Northern Echo Bridge has been destroyed. According to Captain Hanssen, their supply lines are now completely severed."
Eldrin gave only a curt nod, his face expressionless as he struggled to contain the flood of relief—and panic—churning inside him.
It worked? That half-baked idea actually worked? Has this world gone mad?
"However," Gregor continued, eyes fixed on the prince, searching for the slightest reaction, "there were troubling details. The enemy was no band of brigands. They were organized, trained, and armed on par with Kaelos regulars. Our forces were outnumbered and nearly overwhelmed."
Hanssen spoke next, a trace of excitement slipping into his otherwise professional tone. "We would not have survived without unexpected intervention, Your Highness. A hooded swordsman appeared and cut down the enemy forces nearly single-handed."
Eldrin's brow twitched. A swordsman? What in the world…?
"Good," he muttered, forcing the word out, his only escape before further questions could trap him. "Report received. You may go."
The two commanders bowed and departed. Out in the corridor, Hanssen couldn't hold himself back. "A brilliant strategy, Commander! Burning the bridge to draw them out, then having an ally waiting in ambush? The Prince must have planned it all!"
Gregor said nothing, his thoughts tangled.
Coincidence? A mysterious ally appearing at the exact moment and place they needed? Or… had the prince known all along? No, impossible. The boy had never left the castle. And yet… the results spoke for themselves.
For the first time in decades of soldiering, Gregor's hardened logic failed him. It left only doubt.
---
Two days later, in the dust-choked training yard of the Royal Guard, Captain Hanssen exhaled in frustration. The bridge incident had proven one thing: they were starved for capable fighters.
That was when he saw him.
A black-haired youth, perhaps seventeen, enrolling as a new recruit. His name: Cain. A wanderer, he claimed. Polite, reserved, distant.
In training, his talent was undeniable. Cain did not rely on brute force—he dismantled opponents with efficiency. He toppled three veteran guards not with strength, but with subtle parries, momentum shifts, and disarms so fast his opponents barely understood what had happened.
Hanssen was deeply impressed. That very evening, he brought his report to Gregor.
"He has a natural talent, Commander. Perhaps the finest I've seen. To be honest… the efficiency of his movements… it reminds me of that hooded swordsman on the bridge. It could be coincidence, but his skill is on another level."
Gregor studied the brief file on "Cain." A wanderer with no history. Appearing from nowhere. At exactly the moment they needed him. Suspicion stirred—but so too did necessity.
"Very well," Gregor decided. "Assign him to the western wing guard detail. Someone of his ability should be placed where it matters most."
Where he would be closest to the prince's chambers.
At last, thought Caelan Valtherion as he leaned against the cold stone wall of the corridor. The name "Cain" sat awkwardly on his tongue, but it was a small price to pay for this position. To watch. To confirm. To unravel the mystery with his own eyes.
The study door opened. Prince Eldrin Vaelmont stepped out, passing by.
For three seconds—stretched into an eternity—Caelan's senses dissected everything.
Posture… slightly slouched, casual. No tension of a soldier.
Gait… light, but untrained. No trace of drilled discipline.
Breathing… steady, shallow. Heartbeat… calm, unhurried.
Physically, he seemed nothing more than a noble unused to hardship. Weak.
Then came the true test. Caelan reached out with his Ether-sense, probing the prince's body for any trace of power, suppressed aura, hidden strength. Anything.
The result was… nothing.
Not suppressed Ether. Not a concealed aura. Nothing. As weak and inert as a commoner who had never trained a day in his life.
Eldrin passed him by without a glance, vanishing down the corridor.
Caelan remained frozen, but inside him a storm raged.
He's hiding it. Hiding it perfectly. No fluctuations, no leakage—not even in casual movement. That level of control… I've never seen before.
Then another possibility—a darker one—crept in.
Or… is he truly empty? A fraud surviving on luck alone? No… the variables I've witnessed were real. The bridge order, the results—it can't be mere coincidence.
He exhaled soundlessly, his dark eyes fixed on the empty corridor.
This puzzle runs far deeper than I imagined.