Chapter 11 : The Edge of Silence
The southern wall stood at the very edge of the world.
Beyond it lay the Dark Sea, an endless, lightless expanse where waves moved not with rhythm but with intention, rolling in slow, heavy breaths as though the ocean itself were alive and listening. No moon reflected upon its surface. No stars dared to linger there. The water swallowed all light and returned nothing.
Night had settled fully.
Wind rose from the sea in long, cold gusts, carrying salt, iron, and something older—something that did not belong to land or sky. It rattled banners along the high wall, tugged at cloaks, whispered through the stone battlements like a warning that never quite became words.
At the highest point of the southern defense stood a solitary figure.
He rested his forearms against the parapet, gazing outward, unmoving. The wind pulled at his long hair, lifting dark strands threaded faintly with silver, letting them stream behind him like quiet flame. His silhouette was broad and grounded, carved from stillness rather than tension. He did not shift his weight. He did not fidget. He simply watched.
Golden eyes reflected the Dark Sea, not its surface, but its depth.
Behind him, two figures stood at respectful distance.
They were armored, but not in ceremonial steel. Their plate was darkened, worn smooth by years of use, edges reforged countless times. Each bore the insignia of the Round Table etched subtly into their pauldrons, not for display, but for recognition among those who mattered.
They were veterans.
Men who had bled on the border plains. Who had watched siege towers burn and mages fall screaming from the sky. Who had survived assassins, poison, ambush, and corruption alike.
Men who had awakened Aura long ago, and mastered it through pain.
They stood relaxed, but not at ease.
Because the night was too quiet.
The Dark Sea rolled below.
Wind screamed across the wall.
Yet something was wrong.
The first sign was not sound.
It was pressure.
A subtle tightening in the chest, like the moment before a storm breaks, or before steel meets flesh.
One of the knights shifted.
The other stilled completely.
Then...
Footsteps.
Slow.
Measured.
Unhurried.
Not loud.
Not concealed.
They came from behind, approaching along the stone walkway that led to the wall's summit. The steps were deliberate, each one placed with certainty, weight settling cleanly, rhythm unbroken.
And yet...
Neither knight had sensed him until now.
No ripple in the air.
No fluctuation of Aura.
No warning.
The wind howled louder, but the footsteps cut through it with terrifying clarity.
Both knights reacted instantly.
Aura ignited.
Heat flared beneath their skin, red-gold light crawling along the seams of their armor like living veins. Killing intent surged outward, refined, focused, honed by years of combat.
Steel cleared scabbards in a single smooth motion.
They turned as one.
The figure had already closed half the distance.
He was cloaked fully, robes dark enough to blur into the night itself. A hood concealed his head. A mask covered what little the hood revealed, smooth, featureless, absorbing starlight the way the sea absorbed moonlight. Boots struck stone without haste.
He did not react to the Aura.
Did not slow.
Did not acknowledge the blades aimed at him.
One knight felt it then, too late.
The sensation was unmistakable.
They were prey.
Not because the man radiated power.
But because he didn't.
His presence was like standing before a cliff at night, no movement, no threat… until you stepped forward and found nothing beneath your feet.
The realization sent ice through trained nerves.
The other knight swallowed.
They had fought experts.
Killed mages who twisted reality.
Survived assassins who could erase themselves from perception.
Yet this man...
They had not sensed him at all.
Not until he allowed it.
The man slowed.
Stopped several paces away.
Still silent.
Still masked.
The wind tugged at his robe, revealing for the briefest instant the hilt of a sword at his side.
The grip was wrapped in dark leather.
Worn smooth.
Perfectly fitted.
Used.
The knight at the parapet spoke.
His voice cut through the tension, not raised, not sharp.
Calm.
"Lower your weapons."
The words were not a request.
The knights froze.
"My lord..." one began to speak.
"You will not even last a second," the man at the wall said evenly, eyes never leaving the Dark Sea. "Leave us."
Shock rippled through them.
These were not men accustomed to being dismissed.
Let alone warned.
They glanced at each other, years of trust passing silently between them.
Slowly, reluctantly, they stepped back.
Weapons lowered.
Aura withdrawn, though tension still coiled tight beneath their skin.
They retreated far enough to give space, but not so far they could not watch.
The hooded man stepped forward.
Stopped beside the figure at the wall.
They stood together now, facing the sea.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then the man with golden eyes said quietly,
"It is an honor… to be visited by something like you."
Silence.
Wind.
Waves.
No response.
The man with golden eyes smiled faintly.
"Quiet as always."
He turned his head just enough for golden pupils to catch faint light, glinting as they slid toward the sword at the stranger's side.
"Care to spar?" he asked lightly.
The hooded man finally spoke.
His voice was low.
Measured.
Unadorned.
"Reserve your vigor," he said. "For what will come."
The golden-eyed man laughed softly.
"Boring as always."
Another pause.
Then...
"Do we truly need to go now?" he asked, gaze returning to the sea. "Straight to the World Tree. In the middle of the night."
"Yes."
"No detours?"
"No delays."
A sigh.
"Discreet, then."
"Always."
The wind surged.
Far below, the Dark Sea shifted, something vast rolling beneath its surface.
Golden eyes narrowed, not in fear.
In anticipation.
The wind surged again, rolling in from the Dark Sea with a low, hollow roar. Far below, the waves struck the cliff face in slow, crushing rhythms, as though testing the strength of the land itself.
The hooded man remained motionless.
The golden-eyed figure leaned back slightly against the parapet, folding his arms. His posture was relaxed, almost casual, yet nothing about him felt careless. He radiated certainty, not the loud kind born of arrogance, but the quiet kind forged through survival.
"You never come without reason," he said. "And you never arrive this openly unless you want to be seen."
Silence.
Then, softly, the hooded man replied,
"I wanted you to notice."
A faint smile curved the golden-eyed man's lips.
"That alone narrows the possibilities."
He tilted his head, studying the mask, the robe, the way the man stood, balanced, grounded, as if gravity itself obeyed him.
"The sea has been restless," the golden-eyed man continued. "My scouts feel it. So do the beasts. Even the stones along the wall hum differently at night."
The hooded man said nothing.
"You don't disagree," the golden-eyed man observed.
"No."
"Then it's closer than expected."
"Yes."
The answer was immediate this time.
The golden-eyed man exhaled slowly. "Troublesome."
The word carried no fear, only calculation.
Behind them, the two knights of the Round Table watched in silence. They could not hear every word, but the posture alone told them enough. This was not a meeting between allies of convenience.
This was a convergence of forces that normally moved unseen.
"Tell me something," the golden-eyed man said, voice lowering just slightly. "If I hadn't been here tonight… would you have waited?"
"Yes."
"And if I hadn't noticed you?"
"I would have waited longer."
A pause.
"That implies patience," the golden-eyed man said. "Or restraint."
"Both."
He chuckled. "That's new."
"No," the hooded man replied. "You've simply never needed to hear it before."
Golden eyes narrowed, not in offense, but interest.
"Careful," the golden-eyed man said lightly. "You're starting to sound like a teacher."
"I am."
The response came without hesitation.
That drew a low laugh.
"Still planting seeds, then?" the golden-eyed man asked. "Even now."
The hooded man did not answer directly.
"Time accelerates," he said instead. "Patterns converge. What was distant has moved closer. What was quiet has begun to stir."
"You speak as if it's inevitable."
"It is."
Golden eyes reflected the Dark Sea again.
"For all your certainty," the golden-eyed man said, "you still came to me."
"Yes."
"Which means inevitability is not invincibility."
"No," the hooded man agreed. "It is merely direction."
The wind shifted, tugging harder at both cloaks.
One of the knights at a distance felt his skin prickle. Even without hearing the words, the weight of the conversation pressed outward, heavy as pressure before a quake.
"You know," the golden-eyed man said after a moment, "there was a time when I would have drawn steel already."
"I know."
"And you would have stopped me."
"Yes."
Another pause.
"…Probably."
The hooded man allowed a fraction of amusement into his voice. "You always test assumptions."
"It's how I survived long enough to be disappointed," the golden-eyed man replied dryly.
He straightened, turning fully now, golden eyes locking onto the mask.
"The World Tree," he said. "You said now. Why now?"
The hooded man hesitated.
Only for a breath.
"Because others are moving."
The air felt colder.
"Who?" the golden-eyed man asked.
"Those who should not know where to look."
"And yet they do."
"Yes."
A slow nod.
"That explains the dreams," the golden-eyed man murmured. "The unease. The way even trained Aura feels… thinner."
"You feel it too," the hooded man said.
"I would be unfit to lead if I didn't."
Silence stretched again.
Then the golden-eyed man smirked.
"You realize what you're asking."
"I do."
"You're asking me to mobilize without banners."
"Yes."
"To move without witnesses."
"Yes."
"To trust that what waits at the center is worth the risk."
The hooded man met his gaze, though his eyes were hidden.
"It is."
The golden-eyed man laughed softly, shaking his head.
"Still terrible at persuasion," he said. "You rely too much on inevitability."
"And you rely too much on choice," the hooded man replied.
"Choice is what makes us different from beasts."
"Beasts understand necessity better than most men."
That earned a sharp grin.
"Touché."
The golden-eyed man sighed, then rolled his shoulders, Aura stirring faintly beneath his skin, not igniting, merely acknowledging its presence.
"Very well," he said. "Discreet. Quiet. No Round Table summons. No Iron Host banners."
He glanced briefly toward the distant knights, then back.
"I'll choose who walks with me."
"You already have."
A pause.
"…Two is enough?"
"For now."
Golden eyes glinted. "You underestimate how stubborn I am."
"I account for it."
They stood together again, facing the Dark Sea.
For a fleeting instant, something vast shifted beneath the water, too deep, too slow to be a wave.
Neither man reacted outwardly.
But both noticed.
"Tell me one thing," the golden-eyed man said quietly. "When this ends… will the children sleep peacefully?"
The hooded man did not answer immediately.
When he did, his voice was firm.
"They must."
Golden eyes softened, just slightly.
"Then let's ensure they do."
The wind howled.
Far above, clouds swallowed the stars.
And from the edge of the world, two figures prepared to move, not as kings, not as legends...
But as guardians walking toward a future that refused to wait.