On the forty eighth day of Kilayel, the hills of Jedborough came into view. Ayana inhaled the cool breeze as it kissed her face, breathing in its sublime essence. The sun hid behind the rocky mounds, peeking through the gray fangs of the valley. A sweet fragrance of wild orchids hung in the air, luring them into the beyond. The Vale of Arroin.

They had traveled for many leagues after their last break, and the sun shone bright, a fiery orb in the sky. The soreness in her thighs had worsened, her limbs heavy as lead. A ringing buzz echoed in her ears, slowly pounding into her skull. She yearned for the journey to end. Though Zelroth had promised they would reach the base within a few days, it felt like weeks had passed since then.

On either side, the indomitable cliffs loomed, mysterious and quiet as a tomb. Ayana gazed at the rough-hewn crags with a sense of awe. Sly tentacles of mist fumbled at its knees, searching for a dark crevice to crawl into. A shallow river wound through the valley, fed by the weeping waterfalls that poured from the gashes along the rugged flanks. Cold winds swept by, moaning and sighing in despair.

The horses plodded on, hooves clacking on the loose pebbles, a forlorn music in the valley of shadows. Miles turned into leagues as they rode on, tiny specks in the giant bowl of nature. Ayana gazed at the golden-hued sky on the horizon, slowly fading to dull gray with the receding sun.

Her mind wandered to the capital. How was Lucien doing? Had they figured out his connection to her? The Emperor would not dare accuse Lucien of treason, not if he wanted King Orpheus’ allegiance, but then again, Lucien was not on good terms with his father.

“Are you alright, my lady?”

Ayana nodded. “Yes. Only my head feels a little heavy.”

“You need proper rest,” Iezabel said, her eyes filled with concern. “Anyway, I talked to the Captain. He says it won’t be long before we reach the base.”

The shadows grew longer and darker, enveloping the sky and ground in a veil of dusk. As they advanced through the desolate folds, howls of lament pierced through the trees—a requiem to fallen kin. The sound sent icy prickles along her arms, making her stuff them into the folds of her cloak. Their path spanned for miles as it winded, rose, and fell, until they mounted a rise and gazed over the trees below them.

“Is that it?” Ayana asked, her eyes widening.

Zelroth nodded. “We are almost there.”

Some distance ahead jutted a great stone wall, a mass of solid shadow stretching from one cliff to another. Large vines and creepers encroached the battlements, mottled fingers of Elyzia trying to pull down the mighty creation of mortals. The fort was ancient, a hundred years old, or maybe a thousand. Heavy mist clung to the ground, obscuring and crawling up the ruined ramparts.

Three gigantic stone statues rose from the darkness where the towers would be, the battlements on level with their knees. Untouched by time and nature, all three wore ornate crowns, with long hair cascading down their shoulders. Their hands clutched the hilt of their swords, the points planted between their feet.

The details were etched with perfection, missing not even the lines on their faces or the intricate pattern on their armors. All three bore a different crest on their breastplates, partially hidden in the gloom of dusk. On all three crowns was engraved a single mark, a trident similar to that on the Atlantian crest. Ayana’s breath caught in her lungs when her eyes rested on one of their swords. It was Zivnâr, the sword strapped to her side.

“Who are they?” Ayana asked.

“No one knows,” Zelroth replied. “This stronghold is older than the Empire itself. We chose it as our temporary base since it’s well hidden and easily defended. There are many others like this across Aria, all of them falling into ruin, remnants of a long forgotten time.”

Ayana continued to stare at the monoliths in silence. Excluding the one holding Zivnâr, she did not recognize the other two sculptures. It was obvious all three were of equal importance, but she had never read or heard a mention of them, not even in Keîn Záka’s tales.

“The sword,” Iezabel whispered. She pointed at the nearest statue, her eyes wide with awe. “It’s him, isn’t he?”

Ayana nodded. “Ilirion.”

~•~•~•~•~

Thank you :)
Please vote and give your suggestions in the comment section.

Follow for more updates.

Swipe up to read more.