CHAPTER 60: THE SHRINE’S SHADOW

The shard in Soren’s chest pulled like a hook buried deep in flesh.

"Stop," he called out, his voice sounding strange even to his own ears. "There’s something about this place."

The knights halted their horses, exchanging glances that spoke volumes without words. Veyr turned in his saddle, fixing Soren with a calculating stare.

"Something?" he prompted, his tone neutral but his eyes sharp.

Soren struggled to articulate what he felt. The shard against his skin had grown hot, its pulse quickening like a second heartbeat. "The shrine. It’s... important."

Ser Dallen scoffed, but Veyr raised a hand, silencing him before he could speak. With a fluid motion, the young lord dismounted, his boots landing softly on the overgrown path.

"Investigate," he commanded the knights. "Thoroughly."

The men dismounted with practiced efficiency, hands moving to sword hilts as they approached the ancient shrine. They moved like wolves circling uncertain prey, their eyes scanning for traps or hidden dangers. Ser Torven knelt beside one of the leaning pillars, running a gloved finger over strange markings half-hidden by lichen.

"Old," he muttered. "Older than the war, my lord. Maybe older than the village."

Soren slid from his saddle, legs unsteady beneath him. The shard’s pull was physical now, dragging him toward the cracked altar at the center of the stone circle. Each step felt both inevitable and dangerous, like walking toward the edge of a cliff in darkness.

’Careful,’

Valenna’s voice whispered in his mind, but it sounded different, distracted, almost fearful. ’This place remembers things. This stone has drunk deep.’

"Drunk what?" Soren murmured, too quietly for the others to hear.

No answer came, but the shard pulsed harder, sending waves of heat through his chest. The altar drew closer with each step, its cracked surface bearing dark stains that time had failed to erase. Carrion birds circled lower overhead, their shadows flickering across the ancient stones like omens.

"Stay back from there," Ser Dallen called, his voice sharp with command. "We haven’t secured—"

Too late. Soren’s hand reached out, seemingly of its own accord, and pressed against the cold stone of the altar.

The world shattered.

He was still standing in the shrine, but not alone. Warriors in armor he didn’t recognize circled the altar, their faces grim beneath helms that gleamed with an inner light. Their weapons, long, curved blades unlike anything in Kaelor’s armory, flashed in torchlight though the sun still shone in the sky above.

Two figures stepped forward from the circle, removing their helms. One wore azure armor that seemed to shift and flow like water. The other was clad in gold, the metal catching the impossible torchlight and throwing it back a hundredfold. They faced each other across the altar, their expressions solemn.

Words were spoken in a language Soren couldn’t understand, yet somehow knew was ancient even when this memory was made. The warriors in the circle responded in kind, a chant that seemed to make the very air vibrate with power.

Then, without warning, the golden knight lunged across the altar, blade flashing. The warrior in azure parried, but too slowly. Blood splashed across the stone, bright crimson against gray. More blood followed as the duel intensified, both combatants moving with inhuman speed and grace.

A mistake. The azure knight faltered, left flank exposed for just a heartbeat. The golden blade found its mark, sliding between armor plates with terrible precision. The azure knight fell to one knee, blood pouring from the wound to pool on the altar stone.

Lips moved, final words gasped out as life faded. Though Soren couldn’t understand the language, the meaning burned into his mind with perfect clarity:

"You broke the oath."

The golden knight stepped back, blade dripping red. Something like regret crossed the face beneath the helm, quickly replaced by resolve. A hand reached up, removing a shard of gleaming metal from the hilt of the golden sword. It flashed once in the torchlight, then descended toward the dying knight’s chest.

"Soren!"

The vision shattered. Soren blinked, finding himself still standing at the altar, hand pressed against cold stone. Veyr stood beside him, eyes narrowed with concern or calculation, impossible to tell which.

"What did you see?" the young lord demanded, his voice low and urgent.

Before Soren could answer, the air filled with the panicked beating of wings. The carrion birds that had circled so lazily overhead suddenly scattered, their harsh cries cutting through the silence. In the same instant, the forest around them went deathly quiet, no insects buzzing, no leaves rustling, as if every living thing had collectively held its breath.

"My lord!" Ser Torven called, his hand moving to his sword. "Something approaches."

The knights abandoned their investigation of the shrine, forming a protective circle around Veyr with practiced precision. Ser Dallen grabbed Soren’s arm, yanking him roughly back toward the horses.

"Fall in, boy," he hissed. "And keep your hand off that cursed stone."

Soren stumbled into position, the vision still burning behind his eyes. The shard against his chest pulsed frantically, neither hot nor cold now but somehow both at once. Valenna’s presence pressed against his consciousness, urgent but wordless.

At the edge of the clearing, shadows moved between the trees. Not animal shapes, something taller, more deliberate in its movements. Figures that seemed to shift and fade when looked at directly, visible only from the corner of the eye.

"Hold formation," Ser Dallen commanded, his voice steady despite the tension evident in his stance. "Protect Lord Veyr at all costs."

The knights drew their swords in unison, the sound of steel clearing leather unnaturally loud in the silence. Soren’s hand moved to his own blade, the unfamiliar weight suddenly comforting against his palm.

"They’re watching us," Veyr murmured, his eyes fixed on the treeline. "Assessing."

The presence, for Soren could think of no better word, pressed against them like a physical weight. The air felt thicker, harder to breathe, as if they stood at the bottom of a deep lake rather than in an open clearing. The figures at the edge of the trees neither advanced nor retreated, maintaining their maddening almost-visibility.

Ser Torven muttered something that might have been a prayer. Beside him, another knight, Ser Caldre, the oldest of their group, shifted his stance, blade angled to catch the fading light.

"We should leave this place, my lord," Caldre said, his voice low but carrying. "There’s no honor in dying for a ruined shrine."

Veyr made no response, his attention fixed on the treeline. Soren followed his gaze, trying to focus on the shifting figures, but they seemed to slide away from direct observation, like trying to look at stars that vanished when stared at directly.

The shard against his chest gave one final, sharp pulse, so intense it nearly drove him to his knees...then abruptly quieted. The pressure in the air eased slightly, though the unnatural silence remained.

"They’re withdrawing," Veyr said suddenly, certainty in his voice though Soren could see no change in the indistinct shapes.

As if in answer, a breeze stirred the leaves overhead. A bird called in the distance, then another closer by. The weight that had pressed against them lifted, leaving only the ordinary tension of men who had faced something they didn’t understand.

"Mount up," Ser Dallen ordered, his voice rougher than before. "We ride until full dark."

The knights obeyed, though their eyes never left the treeline as they backed toward their horses. Soren moved to his mount, legs unsteady beneath him. The shard had gone completely silent, neither hot nor cold against his skin, as if exhausted by whatever had just transpired.

As they rode away from the shrine, the knights maintained a tense silence broken only by occasional murmurs between them. Soren caught fragments..."old battleground" and "ambush site" and "cursed place"...but no mention of the vision he’d experienced at the altar. None of them had seen what he had seen. None of them knew what the shard had shown him.

The road wound deeper into the wilderness, shadows lengthening as afternoon gave way to evening. Soren’s mind raced, trying to make sense of the vision. The azure knight, the golden betrayer, the broken oath, what did it mean? And why had the shard shown it to him now, in this place?

’Valenna?’ he thought, reaching for her presence in his mind. But she remained distant, withdrawn into whatever place she retreated to when not speaking directly to him.

They had ridden perhaps a mile from the shrine when Veyr suddenly reined his horse alongside Soren’s. The young lord’s face revealed nothing of his thoughts, his expression as carefully composed as ever.

"Next time," he said quietly, his voice pitched for Soren’s ears alone, "tell me before you feel something."

The words weren’t angry, that would have been easier to bear. Instead, they carried the cool authority of command, as if Soren had just confirmed something Veyr had long suspected.

"Yes, my lord," Soren replied, unsure what else to say.

Veyr studied him a moment longer, those calculating eyes taking his measure. Then, with a slight nod, he urged his mount forward, returning to his position at the head of their small column.

The road before them grew darker as twilight settled over the land. Soren rode in silence, the weight of the vision heavy in his mind, the shard cool and quiet against his skin. Whatever had happened at the shrine, whatever they had narrowly avoided, had left them all unsettled.

But more unsettling still was the realization that dawned on Soren as they rode deeper into the gathering darkness: Veyr hadn’t seemed surprised. Not by the shrine, not by the presence in the trees, not by Soren’s reaction to it all.

As if, perhaps, this detour had been planned all along.