Clip-clop— Clip-clop—
The steady rhythm of the horses' hooves blended with the quiet creaks of the carriage as it rolled toward the Empire's boundary.
The sun bled gold across the horizon, sinking behind the rolling hills as dust curled in the carriage's wake. The crisp evening air carried the scent of dry earth and distant greenery.
Arlon leaned back against the seat, fingers idly brushing over the fabric-wrapped stone in his grasp. He wasn't even thinking about the Cursed Stone anymore. He was thinking about how nice it would be to live a peaceful life. A simple one. One where he wouldn't have to constantly deal with people trying to kill him, manipulate him, or drag him into some grand mystical nonsense.
But no.
Instead, he was stuck in a carriage with a cursed artifact, a jumpy merchant, a swordsman with too many secrets, and a talking cat who never let him nap properly.
Somehow, despite all his best efforts, he was still neck-deep in chaos—with a cursed rock, a jittery merchant, a swordsman with too many secrets, and a talking cat who stole half his naps.
The peaceful silence didn't last.
"Sir… about the stone," Taron finally spoke, his voice hesitant. "It's not just about raw power. It's the kind of thing that… causes havoc. Even without meaning to." His words trailed off, the weight behind them obvious.
Arlon exhaled through his nose.
"Of course it does," he muttered, rubbing his temple. "Why wouldn't it?"
Wasn't that how it always went? He found one thing—one thing—that was supposed to be rare and unknown, and suddenly it was some world-ending artifact.
He could already see where this was going.
"You've already told me enough," Arlon said at last, his tone dry. "I won't be careless."
Taron hesitated, like he wanted to say more but wasn't sure if he should. Then, after a beat, he leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice.
"One last thing," he muttered. "Once you touch a Cursed Stone, it binds to you. No one else can activate it. No one else can control it. And if the wrong people find out? They'll do anything—anything—to take it from you."
Arlon's fingers stilled over the fabric, but he kept his expression blank.
Taron swallowed hard before adding, "And if you ever come across another one… don't tell anyone. Not a soul. People would tear apart entire kingdoms just to get their hands on one. The moment someone knows you have it, you're a target."
A heavy silence settled over the carriage.
Arlon stared at him for a long moment before exhaling and leaning back against the seat. "Not a problem," he said smoothly. "Because I have no intention of finding another one."
Taron blinked. "...Huh?"
Arlon gestured lazily with one hand. "You're talking like I'm about to go treasure hunting for these things. I don't want any more cursed objects in my life. I already have one, and that's more than enough responsibility for me."
Taron opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, before finally deciding to just nod. "...Right. That's... probably for the best."
Ace, meanwhile, snickered, his tail curling in amusement. "You say that, but somehow, I feel like you're still going to end up with another one."
Arlon shot him a flat look. "If I do, I'm blaming you."
Ace stretched, completely unbothered. "I accept that blame with honor."
Arlon resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. He was so tired.
Taron, seemingly satisfied with that response, leaned back, though the tension in his shoulders didn't fully ease. His gaze drifted toward the window, as if searching for something he couldn't quite name.
The road stretched ahead, leading them ever closer to the Empire's gates.
Clatter— Clatter—
The carriage rumbled forward, its wheels creaking in steady rhythm. In the distance, towering walls loomed against the horizon—the Empire's border, standing as a silent divide between where they had come from and whatever awaited them ahead.
The road stretched endlessly, worn smooth by generations of travelers. Inside the carriage, the steady clatter of wheels against the dirt filled the silence, broken only by the occasional rustle of wind through the trees.
Outside the small window, the horizon shimmered under the golden light of dusk, painting the sky in hues of orange and violet. The once untamed wilderness had given way to well-tended roads, fields of grain, and villages that dotted the landscape—signs that they were approaching the heart of power.
And then, beyond the last stretch of open land, it appeared.
A great wall, taller than any fortress Arlon had seen on this journey, stretched far into the distance, curving around the unseen city within. It stood, unyielding and proud, its ancient stonework polished by time yet no less imposing. The banners hanging from the watchtowers swayed gently, catching the sunlight and gleaming like gold.
Closer still, figures clad in armor patrolled the perimeter, their spears and swords catching the fading light. The atmosphere had changed. The air here was heavier, filled with a quiet authority that could not be ignored.
This was more than just another city.
This was the heart of an empire.
The Aletheia Empire.
The Empire loomed before them, vast and imposing. From the small window of the carriage, Arlon took in the sight of the towering walls, standing like silent guardians against the horizon. The stone, polished yet weathered by time, reflected the golden light of the setting sun, casting long shadows across the ground.
Beyond the walls, the Empire's capital stretched far and wide, a place where power, ambition, and secrets wove together in an intricate dance. It was a world of politics and deception, where the strong thrived and the weak were trampled underfoot.
And now, he was about to step into it once more.
Clatter— Clatter—
The rhythmic clatter of the carriage wheels against the dirt road filled the heavy silence inside. Arlon leaned his head against the wall, his mind swimming with the countless events that had unfolded since the start of his journey.
The Gray Wolf Clan.
The Master of the Land.
The truth about the Seven Heavens.
His encounter with Taron.
The Pry Cult's hidden agenda and their connection to the mercenaries.
The so-called Village of Treasure.
And now, the existence of Cursed Stones, relics of unknown origins and unfathomable power.
Each revelation layered upon the last, forming a tangled web that he had yet to unravel. It was almost too much to process. His temples throbbed as he let out a slow breath, massaging his forehead.
Another headache.
And the worst part? He had a sinking feeling that the chaos was only just beginning.
As the carriage rolled closer, the tension in the air thickened. The scent of earth and steel mixed with the distant aroma of burning incense from roadside shrines, offerings left by travelers seeking safe passage into the great city beyond the wall.
Taron shifted uncomfortably in his seat, fingers twitching against his knee as he peered out the carriage window. His gaze flickered between the massive gate ahead and the line of heavily armed guards stationed before it.
Their armor gleamed under the dimming sunlight, polished to an almost unnatural shine, and the sigil on their chests—a regal emblem unknown to him—spoke of authority beyond his understanding.
It wasn't the presence of guards that unsettled him. He had seen plenty of soldiers in his time. But the way they stood—disciplined, unwavering, and watchful—was different. These weren't ordinary sentinels stationed to deter petty criminals or wandering vagrants. These were the gatekeepers of something far greater.
Then he noticed it.
At first, nothing seemed unusual. The checkpoint operated like any other, with soldiers pacing in measured patrols, voices low but unconcerned. Then, one of them caught sight of the carriage. A pause. Then another turned.
A second later, the air shifted. Movements stiffened. Murmurs passed in hushed urgency. Hands drifted toward hilts—not out of hostility, but preparation. Like they had been waiting.
The checkpoint, which had been operating with an almost routine air, shifted in an instant. Soldiers adjusted their stances, backs straightening as their gazes locked onto the approaching carriage with laser focus. Some turned to their higher-ranked officers, awaiting silent orders, while others moved with quiet urgency, repositioning themselves in a formation that was too well-practiced to be mere coincidence.
Taron's breath hitched as he saw it.
This wasn't just an inspection.
This was preparation.
Then came the final confirmation—the lead officer, a man clad in reinforced black and gold armor, lifted his hand in a sharp gesture.
"Open the gates—immediately!" he ordered, his voice carrying a weight that sent the surrounding soldiers into swift action.
"That carriage…" one of the younger guards muttered, his grip tightening on his spear. "It bears the sigil of—"
"Quiet," his senior cut him off sharply. "Eyes ahead. Stand ready."
Another guard whispered under his breath, barely audible but laced with nervous anticipation. "So the rumors weren't just rumors… The Young Lord has returned."
The towering gates groaned as they were pushed open, the heavy iron doors parting well before the carriage had even reached them.
Not a single question. Not a single demand for identification.
They knew.
Taron's fingers curled tightly around his knee as he risked a sideways glance at Arlon. The man in question remained composed, his sharp gaze fixed ahead as if this level of reception was nothing unusual.
Taron swallowed hard, his fingers gripping the fabric of his pants as he forced himself to stay still.
Taron had assumed Arlon was just another noble—maybe a well-connected one, but still just a noble. Now, as the entire Empire practically bowed in his presence, he realized how deeply, deeply wrong he had been.