2.8 KiB
The shrine had no name, no altar—just a hollow between two frostbitten buildings, where the wind broke and the candles burned longer.
Weylan approached with the cautious reverence of someone stepping into sacred ground. The small charm in his hands—twine and feathers and a bead painted with his sister’s birth-mark—seemed too small to offer. But it was all he had.
He knelt, brushing snow from the stones to make a space among the offerings. A rusted ring. A child’s woolen doll. A single raven feather. All tokens of memory. All reminders that the living still remembered.
As his breath misted before him, his thoughts carried him back—to the road, the fire, and the man he had followed like a second shadow.
Weylen remembered… By the fire, the night after their escape...
The snow had melted from their boots, and the flames crackled low as Enric passed him a tin cup.
“You hold that like a man expecting poison,” Enric had grunted, smirking.
“It’s just strong,” Weylan had coughed.
“It’s weak,” the old captain had said. “You’ve just never had anything stronger than goat milk.”
Then he'd leaned back, armor creaking, the fire catching in the silver at his temples.
“You know what you are?” Enric had asked.
“A rabbit?” Weylan had said—only half-joking.
Enric chuckled, eyes closed. “You’re a seed. Buried in frost, thinking you’ll never grow. But wait until the thaw. You’ll crack the stone, boy.”
Weylen remembered… In the pass, storm rising…
Weylan had tripped, lungs searing, legs numb. Enric had doubled back, grabbed his arm, and hauled him upright like a sack of barley.
“If I have to drag your sorry ass through this pass,” he bellowed over the wind, “I’ll do it—but only because the princess likes you.”
“You think she likes me?” Weylan had shouted back, dizzy from cold.
“Don’t be stupid. She doesn’t. But she trusts you. And that’s rarer.”
Weylen remembered… On the city wall, just before the fall…
They’d stood in silence, looking east. The storm hadn’t broken yet, but the snow had begun to fall.
Enric had handed him a knife—not ceremonial, not noble, just sharp.
“You keep this,” he’d said. “Not for glory. For grit. Don’t let them make you less than what you are. And when the time comes—don’t wait for someone to say you’re ready.”
Weylan had nodded. He hadn’t known what to say.
Now, kneeling in the shrine’s hush, he spoke aloud: “I’m not ready. But I’ll try.”
There was no wind. No spirit’s breath. Only the sound of his own heartbeat, like footsteps in a hollow hall. He pressed the charm into the snow until it vanished beneath the white. Then he stood, drew in the cold like steel through the lungs, and turned toward the keep.
Tomorrow, he’d drill again. And he wouldn’t flinch.