From Deadbeat noble to Top Rank Swordsman
Chapter 60: The Gathering Stone

Chapter 60: The Gathering Stone

Morning broke over the fortress with slow, reluctant light. The air was heavy, damp with the kind of stillness that came before storms—or verdicts.

Leon stood at the parapet, eyes scanning the mist-covered valleys below. From here, the world looked like it was holding its breath. The Citadel banners hadn’t yet arrived, but the fortress sentinels had already raised the neutral standard, an iron-grey pennant with no crest, no loyalty. Only silence.

Footsteps approached behind him. Kellen.

"The scribes have begun copying the recordings," he said. "They’ve already contacted three Orders. One of them responded. The Order of Stone. They’re sending a hearing circle. Could arrive before nightfall."

Leon gave a nod, his jaw tight. "And the others?"

"No word. But you know what silence means."

Leon didn’t answer. His gaze remained fixed.

In the main hall, Eliane spread a map across the central table. Marien joined her, arms crossed, eyes shadowed with fatigue.

"This place isn’t built to hold a siege," Eliane said. "If more than one Order comes demanding the blade or the boy, we won’t be able to resist by force."

"Then we don’t fight," Marien replied. "We use the laws they buried. Force them to face what they’ve signed."

Eliane tapped a mark on the map. "The Circle Chamber. It’s still intact. The stones there were laid in the Unity Accord. No one can dispute the records if shown there. Not legally."

Marien looked toward the arched doorway. "Then we hold them to it. No swords. Just truth."

By midday, the first approach came.

Six riders in stone-mantled cloaks crossed the outer field. At their head was a man with a burn-scarred face and one arm wrapped in silk. He bore no weapon, only a sigil etched into his palm—the mark of a Truthbearer.

Leon met them at the gates.

"I am Ser Vastian," the man said. "I speak for the Order of Stone. We have come to hear the blade."

Leon stepped aside. "Then come in peace, and leave with clarity."

They entered.

Inside the Circle Chamber, the sword was placed on the ancient dais. Scribes took positions, quills inked, tongues bound by vow.

Ser Vastian approached the weapon, then turned.

"Do you, Leon Thorne, swear that the blade you bear carries the truth of your father’s last hour?"

Leon met his gaze. "I do."

"Then speak, and let the stone listen."

Leon drew the blade.

And the chamber lit with memory.

It began again—the voices, the betrayal, the seal. But this time, it was witnessed not by rebels or remnants, but by the representatives of one of the last neutral Orders.

When it ended, silence returned.

Ser Vastian lowered his head.

"I have seen. And I cannot unsee."

Leon stepped back.

"What will your Order do?"

"What it must. Spread the word. Carry the truth. Demand the others answer for their silence."

Outside, the wind picked up.

Change was coming.

And it was no longer Leon who carried it alone.

By dusk, a second envoy arrived—this time under no flag.

Their armour bore no crest, but their movements spoke of precision. Three riders only, but two wore the patterned silver of the High Table’s independent auditors.

Leon watched their approach from the high gallery, jaw set.

Kellen returned to his side. "They’re not Truthbearers. They’re Council Inquisitors. If they’re here, they mean to bury something—not expose it."

Leon turned from the window. "Then we show them there’s nothing left to bury."

They met the inquisitors in the outer courtyard. No salutes. No titles.

"Leon Thorne," the lead rider said, "we request immediate access to all vault materials and scribe documentation relating to your... testimony."

"You request," Leon replied. "Not command."

The woman nodded. "For now."

He gestured to the hall. "Then for now, we walk under witness."

The inquisitors followed, but not before their youngest member paused—barely twenty, wide-eyed, gaze flicking to the neutral sigil above the gate.

Leon saw it.

That pause.

It mattered.

Inside, the tension shifted. The chamber now held too many eyes. Scribes, auditors, neutral archivists. And outside the stone walls, more riders appeared by the hour. Some watched from hills. Others waited by the trees.

Pressure was building.

And Leon knew it wouldn’t hold forever.

He returned to the Circle Chamber by nightfall.

The sword still rested on the dais. Silent. Waiting.

Kellen entered after him. "One of the auditors asked to hear the full council again."

Leon nodded. "Then play it again. Let them see it until they’re blind to lies."

Hours passed.

And when the fortress bell rang once—slow, deliberate—Leon rose.

A third envoy had arrived.

The Order of Flame.

No sigils. No greetings.

But they came bearing a casket.

And in it, another blade.

One that hadn’t been seen since the Fall of Accord.

Eliane’s expression shifted when she saw it. Her voice broke as she spoke two words:

"His twin."

Leon moved forward slowly, staring down at the second blade—an exact match in length, curvature, and steelgrain, but its hilt bore the mark of the Flame Keepers: a burning eye enclosed by a ring of coals.

"This blade..." he began, then paused. "It was forged with the same fire. But meant for a different hand."

The envoy from the Order of Flame, a man cloaked in red-and-black linen robes, nodded. "It was carried by your uncle. Kieran Thorne. One of the Flame Pact’s final witnesses. We’ve kept it in trust. Waiting for this moment."

Eliane’s face paled. "Kieran was lost at the crossing. They never recovered his body."

"He wasn’t lost," the Flame envoy said. "He was taken. Silenced before he could stand beside your father in the final vote."

A whisper cut through the gathered chamber. Even the scribes paused.

Leon looked to Eliane, then to the sword. "Then why now? Why bring it here?"

"Because one blade bore the truth," the envoy said. "But the other bore the choice."

Leon turned sharply. "What choice?"

"The path ahead," the envoy replied. "Your father forged a way to expose the truth. But your uncle... he forged a way to fight back if that truth was buried."

The casket opened fully, revealing not just the blade—but a folded map. Older than anything in the fortress library. Marked with sites, names, symbols long redacted by the High Table.

Ser Vastian stepped forward, eyes locked on the map. "Those are the Sanctuary Lines."

Eliane swallowed hard. "Then he knew. Kieran knew where the last oath stones were hidden."

Leon reached for the sword’s hilt. It was colder than the first. He lifted it—heavier, somehow, with weight not just of steel, but of consequence.

Outside, the wind howled.

And the bell rang again.

More were coming.

Leon stood over the open map, his fingers tracing the faded lines. The markings weren’t just places—they were symbols of power, each one anchored to a forgotten pact. Hidden sanctuaries, unbroken oaths, and silent watchers placed long before the accords fractured.

Kellen hovered behind him, glancing between the map and the twin blades. "If those sites are still intact, we’re looking at the last failsafe."

Leon nodded slowly. "Or the last provocation."

Eliane took a breath. "We can’t split forces now. Not with the fortress under watch."

"We won’t," Leon said. "But if the oath stones hold the weight the Flame Pact claimed, then we need someone to move before the Orders do."

Marien stepped forward, eyes on the casket. "Then send me."

"No," Leon said immediately. "They’ll be looking for you. For all of us. You’re too tied to the blade’s testimony."

She didn’t back down. "Then send someone they won’t expect."

The room turned quiet.

And then the youngest auditor—still standing awkwardly near the chamber’s edge—cleared his throat. "I... I know those lands. Some of them."

They all turned to him.

He swallowed. "My family is from the Gyr Hollow. That’s one of the marks. I’ve seen that symbol carved into the wellstone there. Locals think it’s decoration."

Leon studied him. The boy had barely spoken since arriving.

"You’d go back?" he asked.

The auditor hesitated. "If I carried the Order’s seal and said it was part of a sanctioned review... they wouldn’t question it."

"And if they did?"

The boy’s jaw tightened. "Then I’ll lie."

Eliane raised a brow. "What’s your name, lad?"

"Cerin."

Kellen looked him up and down. "You sure you’re ready for this?"

"No," Cerin admitted. "But it sounds like it has to be done."

Leon nodded once. "Then you’ll carry a copy of the recording. And this," he said, sliding a silver token from his belt—a pass stone engraved with the sigil of neutral witness.

Cerin pocketed it, his hands shaking just slightly.

Outside, the wind pressed against the stained-glass panels.

Inside, the gathering stone bore witness to yet another oath—unwritten but binding.

And as Cerin stepped from the chamber with the map’s first direction etched into his thoughts, Leon watched him go with a weight he didn’t voice.

Because the truth had been heard.

But what came next... would demand something more than memory.

It would demand action.