From Deadbeat noble to Top Rank Swordsman
Chapter 61: The Sanctuary

Chapter 61: The Sanctuary

Cerin left before dawn. No fanfare, no escort. Just the weight of a fortress watching from behind stone walls. The pass stone hung under his shirt, the copy of the recording sealed in a double-wrapped leather tube strapped to his back. And under his arm, the map—faded but still legible, inked with destinations that hadn’t been named aloud in over twenty years.

Leon watched him ride until the eastern ridge swallowed him.

Then he turned back to the hall.

The fortress was stirring. More eyes. More questions. Even neutral ground had limits.

By noon, four more envoys had arrived. One from the Order of Sight, two from minor Northern Circles, and a cloaked rider whose origin none could verify. They didn’t speak much. Didn’t protest either. Just listened. And watched.

Leon stood before them once again.

The sword repeated its memory.

The halls echoed with silence.

When the blade dimmed again, Vastian stepped forward. "The truth stands. But so does fear. They will try to fracture this before it roots."

Marien nodded. "Then we root it faster."

They moved the chamber north, into the scribe vault. The oldest vaults had stone sealwork older than most Orders. Unmovable. Undeniable. There, they carved a third copy. Not to be hidden—but to be sent. A carrier hawk, trained by the archivists, was bound with it and loosed to the Citadel.

If intercepted, they would know.

That evening, Leon stood before the Circle again. He didn’t ask for allegiance. Only a vote.

Would the fortress remain a sanctuary?

Would they defend it until judgment came?

One by one, the Orders stood.

Not all.

But enough.

Eliane exhaled. "We hold. For now."

Leon turned to Kellen. "Then send word south. If the Council won’t come, we take it to them."

And behind him, the twin blades gleamed together under torchlight.

For the first time in twenty years.

Together.

One of the scribes finished inscribing the last line of the agreed declaration. The sound of the quill lifted from parchment with a sharp flick. A formal record, signed in the presence of six Orders and the seal of the Gathering Stone—proof that the fortress now held legal neutrality and sanctuary under the old accords.

Outside the fortress walls, riders still gathered like stormclouds. Scouts returned with reports of Southern emissaries setting up camp by the lower ridge. Not attackers, not yet. But watchers. Calculators.

Leon paced the upper hall beside Eliane. "They’re waiting for the momentum to die."

"They want the fortress to become another forgotten spark," she replied. "Buried under formalities."

Leon stopped. "We can’t let it."

Eliane’s expression turned grim. "Then we make it burn too bright to ignore."

Below, Marien briefed the cadets. Not on combat—but procedure. Protection orders. Witness protocols. How to relay an unfolding verdict without breaking neutrality. They weren’t soldiers now. They were conduits. Every move mattered.

Inside the Circle Chamber, Ser Vastian spoke with the Sight envoy—a woman in glass-threaded robes, her eyes half-veiled, voice like wind across cold glass. "What you’ve shown," she said softly, "will fracture more than Orders. It will reach the Common Law. The Inheritance Code. Maybe even the Stone Charter."

Vastian’s face remained unreadable. "Then it reaches."

Leon joined them as the last bell rang. "Have you made your decision?"

The Sight envoy nodded. "We won’t pledge arms. But we’ll pledge clarity. Every record we take from here will be duplicated and stored under star-vault witness."

"That’s enough," Leon said.

He turned to leave, but paused when the envoy added, "Your uncle’s blade. It was carried by a Seer once. A long time ago. Before the accords. That mark on the hilt—it wasn’t just Flame. It was Vision."

Leon blinked. "What do you mean?"

"I mean the blade is more than steel. It remembers. Not just what was—but what might still be."

She left without further explanation.

That night, the twin blades were placed side by side on the dais.

Leon stood over them alone.

Kellen entered with a slow step. "We had a courier come back."

Leon looked up.

"From Gyr Hollow?"

"No," Kellen said. "From further. Westward. He was trying to reach us for three days. One of the Southern Citadels fell."

Leon’s grip tightened. "Which one?"

"Velmaris. The Red Archive. They tried to withhold records. Someone called in a purge order."

Leon turned away. "Then it’s started."

Kellen gave a slow nod. "You won’t stop it with just parchment."

"No," Leon said. "But I’ll start it with that. And finish it with steel."

He looked to the twin blades.

And for a moment, they didn’t seem like relics.

They looked like verdicts waiting to be spoken.

Before dawn broke again, whispers circled the walls. Another envoy—riders from the Ivory Tithe—had been spotted near the western rise. Known for mercantile neutrality, their presence stirred tension.

"They don’t come without intent," Marien said.

Leon nodded, watching the dust rise from their approach. "Or without profit."

The Tithe’s leader, a gaunt man in copper-banded silk, greeted Leon with a deep bow. "Not to judge. Only to witness," he said.

Leon gestured him through. "Then do so with both eyes open."

Within the hour, the Tithe offered their courier lanes and silent vaults in exchange for only one thing: access. Not to the sword—but to the map.

Eliane leaned in close after the envoy left. "They’ll sell it. Or worse, trade it."

Leon stared toward the rising sun. "Then we give them what they can’t use."

He spent the next three hours with Kellen and three scribes redrawing the map—distorted, partial, marked with false trails. Enough to keep the real paths obscured, but just enough truth to appear credible.

When the Tithe left, they carried their price.

That night, Leon sat before the blades again.

"Elric is dead." Marien’s voice was soft but final. "They sent word from the coast. His enclave resisted the purge."

Leon didn’t move. "How many?"

"Too many."

Silence stretched.

And then Leon spoke, low and hard. "They think the fortress is the spark. But it isn’t. It’s the match."

He rose.

And behind him, the sanctuary trembled.

By the following night, the ridge was lit with distant fires—signal beacons, too deliberate to be anything but coordinated. Word was spreading faster than hawks could carry, and not all messages were neutral.

Eliane stood beside the ramparts, spyglass raised. "That’s the Fifth Banner. Westmarch colors. I thought they disbanded."

Leon joined her. "They didn’t. They were absorbed."

"By who?"

"The ones who signed the purge orders."

From below, another bell rang. A short, high chime—signal of arrival.

Kellen met them at the gate. "It’s not another envoy," he said. "It’s the Hollow Guard."

Eliane stiffened. "That’s not possible. They were erased in the Accord War."

Leon moved without a word, reaching the courtyard just as the gates opened.

Ten riders entered in full black armour, faces covered by darksteel helms. They bore no sigils. Only a single standard, tattered by wind but unmistakable: a hollow tree, roots exposed, circled by falling stars.

One rider dismounted and removed his helm.

An older man. Scarred. Quiet-eyed.

He looked at Leon. "I fought beside your father."

Leon stared. "You’re supposed to be dead."

"We all were. But truth has a way of calling ghosts back to light."

He offered no oath. No demand. Just a statement.

"If you’re marching south, you won’t do it alone."

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