Aster couldn't peel his eyes from the building. Not just because of its austere grandiosity. Around the building were giant stone statues, each of them in a unique pose, most nude, or loosely dressed in swaying garments.
But that was normal too—considering whose Stronghold this was —and not what caught his attention. Each of the statues held different objects, burning with illusive flames.
Some held staffs, braziers, and some simply burned in their eyes. He was still too far away to make out the details, but that only made it even more ominous.
The queue shuffled forward, climbing a broad stair that curved along the side of the fortress walls not far from their right, and the pale edifice that stood at the heart of the stronghold.
The air grew sharper, thinner. The sound reached them first—iron talons grinding on stone, the snap of wings folding, the low, guttural rumble that seemed to crawl into bone.
They reached the highest point of the steps arch. Beyond, a sheer cliff face stretched into mist. A flight platform nestled somewhere on its edge. Chained to it were griffins—massive.
The prisoners went silent. Some trembled. One gagged. Most of them though, weren't taken aback, already used to how things were.
Clouds didn't hang overhead. Instead, they gathered beneath the mountain's edge, surrounding the plain like a sea of dense cloth.
Some rose, drifting through the fortifications, brushing against boots and banners, soft and cold.
A voice shouted, carried easily into the open sky. "Move quickly, and maybe we can all get back before nightfall!"
Step by step, they moved forward, down the stairs and further, until they were close enough for the long shadows of the griffins to fall over them. Their wings shifted, a sound like storms rising.
He lifted his head. Each one of the colossal beast loomed, large as a building. Seemingly dwarfing even the giant stone statues.
Aster caught movement to the left.
A broad back. A lusterless black cape hung over one shoulder. Beneath it, dark silver armor gleamed—like it had been cast from the underworld. A sharp, tense voice rang out. The man was arguing with the centurion.
That alone was strange. No one here had the rank—or the nerve.
Aster stopped and turned. The voice was familiar.
The voices grew clearer as they approached.
"…You dare do this without clearance from high command?"
The centurion's reply was low, filled with vexed deference.
Whoever the man was, he was not beholden to his authority. Perhaps even outranked most present.
The figures broke from the fog, there seemed to be a small gathering near the entrance of the grey Principia, the centurion a step behind in tow.
Through the blue haze and drifting snow, Aster could now see the full scene: two sentinels in full body armor flanked the entrance, each wielding a spear of impractical size, unmoving beneath the shadow of the broad portico lined with columns.
In front of them and towering above, statues loomed—immense figures facing each other on the entrance steps, great swords stabbed into the stone, heads of perfect proportions slightly bowed.
From the pommels, bright smokeless flames burned, casting flickering light across the gathering that made the shadows cling.
The man in dark silver turned sharply, his cape snapping in the wind. With a final glance at the centurion, he strode away indifferently, brushing past him—leaving the others beneath the statues in uneasy silence.
A sword hung loosely from his hip. Every step left a deep print in the snow. The dark metal of his armor was patterned with sharp and smooth curves alike— akin to monsters trying to escape, or a restless sea of stygian flames.
He walked straight toward Aster.
His hand resting on his sword's hilt. He emanated a feral aura that made everyone give him a wide berth. Even the old man beside Aster slyly removed himself. Traitor
When he stopped before him, the air itself seemed to tighten. In his current body, Aster really had to crane his neck to look up.
The young man's disheveled black hair whipped in the wind, his face pale and ashen beneath smears of red.
His unkempt appearance and wild eyes gave him the look of a beast—one barely restraining its fangs, one heartbeat away from drawing steel.
And yet, when their eyes met—when he truly saw him—the rage broke.
He froze for half a heartbeat, then dropped to one knee with a muffled thud, snow scattering. A ripple passed through the crowd. Guards stiffened. A few prisoners turned, whispering. Even the sentinels seemed to shift.
"…Your Highness." His voice trembled between disbelief and grief. "Tell me this isn't true. What happened?"
Aster blinked, taken aback. The title felt foreign now. Empty.
"Rise, Sir Calen," he said quietly.
His voice was rough, almost a whisper, but steady. This person. How could he not remember him
Calen's jaw tightened. "I leave for a few months—and I find you here? Shackled like a criminal?"
The centurion shifted uneasily but didn't interfere.
"I told them it wasn't possible," Calen went on, voice low and shaking. "You're—" He stopped himself, glancing at the guards. "You can't imagine what they're saying."
Aster's lips curved faintly—something between pain and irony. "I can imagine."
Even after years of defamation, Calen seeing him like this… it hurt. Aster felt a pang of pain, embarrassment? regret?
Calen exhaled sharply, running a gloved hand through his hair. "I was out on a mission. A few weeks turned months in the northern ridges—by the time I returned… to this principia of all places..." He trailed off, looking at him again as if still not convinced he was real.
"If I'd been there, maybe—"
"Maybe nothing," Aster cut in gently. "What's happened has happened,"
Calen looked at him for a moment too long, searching for guilt, denial, rage—but found only calm. The kind that unsettled him even more. He didn't sound the same. Something about his mannerism was off.
Then, softer, cutting in: "Then I'll find the truth," he muttered. "I swear it on my name. On the House's blood if I must."
Aster's gaze flickered toward the crowd of watching eyes.
"Be careful, Calen. Listen to me. Don't do anything you shouldn't. I'll call upon you soon. But now is not the time. For that, I need you alive and well."
Calen's eyes narrowed, not satisfied. Aster had to reassure him in some way. Distract him.
Aster placed a hand on his shoulder. "I'll be fine. Go, shave. You're making everyone uncomfortable. Submit a formal request to visit me in two weeks."
The warrior's forlorn face wavered awkwardly at the first part, then his eyes soon burned with endless determination.
Now isn't the time to get emotional.
With that thought, he bowed slightly, then rose, stepping back with visible restraint before turning toward the Principia.
Aster watched him go, the snow crunching under his boots until the sound was lost to the wind. For a brief moment, the past and present overlapped—a memory of laughter, of simpler days before the storm.
He exhaled softly.
If you'd been there… would it have changed anything?
He doubted it.
He knew how Callen's story ended.
None of that will happen again. I need strength. Power—to protect those I cherish from the future's cruelty, and become a harbinger of death and destruction to others. The first step is defying mine.
The griffins stood in their lines like warships at harbor. Enormous creatures, their feathers pale grey with streaks of white that shimmered in the dim light.
Their manes rippled like frostbitten silk, their talons dug easily into the black stone as if it were soil. Each breath came out as steam, mingling with the mist that clung to the mountain.
When one of them shifted and buffeted its wings, a gale swept through the platform, scattering dust and forcing the prisoners to shield their faces.
Aster looked up through the haze, eyes widening.
Its eyes glowed faintly amber—sharp and intelligent.
For a moment, he forgot where he stood.
The clouds and wind smelled fresh, like pure waters. Billowing cold waves, unending…
Aster didn't realize he was whispering the lines until a squire passing by with a basket of griffin feathers gave him a strange look—bowing ever so slightly before hurrying away.
The sound of wings filled the silence around him.
The gap formed between himself and the other criminals by Calen's appearance lingered. He couldn't say he didn't like it.
At the same time, he forced himself not to recoil from all the eyes on him.
If he was to change anything. He'd have to start here, even dressed in rags.
The guards moved to work the harnesses, a tall task indeed. The majestic beasts were not feral, but wild, willful—mischievous creatures of feather and muscle. If their masters became complacent, a playful gesture might just harvest their life.
The griffins crouched low. Their eyes shining with primal power as they pawed against their restraints, beaks clacking like blades.
Harnesses of black leather and iron had been forced upon them, each bound to a chariot cage large enough to hold hundreds of prisoners at a time.
As Aster approached, he felt the air shift—sharp, cold, alive. The creature's feathers stirred, catching the faint light like blades. He placed a cautious hand near its flank, and it turned its great head toward him, unblinking.
The world beyond was a vast and beautiful place. Why then, should he know only pain?
The wind howled, tugging at his clothes. Somewhere behind the horizon, the faintest glow of silver light lined the sky of this world.
Aster exhaled slowly.
The air bit his skin—clear and thin. It would soon be their turn to mount the aerial carriages.