Nestled in the shadow of jagged peaks, the hamlet of Nine Hills was little more than a stubborn blink of humanity, half-swallowed by the wild mountains that hemmed it in like indifferent giants.
Folks in town still muttered about the old Warlord buried up there somewhere—a beast of a man so vicious his own troops had hammered him a golden skull to swap out the one he'd smashed to bits in his last, bloody scrap. They'd tucked him away in a spot they dubbed "The Nine Ridges and Thirteen Slopes," some cursed maze of cliffs and gullies.
No one alive had ever laid eyes on it. And good riddance, most figured.
Arthur Blackwood picked his way up the goat-trail of a path, a humble wicker basket digging into his back like an unwelcome guest. His threads were threadbare but crisp as fresh laundry, doing zilch to hide that polished poise of a lordling's kid. Tall, easy on the eyes, skin pale as milk from dodging the sun's bite—he screamed "bookish knight-in-training" from a mile off.
He was Nine Hills' golden boy, the lone kid who'd clawed through the county's brutal knight trials. This trek? The last leg to the Royal Trials in the capital. One shot to drag the Blackwood name out of the gutter.
But hey, side quest first.
Tucked five miles deeper into the crags loomed the Crystal Spire Tower, a sagging ruin of faded glory—cracked stones whispering of spells long gone cold and a magic that'd fizzled out like a wet fuse.
Arthur was here to link up with the tower's fresh-faced boss.
The climb turned brutal quick, the path pitching steep enough to steal his wind. He paused, chest heaving, mopping sweat from his brow with a sleeve. That basket? Stayed glued to his back like a curse.
No way he'd risk dropping it.
Bundled inside, swaddled in oilcloth, lurked the whole point of this fool's errand. A dying whisper from his old man, Alden Blackwood: a relic, tied straight to the Celestials themselves.
He was still grinding out the final moss-slicked stone stairs when it hit him.
Thud. Grunt. Crack.
The raw soundtrack of a scrap gone south.
What fresh hell? Arthur figured, adrenaline spiking as he hauled ass up the last stretch.
First in view: the tower's freaky black-iron spire, stabbing the slate-gray sky like a middle finger from the gods. Then the main heap—worse off than memory served. Tattered white funeral rags from the old Master's send-off three moons back still snapped in the breeze like mocking ghosts. Weeds strangled the ramparts, turning battlements into a jungle gym for vines.
This joint wasn't fading. It was a straight-up cadaver.
Arthur hit the courtyard and froze mid-step. Three robed mages sprawled on the flagstones, mugs looking like they'd lost a bar brawl to a meat tenderizer—swollen, bloody, twitching. Looming over one was a fourth guy, barely out of boyhood, ponytail whipping wild. His boot pinned the loser's chest while he fished pockets like a pickpocket at a feast, coins vanishing into his tunic.
Up on the archway, etched faint under grime-cake:
The world's wealth is not for us.
The mountain's silence is our trust.
Irony hit thick as tar. Arthur nearly gagged on it.
Ponytail glanced up. Elias Thorne. Crystal Spire's shiny new overlord. And Arthur's ride-or-die from way back.
This was why he'd blown off the village head's bodyguard pitch. Him and Elias? Ironclad pact. Elias—the mage hotshot and mid-tier knight—was his shadow shield on the gauntlet to the capital. World like this? No room for tea-party chit-chat.
But Elias had ghosted the meet-up that dawn. Hours ticking by, Arthur's gut had twisted: dead in a ditch? Or just spaced on the time?
Now it clicked. The tower was imploding from the inside.
Arthur clocked the three groaners. Elias's big bros in the order. Harlan Grim, the graybeard, could've sired the punk.
And Elias—fresh-faced teenybopper—had mopped the floor with all three?
No way he'd buy it. Years of bromance, and Arthur never clocked this feral edge. It clicked the old Master's wild last call: ditching vets for a kid.
Wisdom? Nah. He'd picked the apex predator.
Coins pocketed, Elias locked eyes. That hunter's glare thawed to a toothy, wolf-pack grin. For a beat, he almost cleaned up nice—raw mountain fire sparking in his gaze. That scruffy beard-goatee? Just made him look like a pup playing tough.
"Arthur!" The bellow rolled like thunder.
Boot off chest, he sauntered to the gate, hucking sword and satchel over one shoulder. Deaf to his bros' wheezes, he snagged Arthur's arm.
"Let's roll. We're late as hell."
"Elias!" Harlan's bellow cracked the air, hawking bloody phlegm on the stones. "You thieving little shit—robbing your own blood for pocket change? You're no Master! Uncle Silas gets wind, he'll flay you alive!"
Uncle Silas. Old Master's roving sib. Tower's last real shot at backbone.
Yanked downhill, Arthur stage-whispered, "You actually just jacked their wallets?"
Elias snorted. "Ease up on the drama queen bit. Tower's flat broke. Call it... asset reallocation. They ghosted my orders, so I made 'em stick."
"Enforcement?" Arthur's jaw hit floor. Elias coin-crazy? Sure. But this? Straight-up bandit hour. "Newsflash—that scruff doesn't scream 'grown-up.' Silas used to wallop you for pie-nicking. Think he'll go easy on brother-mugging?"
Elias's smirk hitched, just a flicker. "Tch." Then his eyes snagged the basket's sag on Arthur's frame. Wordless, he unhitched it, crammed his junk inside, and shouldered the load like it was feathers. Quiet sorry, loud and clear.
They snaked a twisty trail off the peak, ghosting Nine Hills altogether. Hitting the main drag, Elias had ditched the robes for traveler drab—plain as yesterday's stew.
Road: dead quiet. Air: thick enough to chew.
Nearing the King's Highway fork, hoofbeats shattered the hush. Steady clip-clop. A carriage rolled up, easing to a crawl. Weird flex for these broke-back hills.
They edged aside to yield.
It didn't budge. Screeched halt dead-center. Elias's mitt hit sword-hilt, iron grip.
Driver—farmer getup—doffed his wide-brimmed lid. Jaw like a anvil, eyes steel-trap command. He vaulted the seat, dipped a crisp bow to Arthur.
Arthur's chin scraped dirt. "Master Pugh? What in the seven hells are you doing out here?"
Pugh: county council pencil-pusher, die-hard to Arthur's late pops.
Pugh's peepers darted to Elias—the rando.
"He's good," Arthur cut in. "Spill it straight."
Pugh's tone dropped urgent, like smuggling state secrets. "Here to yank you back, m'lord. Skip the capital. Ditch the Trials. Plenty more shots down the line."
What? Elias's gaze ping-ponged.
Arthur's brow knotted. "Hit me with a reason that sticks."
Pugh scoped the empty timber like spies lurked in the squirrels. "M'lord, you've been off-grid on the chatter. Southwest shires? Beast-riddled. Freaky critters prowling smart-like, mean as sin."
He inched closer, breath hot.
"They're cherry-picking knight hopefuls on the capital haul. Three down already. Lords are muzzling it to dodge mass freak-out, but word's ironclad."
"Why us?" Arthur reeled. "Zero sense."
"Beats me for sure," Pugh breathed. "But council whispers all snake back to one tag: the [Royal Arcane Guild]. Word is, they poked some ancient curse, woke this nightmare horde. Guild fingerprints? Mouths zip tighter than tombs."
[Royal Arcane Guild].
The tag dangled like a noose in the breeze. King's pet project, bowing to no one but the crown. Fanatics chasing ghost [Celestial Ruins].
Fanatics Arthur's dad had run with.
Elias nailed Arthur with a laser stare. He knew the dirt—spilled on his own deathbed by his mentor. Alden Blackwood? That hushed, wheeled shadow? No backwater squire.
Royal Engineer. Warden's Office top dog.
Gig? Grease the [Royal Arcane Guild]'s wild-goose for immortality cheats. Spot that turned him into kingdom brass—and bullseye bait.
Spot that probably painted the target on his back.