The wind howled like a starving beast across the highlands.
Aden guided his black horse toward the Bastion of Blades, its towering blackstone walls rising from the cliffside like the spine of a dead god. The fortress loomed as it always had—unyielding, ancient, cold. Rain clung to his cloak in clumps, and the mud on his boots had dried to a brittle crust, cracking with every slow step forward.
He reined in at the sealed front gate, letting the horse snort and pace. For a few seconds, he just sat there, breathing.
'So this is what coming home feels like.'
It wasn't warmth or relief. Just a tightening in his gut, a pressure beneath his ribs. He reached up and pulled his hood further down, obscuring half his face. Then, with a voice that barely betrayed the exhaustion lodged in his throat, he called out.
"Rudeus Vasco. I need an audience."
His voice bounced off the black walls like a pebble thrown at a mountain. For a few seconds, there was nothing. No response, no shift in the fortress gates. The rain resumed its steady rhythm.
Then—a clank of gears. The gate creaked open just enough to let a figure through.
A tall knight stepped forward, armored in dull steel, his pauldrons etched with the Vasco family insignia. His jaw was set like stone, and the wind did nothing to stir his short-cropped black hair. Aden recognized him immediately—an Vasco. The fortress's watch hound and Vice-Commander.
Ian looked him over with a slow, cautious gaze. "The Lord doesn't meet just anyone," he said, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword.
Aden remained still atop his horse. "He'll want to meet me."
"I doubt that," Ian said, stepping forward. "Take off the hood."
'Right to business,' Aden thought. No room for guessing games at the Bastion. He reached into his cloak instead, pulling out a small, worn leather pouch. With deliberate care, he opened it and produced a hand-sized sigil—roughly forged from iron, marked with the Vasco crest. Crude, but unmistakable.
Ian's eyes sharpened. His gaze flicked between the sigil and the hooded rider, then narrowed. "Where did you get that?"
"It's mine," Aden said, finally pulling back the hood. His hair clung wet to his forehead, and his face was drawn thin from weeks of strain. "I'm Aden Vasco."
Ian stiffened, then stepped back half a pace.
Ian stared at it, then at him.
"You look like shit."
"Thanks."
"You sound worse."
Aden gave a faint, tired smile. "It's been a long year."
Ian didn't smile back. "You're thinner. Aura's off. If you are who you say you are, something's broken."
Aden shrugged. "It was never perfect to begin with."
"Right." Ian lowered his hand, but his eyes stayed sharp. "You disappear, everyone assumes you're dead or worse. Then you show up dressed like a drifter, asking for the Lord of the Bastion like it's a tavern."
Aden didn't answer right away. He was watching the courtyard beyond Ian—trying to remember what it had felt like to walk through those halls without second-guessing every step.
It's like standing outside a memory. Except now the door has a lock and you don't know if the key still fits.
"I didn't come for a warm welcome," he said. "Just a conversation."
Ian snorted. "We don't do casual conversations here. You know that."
"I'm not here to cause trouble."
"Good. Because if you were, I'd drop you right here."
Aden raised an eyebrow. "Would you?"
Ian's frown deepened, but he didn't move. He seemed… conflicted. Recognition was in his eyes, but so was doubt.
He kept his expression unreadable. "I didn't come here to explain myself to you."
Ian grunted, then finally gestured toward the interior path. "Follow me. But don't expect smiles."
Aden nodded. He tied the reins loosely to a stone post, letting the horse rest. Then he walked after Ian, the mud squelching beneath each step. The great gates closed behind them with a grinding thud.
As they entered the fortress, the scent of steel and old smoke welcomed him like a ghost. Familiar corridors stretched ahead—though they felt colder, smaller somehow.
'Do I still belong here?' he wondered. 'Or am I just pretending to be a Vasco now?'
Ian glanced back at him once, then said gruffly, "You better hope the Lord still remembers your name."
'Oh yeah?, like he'd forget his own nephew, but knowing him... he just might'
Aden gave no reply, but something flickered in his chest. A name was more than enough—if you knew how to burn it into the world.
The walk was long, winding up iron staircases and down wide corridors marked with maps, weapons, and relics of forgotten battles. They stopped at a thick door, pushed it open.
Inside, an upper war chamber.
Torches lined the walls here, casting long shadows across a central table heaped with scrolls and pinned maps. Figures and markers stood arranged in formations—armies, fortresses, trade lines. Rudeus Vasco stood behind it, gauntleted hands braced against the table's edge.
He didn't turn at first. Didn't need to.
Then, as if sensing it in his spine, Rudeus looked up. His gaze locked with Aden's.
It took a second—just one—but something passed between them in that silence. A line pulled taut by blood, history, and something more ancient than either of them could name.
A nod.
Rudeus stepped away from the table and reached for his cloak.
"Come," he said.
He didn't explain. Didn't ask why Aden had come or how. Just walked past Ian, past the door, down another corridor that led toward the outer stables.
Aden followed, his voice tight in his throat. "Uncle—"
"Not now," Rudeus said, curt. "Let's go."
They mounted horses in the lower yard, both men already soaked again from the mist. The road they took wasn't marked, and the hills they crossed were steep and barren, shrouded in fog. Somewhere beyond them lay the ancestral heart of House Vasco—long abandoned, long sealed. Aden had been there just an year ago to consult with his grandfather.
He tried again, voice quieter this time. "Why—"
"You'll speak when the time is right," Rudeus snapped, not looking back. His voice wasn't angry. Just absolute.
The silence between them stretched longer than the road.
Aden didn't try again.
He rode. Behind him, the Bastion shrank into shadow. Before him, the ruins waited.
And beside him, the man who had once held this land in fire and fear—riding without a word.