Arcalion’s fortress welcomed them back in frozen silence. Nothing had moved. And yet, everything felt different.

  Garlan stopped beneath the archway. He stared at the slabs, the crystals, the walls.

  It felt as though his body had changed. Or his eyes. Perhaps both.

  Marenna stepped close, laying a hand on his arm.

  — You’ve been quiet since we left, she whispered.

  — I think I just realized… I’ve never truly known anything about my parents. Not their faces. Not their voices. Only… fragments.

  She squeezed his arm tighter.

  — We’ll find them. One way or another.

  Garlan didn’t answer. But his silence had shifted shape.

  They climbed the stairs, then walked the familiar corridors. Brenuss trotted behind, solemn. He hadn’t spoken since Skjoldür’s sanctuary. Even he seemed contemplative, as though the ice had frozen something within him.

  The draconic map glowed faintly.

  Arcalion was already there, waiting. Leaning against the table, one hand on the hilt of his sword. His gaze had hardened, though his presence remained calm.

  — So… Skjoldür spoke? he asked without turning.

  — He recognized me, Garlan answered. And he showed me things I still don’t know how to process.

  The paladin nodded slowly. He pushed himself upright, pacing toward one of the tall windows that overlooked the frozen ridges. His stride was slower than before. His left arm hung stiff at his side.

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  — Do you know why I no longer carry a shield?

  Marenna frowned.

  — Because you’re an offensive paladin?

  Arcalion gave a bitter smile.

  — Because a wind dragon took it from me. Pierced my arm with a blade of air. Invisible. Weightless. Sharper than any magic. Since then, this arm burns at the slightest effort. I survived. But he… he vanished without finishing me. He was waiting. For something.

  He turned toward them, raising a trembling hand to point at a blurred zone on the map.

  — If I had to wager on a hidden sanctuary… it would be here. No paths. No name. Only a solitary stone column standing in a wind-scoured plain. Some say, on clear days, it floats above the ground.

  Garlan stepped closer. His eyes lingered on the map, but his mind seemed already elsewhere.

  — Since we returned, he murmured, I’ve felt the wind pulling at my back. Even inside these walls.

  He lifted his hand. A faint breeze slipped between his fingers.

  Brenuss let out a low growl, as though in confirmation. Marenna turned toward him.

  — He feels it too?

  — I think… it’s a call, Garlan replied. Not like Skjoldür’s. More diffuse. But more… familiar.

  Arcalion folded his arms.

  — So you plan to leave tomorrow?

  — Tomorrow, yes.

  Silence lingered.

  Then Garlan turned to Arcalion.

  — But before that… I have one last thing to settle.

  The paladin raised a brow, faintly amused.

  — I expected as much.

  He straightened, rolling his shoulders, then jerked his chin toward the fortress summit.

  — The roof is free. The wind is good there.

  Garlan smirked faintly, saying nothing.

  They left the chamber. Marenna sighed, not following at once.

  — I have a feeling I’ll be patching up two fools.

  Already on the stairs, Arcalion called back over his shoulder:

  — You could always bet on me.

  She shot back without missing a beat, a crooked smile on her lips:

  — I never said who I was betting on.

  Their footsteps faded into the stairwell.

  And above, the wind readied itself to become judge.