The deeper they walked into the Skyward Bastion, the more the world shifted around them—bright, vertical, alert.
The Rooster Kingdom did not simply build upward; it lived in the sky.
Wind swept across layered platforms.
Chimes rang from every balcony.
Sharp-edged banners of red, gold, and white fluttered with each passing breeze.
Pyrope felt dozens of eyes on them—guardians perched above, silent and unmoving, watching like statues carved from vigilance itself.
Rowan walked at the front with Tidewhisper at his side.
Lira stayed close to Pyrope, her small hands gripping her sleeves.
And Anatolian—
“I’m not leaving the mount. I’m not. I refuse.”
—clung desperately to the reins of the exhausted black-ant mount.
A Rooster guardian sighed, pinched the bridge of his beak-like helm, and spoke in a flat tone:
“Very well. You come with me. Both of you.”
Another guardian approached to take the mount’s harness.
The ant mount, legs trembling from its earlier sprint, collapsed onto its knees with a weak whine.
Anatolian gasped, horrified. “NO—NO—MY SWEET BABY—DON’T DIE—!”
“It’s not dying,” the stable guardian muttered. “It’s tired.”
Anatolian refused to move from its side.
So, the guardian simply nodded once and led both man and mount toward the kingdom’s beast stables.
The rest of the group continued onward.
The Ascending City
The council escort guided Rowan’s group upward—crossing skybridges where the wind whistled beneath their steps.
Above them, patrols marched in straight lines along narrow ledges, capes snapping sharply behind them. Their armor glinted with feather-edged plates; their helms curved like crimson combs.
Civilians passed by wearing layered fabrics shaped like plumage, diagonal belts forming the silhouette of wings. Their colors—bright red, white, and gold—stood out like painted birds.
Lira whispered, “It’s beautiful… but everyone looks so tense.”
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Tidewhisper nodded. “A vigilant kingdom always looks like this before war.”
Pyrope said nothing.
He felt the stares—too many of them landing on him specifically.
He wasn’t sure why.
Or maybe he was.
The Council Tower
They climbed one final spiral ramp.
And then the world opened.
A vast circular chamber rose before them, its walls lined with narrow vertical slits that spilled beams of sunlight onto the polished floor. Feathers—real and carved—decorated the chamber like drifting symbols of history. Messenger birds perched in orderly rows along the windows, awaiting orders.
Captains in ranked sashes—red, white, black—stood at attention.
At the far end of the chamber stood the throne.
Tall.
Sharp.
Crest-shaped.
And upon it—
stood the Golden Pheasant King.
Bright gold plumage cascaded down his coat in long tail-plume patterns. Crimson embroideries traced each layered fold. His crest rose proudly; badges of living flame shaped in the sweeping spiral of the Suiryuu Crest. Even his sleeves shimmered like shifting feathers.
He was regal, fierce, and undeniably commanding.
When he spoke, his voice echoed softly—controlled, calm, but edged with urgency.
“Step forward,” he said.
Rowan bowed deeply.
“I thank Your Majesty for granting us audience.”
Tidewhisper placed a hand over his chest. “We come with grave news.”
The King’s crest lowered slightly. “Then speak.”
The Report
Rowan inhaled slowly.
“We bring information passed from the Dragon Kingdom itself.
Raider movement. Disappearances of small villages. A shadow rising behind them.”
Tidewhisper stepped beside him.
“There is someone leading them… someone dangerous. Someone growing stronger.”
The King held perfectly still.
Pyrope felt a cold bead of sweat slide down his back.
Rowan continued, voice firmer:
“The Dragon King sent us here with a Suiryuu Crest to deliver warning and cooperation.”
Pyrope slowly held up the crest.
Its black jade surface flickered under the chamber’s light.
The captains stiffened.
Whispers swept through the chamber like wings brushing stone.
The King’s sharp eyes narrowed.
Not in anger—
but in calculation.
“Dragon Kingdom does not issue those lightly,” he murmured.
Tidewhisper bowed. “Even they fear what is coming.”
The King raised one hand.
A single gesture.
Instantly, messenger commanders rushed forward.
Scrolls were unfurled.
Ink brushes struck parchment.
Orders flew.
“Prepare aerial messengers,” the King commanded.
“Notify the Horse, Goat, Snake, Tiger, Ox, Rat, Monkey, Dog, Pig, Dragon, Rabbit, and Rooster territories.”
The air changed.
The kingdom began to move.
For war.
The Quiet Shift
As Rowan finished the report, a heavy silence settled over the room.
Not comforting.
Not relieved.
Something else.
The King’s captains were staring at Pyrope.
One leaned toward another and whispered—not quietly enough:
“A child survived from the raid alone…? Impossible.”
Another muttered, “All the villages fell without a trace. So why him?”
Pyrope’s throat tightened.
Rowan’s expression darkened. “Watch your words. That boy survived through trauma—”
But the captains continued whispering.
“Is he marked?”
“Mind-altered?”
“Sent by the raiders?”
“A bad omen for the kingdom…”
The Golden Pheasant King raised one taloned hand.
All voices died immediately.
Even so…
the suspicion remained.
Filling the room.
Hanging over Pyrope.
Pressing down like approaching thunder.
The King spoke softly:
“The information you bring is vital. The kingdom thanks you.”
Pyrope exhaled—just slightly.
But then the King’s crest lifted.
And the softness vanished.
“However…”
Pyrope froze.
“…one question remains unanswered.”
The King’s golden eyes sharpened.
“Why was the boy the only survivor?”
The wind chimes outside fell silent.
And Pyrope felt every feathered gaze lock onto him—
tightening,
accusing,
waiting for an answer he did not have.
