The Bridge of Heroes was not merely a structure of stone.

  It was a declaration.

  It rose above the abyss that separated the South from the North like a petrified scar, held by ancient arches that seemed too delicate to carry the weight of the history resting upon them. At both ends stood guarded towers with banners marking shared jurisdiction. Carved along the sides were the figures of the five heroes who had defeated the Demon King decades ago.

  It was across this bridge that they had crossed into the North after the final battle.

  And it was across this bridge that they had returned as legends.

  Today they were no longer wandering warriors.

  They were the five presidents of the League.

  The bridge did not simply connect territories.

  It reminded everyone who had imposed the order that now ruled both kingdoms.

  From afar the structure appeared eternal.

  From close by, it revealed its true nature.

  An armed frontier.

  Ilian watched from a rocky rise partly covered with dry shrubs. Carmilla stood beside him, not bothering to hide completely, as if surveillance were not a threat but an inevitable fact. Daren sat a little farther back, his coin spinning between his fingers with its usual rhythm.

  Below them, the flow of travelers moved slowly and under tight control. League guards inspected documents with excessive care. Two priests stood beside the main arch. They did not question anyone.

  They simply watched.

  Everyone who crossed was measured, recorded, and detained a few seconds longer than usual.

  “Double reinforcement,” Daren murmured without looking up. “And shared supervision.”

  Ilian said nothing at first. He counted shifts. Movements. Pauses between inspections.

  “It’s not just because of me,” he finally said.

  “No,” Carmilla replied. “It’s because of what you represent.”

  Ilian did not look at her.

  “I represent a logistical problem.”

  “You represent a fracture,” she corrected.

  The wind rose from the ravine and carried the metallic echo of a spear striking stone. Ilian watched a cart stopped longer than the others while two soldiers inspected it with unusual care.

  “Direct crossing is impossible,” he said after a few minutes. “Not today.”

  Daren smiled faintly.

  “That sounds like you’re already thinking about tomorrow.”

  Ilian did not answer.

  His eyes never left the bridge.

  Carmilla spoke first.

  “We’re being followed.”

  Ilian did not turn his head.

  “I know.”

  This wasn’t official surveillance. That had rigid posture and open presence. What he felt now was different.

  More careful.

  More aware of not being detected.

  Daren stopped spinning the coin for the first time.

  “They’re good,” he said.

  Ilian descended the slope without hurry. He wasn’t trying to lose them. He wanted them to reveal themselves.

  They crossed a narrow secondary road bordered by low stone walls and closed warehouses. The sound of the bridge faded behind them. The air grew heavier, more urban.

  Ilian stopped in the middle of the street without turning.

  “Come out.”

  It wasn’t shouted.

  It was stated.

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  The silence lasted only a second.

  Then, from the far end of the street, Maelis stepped into the light. She moved with steady confidence. She wore no formal League robes—only simple travel clothes.

  Cael appeared behind her, bow lowered but ready.

  Carmilla studied them calmly.

  Maelis stopped a few paces from Ilian. She didn’t smile.

  “I saw you in Port Mist,” she said, her gaze fixed on Carmilla.

  Carmilla met it without reaction.

  “And I saw you.”

  The air between them was not explosive.

  It was cold.

  Cael spoke first.

  “We’re not here to fight.”

  Ilian looked at them one by one.

  “Then explain why you’re here.”

  Maelis didn’t hesitate.

  “Because I don’t believe the official version.”

  Ilian tilted his head slightly.

  “The official version is irrelevant.”

  “Not to me.”

  She stepped forward without aggression.

  “Aurora said your heart doesn’t beat like the living. That you were… a ghost.”

  The word hung with a weight different from any insult.

  Ilian showed no reaction.

  “And yet,” Maelis continued, “you bled. You fought. You chose.”

  Her eyes shifted to Carmilla.

  “You chose to protect her.”

  Carmilla remained silent.

  Maelis looked back at Ilian.

  “Why?”

  It wasn’t an emotional question.

  It was a moral one.

  Ilian held her gaze for a long moment.

  “I didn’t protect her.”

  Silence.

  “I need her.”

  Cael frowned slightly.

  “She’s a demon,” Maelis said firmly.

  “Yes,” Ilian answered.

  No hesitation.

  No defense.

  That changed the tension.

  Maelis didn’t step back.

  “Then explain it.”

  Ilian looked at her without hostility, but without concession.

  “I didn’t come to Lyranth to explain myself.”

  The wind passed through the narrow street, lifting fine dust.

  “I’m going to cross the bridge,” Ilian continued. “I’m going to use the Key of Bell.”

  Maelis held his gaze.

  “And her?”

  Ilian did not look at Carmilla.

  “She’s part of that.”

  Cael shifted sideways, quietly evaluating positions.

  “The bridge is reinforced,” he said. “You won’t cross without drawing attention.”

  Ilian nodded slightly.

  “I know.”

  Maelis stepped forward again.

  “Then you need help.”

  Ilian looked at her for the first time with something more than calculation.

  “I don’t need allies. I need you not to get in the way.”

  The sentence fell with surgical precision.

  “I’m crossing that bridge. I’m using the Key. Anyone who becomes an obstacle…”

  He paused.

  “…stays behind.”

  There was no threat in his voice.

  Only certainty.

  Maelis felt the impact, but she didn’t retreat.

  Carmilla watched her with renewed interest.

  The silence stretched.

  Finally Maelis spoke.

  “Then I won’t be an obstacle.”

  No challenge.

  No pride.

  Just decision.

  Cael glanced at her profile. He recognized that expression.

  Ilian held her gaze another moment.

  “I’m not asking you to stay.”

  “We’re not asking permission,” Maelis replied.

  The tension didn’t resolve.

  It reorganized.

  Carmilla spoke for the first time since they appeared.

  “If you’re going to follow us, stay out of my way.”

  Maelis didn’t lower her gaze.

  “As long as you stay out of mine.”

  Cael inhaled slowly.

  Daren, who had remained silent, flipped the coin once more.

  “What a harmonious group.”

  No one answered.

  Ilian looked again toward the bridge—now hidden from the street but never absent from his mind.

  “A direct crossing isn’t viable,” he said. “We need to evaluate other routes.”

  “Underground?” Cael asked.

  “Maybe,” Daren replied with a half-smile.

  Ilian looked at none of them.

  “First we observe. Then we decide.”

  Maelis nodded.

  “Then let’s observe.”

  Carmilla held her gaze a few seconds longer before turning away.

  The group began moving—not as confirmed allies, but as trajectories temporarily aligned.

  Behind them, Lyranth continued functioning, unaware that five different wills were slowly converging toward the same point.

  From a tower on the bridge, a soldier glanced toward the city. He couldn’t see them from there.

  But he knew something was shifting.

  And in the side chapel, the sealed report was already on its way.

  Ilian didn’t look back.

  The bridge was still there.

  And the objective remained unchanged.

  Night fell over the Bridge of Heroes without ceremony. Torches along the arches cast long shadows across the carved stone figures.

  Five heroes.

  Five victors.

  Five names repeated in every school of the South and the North as if they were synonymous with stability.

  Carmilla stood alone on the rocky rise from which they had watched the crossing during the day.

  She didn’t look at the soldiers.

  She didn’t look at the towers.

  She looked at the statues.

  The stone faces were young, determined, eternally victorious. Swords raised. Eyes toward the horizon. The official story presented them as the men who had defeated the Demon King in the final battle and sealed the age of darkness.

  Carmilla did not smile.

  She didn’t remember the battle.

  She couldn’t.

  When the world proclaimed the fall of her father, she had barely learned to walk.

  What she remembered was different.

  The smell of damp earth.

  Old wood.

  A small house.

  And the pain.

  Not hers.

  His.

  There had been no final roar on an open battlefield. No glorious fall beneath five raised swords.

  There had been silence.

  Flight.

  Darkness.

  And a village that never appeared in the official records.

  Human history needed a clean victory.

  The truth had been less elegant.

  Carmilla closed her eyes for a moment.

  She didn’t have full memories. Only fragments—sensations buried deeper than thought. The irregular heartbeat torn from her. The emptiness left where once there had been three pulses.

  Her father did not die beneath the bridge.

  He disappeared into shadow.

  And the heroes returned with a perfect story.

  The statues seemed to stare back at her.

  She returned the gaze.

  “Heroes,” she murmured.

  No emotion in the word.

  Wind crossed the ravine and shook the torches. Below, a soldier changed shifts without noticing the figure on the rock.

  The bridge was not a monument to victory.

  It was a monument to the accepted version of events.

  Carmilla placed her hand against the cold stone.

  “They built a kingdom on a lie.”

  There was no rage in her voice.

  Only recognition.

  The Key of Bell lay beyond the bridge.

  And the man who carried it walked with the conviction of someone who did not believe official stories.

  Carmilla opened her eyes.

  “Then let’s cross.”

  The night gave no answer.

  But the past—buried beneath stone and statues—continued to beat in silence.