The mountains had been silent after the Spectres left, but Soen's mind was not.
He could still feel it—the weight of their presence, the overwhelming sense of something beyond him.
They had surrounded him. He, a warrior of Hymn, trained and tested in battle, had stood among his men, yet had felt powerless.
He had ordered the release of the captured Spectre not because he wanted to—but because he had no other choice.
Because the moment they spoke, the moment their voices echoed in unison, Soen had felt something he had never felt before.
Inferiority.
Not just in strength, but in understanding.
The warriors of Hymn had trained to push their limits, to endure through pain, to surpass the body's restraints. But Soen now realized something that burned in his mind like an open wound—strength was not enough.
They had not lacked numbers.
They had lacked knowledge.
What good was his leadership if he could not protect his warriors? If he could not understand the strengths of the enemy?
The Spectres were stronger. Faster. Moving in ways that defied logic, disappearing into the air like mist, as if they had never truly been there.
And he had no way to counter it.
A warrior who could not overcome his enemy was not a warrior at all.
A leader who could not protect his men was not a leader at all.
For the first time in years, Soen felt the weight of his own inadequacy.
And so, he returned to the only place he could find answers.
The Kingdom of Hymn.
---
-The Grand Archive-
The Grand Archive was a monument to knowledge, a vast labyrinth of towering bookshelves that stretched toward the high-arched ceiling. Dust motes hung in the lantern light, swirling in the still air, untouched by the movement of the world outside.
The kingdom of Hymn prided itself on its history, its meticulous records, its unbroken chain of knowledge passed down through generations. But knowledge was only useful when controlled.
Soen had spent years believing that the teachings of the kingdom, the philosophies that had shaped him into the warrior he was, were built on truth.
Now, he was beginning to see them for what they were.
A carefully curated truth.
He moved between the endless rows of books, scanning the worn spines, searching. He had combed through these shelves for nights, moving in secret, driven by a single need—to understand.
The Frozen Chimes had been his foundation. The doctrine that shaped the warriors of Hymn. But after what he had seen, after what he had fought—he knew something was wrong.
The Spectres. The unnatural warriors who burned too brightly and died too soon. The way Ryen had vanished, not like a man, but like something that had been erased from existence itself.
Soen traced his fingers along the shelf, pausing when he saw the familiar binding of the Frozen Chimes.
He pulled it free, opening its pages.
The words were the same ones he had studied for years.
A warrior must push beyond their limits.
To grow is to break. To break is to rebuild.
Pain is the price of power.
It was a doctrine built on endurance, a philosophy that demanded warriors transcend themselves.
But he had seen what happened to those who followed it blindly.
They did not become legends.
They became ashes.
Soen's grip tightened.
Had he been the fool? Had he only survived because he had been too weak to follow the teachings completely?
No.
He had lasted because he had done something none of them had been told to do.
He had listened to himself.
He had stopped before the breaking point. He had held back when his body told him it could endure no more. And because of that, he had grown stronger, not weaker.
And because of that, others had begun to follow him.
Soen exhaled, flipping to the last page.
There, in small, elegant script, was a name.
Archivist ~~~~~~
The ink was smudged or perhaps, have been tampered to conceal the truth.
---
The throne room of Hymn was as grand as the kingdom itself, a vast chamber carved from marble and gold. Massive stained glass windows stretched toward the ceiling, casting fractured light across the floor. The air smelled of cold stone, incense, and something beneath it—authority, absolute and unchallenged.
King Evalis sat upon his throne, draped in royal finery, his posture perfect, his expression unreadable. He was not an unkind ruler, nor a cruel one. But Soen now understood that he was not the true ruler of Hymn.
The real power stood beside him.
Archivist Aldros.
A man who carried no sword, no armor. A man who held no title of command. And yet, his presence shaped the room more than the king himself.
Soen did not bow.
"I have read the archives," he said. His voice did not waver.
Aldros did not look surprised. He only tilted his head slightly, studying Soen like a teacher waiting for a student to arrive at the correct answer.
Soen continued. "The Frozen Chimes—the version we were given—it's a deception. It does not provide aalvation. It destroys them."
A silence stretched between them, heavy and unmoving.
Then, Aldros smiled.
"And yet," the scholar said smoothly, "you stand before us, unbroken."
Soen's jaw tightened.
"You already knew," he said. "You knew what it was doing to them."
Aldros gave a slow, measured nod. "Of course."
Soen's hands curled into fists.
"The teachings should have killed me," he said. "So why didn't they?"
Aldros studied him.
"Because you adapted," he said simply. "You were not meant to. And yet, you did."
Soen's breath slowed.
He understood.
The Frozen Chimes was not meant to be followed as a guide. It was a tool.
For those strong enough to survive, it created warriors.
For those who followed it without question, it turned them into sacrifices.
And he had interrupted the system.
Because he had endured.
Because he had not burned out.
And because others had begun to follow him.
Soen was no longer just a soldier.
He was an anomaly.
And anomalies could not be allowed to exist.
"You were never meant to last," Aldros said.
---
King Evalis did not speak.
His gaze was steady, but there was no emotion in it.
Because this was not his decision.
It was Aldros'.
And Aldros had already decided.
"You will leave Hymn," the scholar declared. "Your rank is stripped. Your name is erased from the records. From this day, you are no longer one of us."
The warriors standing at the edges of the throne room did not react.
Not because they did not care.
But because they already knew.
Soen was not being exiled.
He was being erased.
Aldros spoke with a finality that left no room for argument. "Your existence will not be remembered. You will not be mourned. You will not be spoken of again."
Soen turned to leave.
But in his heart, he had already made his choice.
One day, he would return.
Not as a soldier of Hymn.
But as a man who could not be erased.