Several days of travel. The carriage climbed hills and descended into valleys, surrounded by a ring of vigilant riders. With every mile passed, the landscape grew denser, filling with familiar scents and the native, Eichwald colours.
Randel was exhausted. But he could not stay silent.
“Beyond that ridge lie the silver mines,” his voice, hoarse from fatigue, rang with unconcealed pride. “And this valley… it has the juiciest grass in the entire duchy!”
He pointed out the window, as if trying to hand pieces of his world to the incomprehensible being in the golden helmet. He was sharing the most cherished thing he had—his land.
Randel watched her. Intently. The carriage rolled softly along a smooth stretch of road. And he saw her head tilt slightly to the side. Her shoulders beneath the armour slackened. Her breathing grew deep, even, quiet.
(…She’s asleep.)
In that moment she ceased to be the “almighty Guardian.” She was simply… a tired human being. Fragile, almost defenceless.
Somewhere deep in Randel’s chest a strange, inexplicable feeling ached—a mixture of reverence and unprompted tenderness.
(You’re sleeping. Like an ordinary person. What do you dream of, great one? Dreams of forests? Or something I cannot even imagine?)
The creak of the wheels, monotonously whispering, wrapped them in silence.
At last they saw it. The capital of Eichenwald.—White Spires. The crenellated walls glittered in the rays of the morning sun.
The city crawled up the slopes of the mountain. White stone, leaden roofs. Everything sparkled and shimmered.
The massive gates bearing the proud coat of arms swung open. Amanda, preserving her mask of impassivity, could not suppress a quiet inner sigh.
(God… it’s beautiful.)
Not with the ostentatious, imperial beauty. But with a harsh, proud beauty honed by centuries.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Cobblestone streets climbing the hill. House arches entwined with ivy. From the square came the ceaseless, living murmur of a fountain.
(This is not merely a fortress. It is a living creature that grew in the palm of the mountain. It breathes.)
Randel looked at her, his eyes shining with anticipation.
“Well? Our White Spires. They say there is no lovelier place in all the north!”
Amanda was silent. Randel decided she was indifferent. How could man-made splendour interest an ancient wonder?
He did not see what was happening beneath the helmet. Her eyes were wide open, drinking in every detail with the ravenous hunger of a starving beast.
(It’s… real. Completely, utterly real. Not an ink sketch on the page of a book. How… how beautiful it is!)
The carriage turned onto the main street. Randel cautiously broke the silence.
“Perhaps… you could take off your helmet?” His voice was soft, almost shy. “The air here is clean. And… I would like to see the face of the person who saved my life.”
Amanda’s answer was just as soft, yet unyielding.
“No.”
“Not yet.”
And in that instant a wall of sound crashed over them.
First a distant shout. Then another. And another. The murmur of the crowd swelled into a thunderous, joyous roar.
The carriage slowed. They were engulfed by a sea of people. Faces blurred with smiles, wet with tears of relief, burning with ecstasy.
The populace poured into the street, tossing flowers beneath the wheels, shouting Randel’s name.
“Randel! Long live the duke! He lives!”
Children waved from the sidewalks. Craftsmen in grease-stained aprons. Ladies clapping from balconies. Old and young—the entire city churned in a maelstrom of jubilation.
Amanda did not move. She simply watched. This storm of popular love.
(What… magnitude.)
The knights had sent word by courier pigeon. The city had prepared. This was not merely a return—this was a triumph.
(So this is it…) The thought pierced Amanda’s mind. (This is how much they love him.)
In the Chronicles he had been merely a tragic figure. A beautiful card played at the start of the story. And that was all.
But here… here he was flesh and blood. His return kindled hearts. He was their ruler.
(Everything has changed.)
What Amanda had done—saving him—was not merely the rescue of an “overpowered character.” It was the salvation of these people’s very hope.
Randel waved from the window with an embarrassed, boyish grin. And that was enough for the crowd’s roar to explode anew.
He cast a glance at his companion, still sitting in silence.
“Sorry for this madness…” he muttered quietly. “They’re just… glad.”
“Do not apologise,” Amanda’s voice was equally quiet, muffled by the helmet. There was not a shadow of mockery in it. Instead there was… understanding? A warmth almost human. “Such loyalty is worth more than any crown.”
The carriage moved forward, slowly parting the waves of jubilation. Carrying Amanda ever closer to the heart of his world.
And deep within her breast a new, unmistakable realisation resounded.
(The game has changed.)
It has become an order of magnitude more difficult.
(I am no longer merely a “reader.”)
No longer a detached observer rewriting the plot. I have become part of a story that breathes, lives, and feels.
(The price of failure…)
Has just soared to the heavens.
Beneath the creak of wheels and the roar of the crowd, Amanda’s heart beat steadily, loudly, irrevocably—marking time in a new, unpredictable world.