17

  At the eastern entrance of the Kingdom of Aurum, the wind carried dust over the stone road and rattled the golden banners hanging from the watchtowers. Travelers and merchants queued with carts and crates, waiting to be inspected before entering the capital.

  Among them stood an old man, hunched slightly, leaning on a wooden staff worn smooth from decades of use. His cloak, frayed and dark with age, trailed along the ground. His hair fell long and gray past his shoulders, his beard tangled, his face lined with years—but the stance he held was firm, unyielding.

  The two guards at the gate stepped forward.

  “State your business,” one demanded, though his voice wavered. There was something about the old man—a presence like a distant storm.

  The old man said nothing at first. His pale, tired eyes lifted to meet theirs.

  “…I come to seek an audience.”

  “With who?” the second guard scoffed.

  “The king,” the old man replied simply.

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  The guards exchanged glances before chuckling. “You think we’ll just let in any wandering beggar? Open your bag. Staff too.”

  They grabbed his cloth satchel, laying its contents on the dirt: dried herbs, a cracked wooden comb, and several small vials wrapped in cloth—one of which faintly glimmered.

  The guard reached for it.

  “Do not touch that,” the old man warned sharply, voice heavy with command.

  But the guard smirked, ignoring him—and in that moment, the old man’s patience broke.

  He lifted one hand—fingers curling—as though grasping the air.

  With a violent whump, the guard’s body was hurled backward, sent flying several yards, crashing into a merchant’s cart. The crowd gasped, scattering in fear.

  Before the old man could retrieve his bag, four more guards rushed him, swords drawn. Blades pressed to his neck, his ribs, his arms.

  “Yield!” one shouted.

  The old man’s jaw tightened, eyes narrowed—not in fear, but in resignation. Slowly, he lifted his hands away from his staff.

  “Very well,” he murmured.

  The guards bound his wrists, confiscated his staff, his bag, and the glowing vial. The satchel was whisked away, handled like dangerous contraband.

  Whispers rippled through the entrance:

  “Was that magic—?”

  “No mage is allowed unsanctioned power—”

  “Did you see his eyes? He’s no ordinary wanderer—”

  The old man was dragged through the golden gates, past the marble fountains and bustling city streets, and down stone steps into the castle prison below the grand palace.

  The cell door slammed shut behind him, the iron echo ringing through the halls.

  But the old man did not look defeated.

  He sat calmly on the cold floor, eyes closed.

  As though he had planned to be here all along.