The summit loomed before them, a jagged crown of stone and mystery that pierced the heavens.
Shun led the way, his steps measured, his breath steady despite the thin air. Behind him, Xin followed, his silence a heavy cloak that draped over the group like a second sky.
For hours, they had climbed, their journey marked by the crunch of frost underfoot and the distant cries of creatures unseen. The world below was a wasteland of crystalline earth and toxic mists, but up here, at the edge of the known, something wholly unexpected awaited them.
Buildings—some still standing strong against the relentless test of time—rose from the earth like solemn guardians. Their foundations shimmered with crystalline veins, interwoven with a second, unidentifiable material that pulsed faintly, as if alive. The roofs, crafted from marbled tile, curved and sloped gently, reminiscent of the elegant designs from the dragon realms. Yet these structures held their own identity—softer, more ethereal, as if woven from dreams rather than stone. The town was a marvel, a relic of a forgotten era, its architecture sculpted with an artistry that seemed to defy the desolation surrounding it.
Shun paused at the edge of the settlement, his gaze sweeping over the silent streets. The air was cold, sharp, but it carried a strange warmth, a glimmer of life that clung to the ruins. Beside him, Xin remained quiet, his eyes fixed on the ground, his hands tucked tightly into the folds of his cloak. They had been resting here for five days now, and Shun had started to notice things. Subtle, but telling.
...
On the first day, he'd caught Xin discreetly wiping away tears when he thought no one was looking. His eyes were glassy, rimmed with a quiet redness that betrayed his attempts at composure. Shun had said nothing, turning his attention to the fire they'd built, pretending not to see.
On the second day, puffy eyes gave him away. Xin's smile was tight, forced, a mask that cracked under the weight of whatever he carried. He laughed at a joke one of the others told, but the sound was hollow, a brittle echo that faded too quickly.
By the third day, tear streaks lingered on his face longer, etching faint paths through the dust that clung to his skin. The makeup—what little he wore—was smudged and uneven, a quiet confession of his struggle. Shun had watched him from the corner of his eye, his chest tightening, but still, he held his tongue.
On the fourth day, Xin's voice betrayed him. It squeaked when he tried to speak, halting and shaky, as if each word were a shard of glass lodged in his throat. He'd excused himself quickly, retreating to the shadows of a crumbling wall, and Shun had let him go.
Today, the fifth day, his face flushed crimson—not from the cold, not from the exertion of their climb, but from something deeper, something knotted in his chest. His breaths came in shallow, uneven bursts, and his hands trembled as he adjusted the strap of his pack. Shun wanted to reach out, to ask, but the words felt heavy, unwieldy. Not yet, he told himself. Not yet.
Despite the somber mood that shadowed them, the town itself was a wonder. Shun led Xin through its winding paths, pointing out what remained, what still stood. The structures were almost artistic, their lines fluid and deliberate, as if someone had once sculpted dreams into architecture. Windows, now empty of glass, framed the sky like portals to another world. Arches curved gracefully over doorways, their surfaces etched with faint, spiraling patterns that caught the light and refracted it into soft prisms. The crystalline veins in the stone pulsed faintly, their rhythm steady, like the heartbeat of the earth itself.
"Look at this," Shun said, pausing before a half-collapsed tower. Its base was intact, its walls laced with that strange, shimmering material. "It's like the stone is alive. I've never seen anything like it."
Xin nodded, his gaze distant. He murmured something too soft to catch, and Shun didn't press. Instead, he guided him deeper into the town, past structures that seemed to hum with quiet energy, past courtyards where ghostly echoes of laughter might have once rung. The air grew warmer as they walked, the toxic bite of the world below replaced by something softer, cleaner. It was as if the town itself were protecting them, shielding them from the desolation beyond.
And then they came to it.
At the heart of the town, where the paths converged like spokes of a wheel, a glowing silver jade blade stood driven deep into the earth. It shimmered faintly with otherworldly light, its surface smooth and flawless, as if forged from starlight itself. The blade pulsed gently, like a heartbeat, its rhythm in sync with the crystalline veins that snaked through the surrounding stone. It was massive, taller than Shun, its presence both serene and commanding.
Shun stopped, his breath catching. Beside him, Xin froze, his eyes wide, his lips parted as if to speak but unable to find the words. The blade's light bathed them in a soft glow, casting long shadows that danced across the cracked cobblestones.
"This," Shun said, his voice soft but firm, "is my regalia."
The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. The blade was not a just a weapon, more than a relic. It was the town's guardian, the reason it endured against the relentless assault of time and the elements. Its light protected them from the sun's searing refractions, those deadly beams that could burn through flesh and bone. Its presence held back the toxic breath of the world below, the miasma that choked life from anything it touched. Without it, nothing here would last—not the buildings, not the crystalline veins, not the fragile hope that clung to this place like dew to a leaf.
Shun stepped closer, his hand hovering over the blade's hilt. He didn't touch it—not yet—but he could feel its warmth, its quiet strength. "I found it during my first stage," he said, his voice low, almost reverent.
"I didn't know what it was back then—only that it called to me. I used it to carve a path through the chaos, to save the ones who now call this place home. Without it, none of us would've made it here."
Xin said nothing, but his eyes were fixed on the blade, his expression unreadable. For a moment, the weight in his chest seemed to ease—just a little. The crimson flush faded from his face, and his trembling hands steadied. The blade's light reflected in his eyes, a soft silver that softened the redness, the puffiness, the tear-streaked exhaustion.
Shun watched him, his heart aching. He wanted to ask—what was wrong, what hurt so deeply that it carved itself into his face, his voice, his every movement? But he knew better than to push. Xin would speak when he was ready, or he wouldn't. For now, all he could do was stand beside him, share this moment, this marvel, and hope it was enough.
"Do you feel it?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "The pulse. It's like the town is alive."
Xin nodded slowly, his lips twitching into a faint, hesitant smile. "It's… beautiful," he said, his voice still shaky but softer now, less strained. "Like it's singing."
Shun smiled, a warmth spreading through his chest. "It is," he said. "In its own way."
They stood there for a long time, the blade's light washing over them, the town's quiet hum filling the silence. The wind still howled, but it felt distant now, as if the blade's presence held it at bay. The crystalline veins pulsed in time with the regalia, their light weaving through the stone like threads of starlight. The buildings stood tall, their marbled roofs catching the fractured sunlight, their foundations unshaken by the centuries.
For the first time in days, Xin's shoulders relaxed. His breath steadied, and the knot in his chest loosened, if only a fraction. The blade's heartbeat seemed to echo his own, a reminder that he was still here, still standing, despite the weight he carried.
Shun didn't say anything.
He didn't need to.
The regalia spoke for him, its light a promise, its pulse a vow. This place would endure. And so would they.