Gaia

Chapter 6 The Sentinels' Bow that Echoed through Eternity

The wind no longer smelled of damp forest and pine. Instead, a cool floral perfume wrapped around her like ghostly arms — sweet, but laced with something metallic, like the tang of a blade drawn too quickly. Before her stretched a path of pale, broken stones, winding forward beneath a canopy of mist and shadows.

Towering wrought-iron arches loomed overhead, etched with curling thorns and crowned with flickering lanterns that gave off no flame — only a soft, pulsing glow, as though lit by breath rather than fire. Vines coiled up the black pillars like serpents, blooming with violet roses too vivid to be real. The petals shimmered faintly, wet with dew or tears — Shay wasn’t sure.

She reached out and touched one.

Cold.

Alive.

Behind her, Shiloh clung tightly to her cloak. His wide eyes darted from the looming arches to the twisted garden hedges that bordered the path like silent sentries.

At first, he thinks it’s a statue — the figure’s posture is too perfect, too still. But then the blue eyes flare to life, glowing like cold stars beneath a black wolf-shaped helm etched with runes and lined in gold. The figure steps forward soundlessly, armored in layers of obsidian and brass, its presence commanding yet… not immediately threatening.

Shiloh gasps and tugs at Shay’s sleeve.

“Shay… look!”

Shay turns, heart thudding, and meets the figure’s gaze. The mask resembles a wolf, but the aura it gives off is something older, more primal — like the embodiment of a forgotten god. Its armor is carved with sharp angular patterns that shift faintly under the lantern light, almost like they’re… breathing.

Sir Damian’s voice cuts through the tension, calm and low.

“You need not fear him,” he says. “That is Orrin, my Blood Sentinel. He guards the threshold of this realm.”

Shiloh clings tighter to Shay, but can’t look away. His curiosity burns hotter than his fear. “He doesn’t blink,” he whispers.

“He doesn’t need to,” Damian replies. “He sees with more than just eyes. He was forged to detect intentions — truth, lies, cowardice, courage. He serves the realm and no one else.”

The Blood Sentinel tilts his head slowly, as if acknowledging Shiloh. Then, for just a moment, the armored giant kneels before him — one knee down, fist to the ground — a warrior's bow.

Shiloh blinks, stunned. “He… he bowed to me.”

Shay doesn’t speak. She’s too busy watching Damian.

But Damian is watching her.

“Not to you,” he says softly. “To the blood you carry.”

And just like that, the temperature shifts again. The mist thickens. And somewhere far off, a raven cries out, as if it too has recognized that something long buried has now been awakened.

Shay’s breath catches in her throat.

“What do you mean, the blood I carry?” she asks, though the question comes out more as a whisper, half-hoping he won’t answer.

Sir Damian doesn't move. His gaze is solemn, distant—like someone remembering a war long past.

“You’ll understand, in time,” he says. “For now, the forest has granted us safe passage. That is no small thing.”

Behind them, the trees groan low, like old bones shifting. Ahead, the mist parts in long, silent ribbons, revealing a narrow trail of black stone veined with silver. The path looks ancient, pre-dating the forest itself. And along its edge, faint symbols begin to glow—matching those etched in Orrin’s armor.

A passage once sealed… now open.

Shiloh reaches for Shay’s hand again, his voice barely audible.

“Why did it feel like he knew me? Like he saw all of me?”

“He did,” Damian says. “And he still bowed.”

The boy doesn’t speak after that. Neither does Shay. Together, they step forward, past the kneeling Sentinel, whose helm turns slightly to track them—as if recording the moment in memory or myth.

Only when they have passed does Orrin rise.

Damian follows last, pausing briefly at the threshold. He lays a hand on the Sentinel’s armored shoulder, and something unspoken passes between them.

Then he too walks on, vanishing into the silver-lit mist.

The path behind them seals itself shut.

The forest swallows the clearing whole.

And somewhere beyond the trees, in a place no map marks, a second raven takes flight—its wings heavy with prophecy.