novelbest Chapter 252: THE SILENT CROSSING
Chapter 252: THE SILENT CROSSING
Two days after leaving the cold embers of their Eastmarch campfire, the landscape began to surrender.
The endless prairies gave way to coastal scrub—low, stiff-leaved plants with roots that clawed at the sandy soil like thirsty talons. Trees grew sparse, leaving behind limestone outcroppings that jutted from the earth like the missing teeth of giants. Even the air had turned. The wind, which had once carried only dry dust, now bore something new. Sharp, fresh, and slightly stinging.
Salt.
Rianor breathed in the air deeply before his eyes could even catch the horizon. "The sea is close," he murmured from the open carriage window.
Across from him, Roland—who had been buried in his ledger—looked up. "Huh? You’re serious? I can’t even see the coast yet."
"The salinity levels in the atmosphere have increased drastically," Rianor replied without turning his gaze. "Human olfactory senses are sensitive enough to detect salt particles in specific concentrations. Basic biological sensors."
"Hmm." Roland closed his book with a short sigh. "I prefer the poetic version: ’The scent of the sea begins to call the wanderers.’ But sure, your salinity explanation works too... even if it is incredibly dull."
Rianor didn’t counter. His eyes remained fixed on the crystal tablet in his lap.
Outside, Dom and Adul sat like statues on the driver’s bench, only occasionally flicking the reins. Naya and Orva rode alongside, their eyes scanning every rocky mound. Yet, the region was eerily quiet. No bandits, no military patrols. They only crossed paths with local farmers hauling empty carts. Their faces were hollow—a sign that the fear creeping through the north had not yet reached the southern reaches of Eastmarch.
Toward midday, Dom pulled the reins. The horses slowed.
"Village ahead," Dom’s heavy voice broke the silence.
Stillwater. A small village that looked as though it were clinging desperately to the edge of the bay to avoid slipping into the sea.
The houses were built from limestone yellowed by age, topped with tired-looking brown thatch. The roads were nothing more than packed earth, scarred with the permanent ruts of wagon wheels. In the distance, the bay’s waters appeared almost static—a calm, leaden blue reflecting a noon sky beginning to fill with clouds.
There were few inhabitants. A few elderly women sat on wooden porches, their fingers moving rhythmically as they mended torn fishing nets. Barefoot children ran about, stopping with mouths agape to stare at the strange carriage passing through. A middle-aged man splitting wood paused his work. He wiped sweat from his brow with a rough hand and stepped forward.
"Merchants?" he asked, his voice raspy, typical of someone who breathed sea air for a lifetime.
"Just travelers," Roland answered, hopping down from the carriage. His diplomatic smile was perfectly in place—warm, yet distant. "We’re heading south. Looking for a place to stretch our legs and perhaps some information."
The man gave a slow nod. "Our inn isn’t much, but it’s clean. I’m Callum. Village Elder, if that title still carries any weight around here."
Roland introduced himself under the alias "Lord Valerian," while Rianor was simply "Rian." Dom and the others played their parts: silent guards blending into the background.
Callum led them to The Stillwater Rest, a two-story stone building with a sign faded by the elements. Upon entering, the savory aroma of fish stew and freshly baked rye bread immediately assaulted their senses.
"Rare to see guests venture this far," Callum said as he gestured for them to sit. "The roads south have grown quiet since... well, since the voices started."
Roland and Rianor exchanged a brief glance.
"Voices? What do you mean?" Roland asked, his tone shifting toward a professional seriousness.
Callum nodded slowly, his calloused fingers tracing the rim of a wooden tea cup. "Villages to the north say there’s weeping at night. Like a wail carried by the wind. But we have none of that here. Perhaps because we are too close to the Bridge."
"The Bridge?" Rianor leaned in, his interest piqued.
"You’ll have to cross it. The black stone bridge at the end of the bay," Callum pointed southward. "Local folk call it The Silent Crossing."
"Why that name?"
Callum hesitated. The atmosphere inside the inn suddenly felt a few degrees colder. "Because no one knows who built it. Because there is no sound upon it—even the wind seems to hold its breath as you pass. Because..." He trailed off, then let out a small laugh, trying to lighten the mood. "Ah, never mind. It’s just old wives’ tales. You city folk must think it’s just silly superstition."
"On the contrary," Rianor cut in. "Tell us more."
Callum began to recount the myths passed down through generations in hushed whispers.
The bridge, he said, had stood long before the foundations of the Kingdom of Aethelgard were laid. Long before Sol-Regis shone as the capital. The old folk called the builders ’The Architects’—a civilization that vanished without leaving a single sound behind.
"They weren’t sorcerers," Callum whispered. "Our ancestors said they didn’t have a drop of mana in their bodies. Yet they could make stone stand firm for thousands of years without a single crack. They say they ruled the world before the gods grew angry and wiped them from history."
Roland glanced at Rianor. His brother’s face remained a mask, but his quill was dancing across his notebook.
"Why were the gods angry?" Roland asked, curious.
"Who knows. Some say they were too arrogant, wanting to rival the Creator. Some say they created something that should have remained asleep. But the bitterest version..." Callum took a sip of his tea, "they were betrayed."
The scratching of Rianor’s quill stopped abruptly. Skritch.
"Betrayed by whom?" Rianor asked, his voice sharper than before.
Callum shrugged. "By everyone. Sorcerers, dragons, beast-kin. All who envied their power. But it’s just a story, right? All that’s left is that bridge. Black stones that refuse to be broken by magic or hammer. As if... they refuse to be forgotten."
Rianor closed his book with a soft but firm thud.
An hour later, the carriage wheels creaked as they left Stillwater.
The village grew smaller, replaced by a barren, uphill path. Trees vanished entirely, leaving a primordial landscape dominated by white limestone. And there, stretching across the silent bay, the bridge revealed itself.
The Silent Crossing.
It was about two hundred meters long, arching low and gracefully over the water. The material wasn’t limestone—it was a pitch-black stone that seemed to swallow the sunlight. The surface was smooth as glass, yet strangely, it wasn’t slippery to the touch. The seams between the stones were nearly invisible, as if the entire bridge had been carved from the single spine of a prehistoric titan.
"Gods..." Roland whispered, his eyes locked on the structure. "This definitely isn’t Aethelgardian. It’s too... precise."
Rianor was out of the carriage before the horses had even come to a full stop. He placed his hand on the black stone surface. Cold. Not an ordinary cold, but a kind of chill that refused to let the sun’s heat seep in.
"Dom, hold here," Rianor commanded.
He walked slowly along the edge of the bridge. Adul followed him down, his eyes sparkling as he took in the construction details—a technical enthusiasm very much like Rianor’s. Meanwhile, Naya and Orva remained in their saddles, keeping a vigilant watch.
Rianor stopped at one of the wider main pillars. There, obscured by a layer of dried moss, something caught his attention.
He carefully cleared the moss with the tip of his glove. A pattern emerged. Interlocking geometric lines, asymmetrical yet feeling profoundly ordered. Not runes, not drawings of beasts. It looked more like... circuitry.
Rianor’s heart beat a fraction faster. He recognized this pattern.
He had seen it on the cold walls of the Lost City laboratories. On control panels that had gathered dust for millennia. The same visual language.
"They didn’t just build war machines," Rianor murmured to himself. "They built roads. Infrastructure. They... they truly intended to live forever."
He opened his book and wrote quickly:
Confirmation: Ancient civilization widespread, not limited to Northreach.
"Where did this black stone come from?" asked Roland, who had suddenly appeared beside him.
"I don’t know," Rianor answered softly. "But there isn’t a single quarry in Eastmarch with material like this. This stone... is alien to this land."
"Maybe from the far north?"
"Perhaps." Rianor gazed out toward the open sea. "Or maybe from somewhere we haven’t even stepped yet."
They began to cross.
Callum was right. The bridge was silent. An unnaturally profound silence. Their footsteps didn’t echo. The creak of the carriage wheels seemed muffled by the black material beneath them. Even the strong winds that had been howling at the bridge’s edge suddenly turned still, as if the air itself were hesitant to make a noise here.
At the midpoint of the bridge, Rianor stopped again.
From here, the Eastern Bay stretched out wide. The water was calm, almost like a silver mirror. In the distance, the open sea began to show its mysterious dark blue hues, with a thin mist hanging on the horizon.
"Almost beautiful, isn’t it?" Roland said, leaning against the edge of the bridge.
"Almost," Rianor replied curtly.
The two brothers stood in a long silence. Staring at the sea that stretched without limit, as if they were staring into their equally unreadable futures.
That evening, they set up camp by the shore.
The sand here was grayish, mixed with sharp pebbles and broken shells. The sound of waves hitting the shore followed a constant rhythm—shhh... thump... shhh...—like the heartbeat of an earth that never slept.
Naya lit a small campfire. Tonight she was cooking fresh fish from Stillwater, seasoned with coarse salt and the last of the spices from Qaqortoq. The savory aroma mixing with the salty sea air made the atmosphere feel slightly warmer.
"Report to headquarters, sir?" Adul asked, ready with his communication box.
"Nothing urgent yet. Just send the routine signal," Rianor answered.
Roland sat on a large rock, watching the sea horizon slowly darken. His face looked calmer; the silence in his eyes was no longer born of despair, but of reflection.
"Still thinking about it?" Rianor sat beside his brother.
"Always," Roland turned slowly. "But it feels different. It’s no longer that suffocating hopelessness."
"Then what is it?"
Roland paused, listening to the surf. "Patience. She’s waiting somewhere. I’m fighting my way somewhere. As long as I keep moving, those two paths are bound to meet one day."
Rianor didn’t answer, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward—a rare smile that only his inner circle could ever catch.
Night fell. The stars above the sea appeared much brighter and larger than they did over land. Dom took the first watch, standing tall and facing south—toward Luminara, which still held a thousand secrets.
Rianor opened his final notes for the day:
The Ancient Stone Bridge is proof. They didn’t just build to destroy; they built to connect. Yet it all still ended in betrayal.
He closed his book, staring at the fading fire. Inside his pocket, the mana compass continued to vibrate softly, its needle fixed in the same direction.
South.