Pilgrimage [Western Fantasy] - Chapter 11
Wilder drifted into sleep in Estelle’s bedroom.
Perhaps it was exhaustion. Or perhaps, wrapped in the gentle, feminine warmth of this room, he finally let down his guard. He collapsed at the edge of the bed and surrendered to deep slumber.
Estelle, too, was dreaming. For once, she revisited the past—her first meeting with her brother.
A sea of wildflowers stretched endlessly across the hills, the horizon kissed by distant snow-covered mountains. The sky loomed vast and blue. It was a scene both majestic and cold—like the embodiment of a snow goddess descending upon the world.
Estelle stood among the flowers, her blade still embedded in the body of an assassin.
Wilder, not far away, remained frozen in shock.
She glanced at him with frosty detachment. Her beauty was like a blade itself—sharp, flawless. Her ice-blue eyes, inherited from her birth mother, bore no emotion. She regarded him as she would a forgotten object in a quiet room.
Bl00d soaked the field, trailing from the fallen attacker and staining the petals crimson. Estelle tilted her head, voice soft but hollow:
“Was that the one who came to kill you?”
Wilder had become a target—his life priced high on the black market. Count Stoke, after weighing his options, decided to send Wilder into her care. It was a calculated risk, and he’d even asked Estelle for permission.
Back then, she didn’t particularly care. Meeting her brother for the first time didn’t stir her. But the old housekeeper had been nervously optimistic.
Now, Estelle turned her eyes toward her bl00d-spattered brother. The sight amused her briefly. She chuckled—not out of warmth, but because it struck her as absurd. Wilder’s confused expression made her laugh more.
But the amusement didn’t last. Her face settled into a frown.
“You got bl00d on my flowers.”
She looked once more at the unconscious attacker, then walked away without another word. As she passed Wilder, she ordered coolly, “Handle it. Send someone to turn him in.”
Bl00d dripped from her black-iron sword onto the blossoms—like tears wept by steel.
Wind stirred the petals. Her dress fluttered like a banner in retreat. Within moments, her silhouette vanished into the field.
Wilder blinked. Had he imagined it all?
He watched her pass the lake and step into the shallows. Without ceremony, she cast her sword into the depths.
She never looked back at him.
But in that moment, something dormant stirred in Wilder’s chest—a fragile feeling, half love, half awe. He turned to the housekeeper and asked:
“What does Es like?”
The dream dissolved.
Estelle opened her eyes and gazed through the window.
Far across the mountains, a silver dragon lay slumbering on the ice. The sight held her in a trance—until she sensed a familiar presence behind her.
Niederhog.
She turned to him.
“When can I leave?”
His silver hair glinted faintly, but his expression was clouded. He shook his head—guilt heavy in his eyes.
She said nothing, though her gaze dimmed with thought. Her golden gown shimmered like fading sunlight, trailing along the floor—radiant and regal, but uncertain in its beauty, as if unsure whether to boast or bow.
Her eyes returned to the howling snowscape outside.
“I have to go,” she said quietly.
A bird glided past the temple, wings glistening like rainfall under moonlight.
Niederhog’s voice broke—low and reverent, like prayer.
“You’ll die…”
He wasn’t wrong. For a mortal soul to walk through a space storm was to face obliteration—mind, body, spirit. Even someone like Estelle couldn’t defy that fate unscathed.
But she pushed him aside with gentle resolve.
“I’ve never feared death.”
She turned, her figure vanishing into the storm’s white fury.
Outside, the red dragon Alex raised his massive head and called out, confused.
“Where are you going? That storm will tear you apart—your soul won’t even find hell!”
Estelle gave no answer.
A chill ran through Alex. His instincts whispered of something terrible.
“Stop!” he shouted, panic creeping into his voice.
But the girl in the golden gown didn’t stop. She stepped into the storm without hesitation, her silhouette swallowed by the cold.
The mountain winds screamed like angry gods, merciless and unrelenting. And yet, the snow also embraced like a mother, silent and vast. Estelle walked between these extremes.
She stared up at the highest peak—where the silver dragon slept—and knew the truth she sought lay there.
“Don’t go,” Niederhog pleaded, flying beside her.
“He’ll destroy you.”
She knew that. But standing still was never an option. She remembered what she was here to do. To leave this place. To leave the human world. To uncover what really happened to her dearest friend.
No matter what blocked her path—she would not yield.
“If you must go,” the bone dragon murmured, “let me carry you.”
Estelle gently refused.
“Thank you, Niederhog. But this is a path I must walk alone.”
High above, the silver dragon lay coiled around the mountain’s crown. Slender and ancient, his translucent horns sparkled like ice crystals.
After centuries of stillness, he stirred at the sound of approaching footsteps.
Estelle stood before him.
A sun in gold approached, her dress blazing against the snow. In her hand was a sword of pure ice.
She smiled. It was radiant and cold—like sunlight caught in glacier glass.
“I ask you for the key,” she said.
The silver dragon slowly lifted into the air, his voice echoing like a mountain thunder.
“For 2,300 years, this door has remained shut. Beyond it lies ruin and catastrophe. Are you prepared to face what’s beyond?”
Estelle looked up without fear.
“I am.”
The dragon dipped his head. “Then prove it. Only by conquering the key can you open the gate.”
With surprising calm, the ancient dragon gave his blessing.
“Go forward. What you seek lies ahead.”
The temple opened.
Estelle saw a narrow passage stretching across a vast abyss. One misstep, and the wind would drag her into oblivion.
She stepped forward without pause.
No—she ran.
She danced along the path like a golden flame in motion, leaping cracks and dodging sudden collapses. Her dress flared, her bare feet left no print in the snow. The blizzard howled louder, as if enraged by her defiance.
Whispers began to circle her—indecipherable voices, murmuring in dead languages. They clawed at her mind.
But Estelle paid them no mind. She was somewhere beyond fear now.
The path became more treacherous. The snow tried to clutch her, to weigh her down.
Yet she pressed on.
Her body began to flicker—becoming translucent, like ice melting in sun. The wind was trying to tear her soul apart.
“Do you still wish to go on?” came the silver dragon’s voice.
But Estelle didn’t stop. The pain was unbearable, like her limbs being carved away one by one. Her body began to vanish. And yet—she saw it. The key. A diamond.
Just a few more steps.
Pain clawed at her. Her memories tried to tempt her back—flashes of joy, of warmth.
“Turn back… turn back…” the voices whispered.
She ignored them.
Her only hand left—her right—was fading too. Only two steps remained.
The silver dragon watched from afar, heart aching.
Another brave soul about to be lost.
Estelle couldn’t hear him.
With her last strength, she froze the ground beneath her and launched herself forward.
Her hand closed around the diamond.
And the world stopped.
Light spilled across her face.
Her form returned. The storm dispersed. The temple filled with a silent, holy song. A new path opened, glittering with frost.
The silver dragon flew over the void and sang a hymn of triumph.
Estelle looked ahead.
She had reached the gate.
The blizzard that had ruled this mountain for 2,400 years had ended.
From below, Alex watched, stunned.
“She… she did it? She found the key?”
Above, the diamond floated in her palm.
And then—a crown made of crystal descended from the sky. The diamond leapt into its setting. The crown landed gently atop her head.
A voice echoed one final time:
“Wear it and leave. The gate awaits. Good luck, unknown brave soul.”
Estelle stepped forward.
And at the road’s end, a great arched door emerged from the white.
She reached out.
And opened it.