The Silent Guardian — Chapter 11, Part 1: The Brooch
This installment continues The Silent Guardian Series. Previous: Chapter 10, Part 2: Dahr-khoday.
For nearly two months, the desert stretches on. Each day blurs into the next: sand, heat, thirst. At night, the temperatures plummet, transforming my exhale into ghostly mist. The monotonous expanse of dunes and rocky outcrops push me to the brink. At least nothing disrupts my journey: no ambushes, no pursuers—just the peace of the journey.
As dusk settles, I stumble upon an abandoned campsite tucked between two jagged rocks. I pause to survey the area. In the center lie the remnants of a fire pit, its scattered ashes long cooled by the wind. Worn footprints crisscross the ground, almost swallowed by the shifting dust.
For the first time since leaving Sachu, the talisman pulsates. Its rhythmic energy sends my senses to high alert. I scan the campsite, gripping the talisman tightly as I move. Is it reacting to something nearby? I tread carefully, the pulse growing stronger. It sends a signal up my arm. I see a sliver of metal, barely visible beneath the sand.
I crouch, brushing the grains away to reveal a small, tarnished brooch. The talisman’s vibrations raise the hairs on the back of my neck. I freeze temporarily before reaching for the brooch. As I pick it up, I see an unmistakable mark on its surface: a jagged dent cut across a stag’s body. I remember how my blade caught the brooch at the end of my scuffle, denting it before it fell to the forest floor. I had practically signed my name on it.
I turn the item, ensuring it is not merely a similar trinket. As suspected, the phrase Rex Invictus is etched on the back in faded Latin.
Unconquered King.
This was William Rufus’s stag brooch.
The memory unfolds. William Rufus called for help, his voice unanswered by the mute forest. Cornered, he fought back with all the ferocity he could muster, but it was futile. Each of my strikes drove him closer to the inevitable. Finally, with one decisive blow, he collapsed. The brooch—this brooch—tumbled from his tunic, landing with a thud among the leaves.
The item is laughably crude, as if crafted by an apprentice fumbling with their tools. The stag etched into the metal has misshapen antlers. I later learned it was likely a gift from Malcolm III of Scotland, part of a diplomatic exchange to solidify ties between the two kings. That knowledge didn’t make it any less hideous to me then, and it certainly doesn’t now.
The talisman hums louder, more insistent, urging me to uncover something I’ve overlooked. There was something peculiar about that mission, a detail buried beneath the haze of time. Then, clarity strikes.
I drop the brooch as though it pierces my finger. My hands fumble as I search my pockets, desperate to retrieve the photograph I’ve carried since Xia and I departed under the most enigmatic circumstances.
The woman in the photograph.
It can’t be.
Deep down, I already know it is.
Before I found William Rufus in the forest, I noticed a shimmer in the air, like ripples on a disturbed pond. It was the first time I had witnessed a temporal distortion from the outside rather than being enveloped within it.
A woman appeared—barely visible in the shaded woods. Her presence defied logic; she moved as if the flow of time bent to accommodate her.
“You’re making a mistake,” she whispered. “William Rufus doesn’t deserve to die. The Phylax isn’t telling you the truth.”
Before I could respond—before I could even begin to process her words—she vanished. She had simply ceased to exist, dissolving into another ripple of distorted air.
I stood frozen, struggling to piece together an explanation. The woman was a stranger, yet she knew me. She wasn’t a Phylax—that much was certain. Still, she moved through time with ease, appearing and vanishing effortlessly. The three-year rule was immutable, but somehow, she had broken it.
Regardless, I did what my training demanded. I buried my questions, forcing the encounter beyond my conscious mind. When William Rufus died, I returned to the Acropolis as ordered.
Protocol demands full disclosure of a mission’s events. I recounted the incident to the High Council, describing the woman and how time shifted around her. I expected them to react urgently, demand an investigation, and perhaps even commend my vigilance. Admittedly, I left out the cryptic warning the woman gave me.
That’s impossible, one Council member signed as her focus darted away from me. Only a few outside the Phylax can travel through time; we know each of them. You must be mistaken.
While the Council’s words were decisive, the discomfort etched on her visage told a different story. It was the first time I had ever seen a Council member falter in their certainty.
I wanted to demand answers to my questions, but I knew better. The Phylax does not tolerate insubordination. So, I feigned understanding. The unease lingered temporarily; however, the memory didn’t take long to fade into nothingness.
That confusion feels fresh again while standing here with the photograph in my fingers. The woman’s words echo: They aren’t telling you the truth.
I pick up the brooch again. How did it end up here?
Some physicists speculate that matter doesn’t exist in a fixed state. Instead, it flickers in and out of reality at an imperceptible scale. On the quantum level, particles emerge from nothing and vanish just as quickly, like fireflies blinking in the dark. Typically, this happens at such a small scope we never notice. Given the right conditions, what if objects—or even people—could slip out of one place or moment and reappear in another?
If that were true, then maybe the brooch isn’t always buried beneath the leaves of that distant forest. Maybe it phased out of existence and surfaced here. It could be carried by the unseen current of time itself.
I turn it over again, staring at the familiar dent. If objects can flicker through time, who’s to say the same thing couldn’t happen to a person?
But that’s just a theory.
More likely, the merchant had possession of this relic, too. He could have sold it to some careless traveler. There is no way to know. Aside from jogging my memory about the woman, the brooch means nothing now.
I’ve delayed my travel for too long. There’s no immediate threat here. The talisman’s vibrations subside, aligning itself with my steady rhythm. I slowly exhale worries away. Dwelling on this serves no purpose. The priority is clear: keep moving to the next resupply point. Samarkand is a week ahead.
Again, the following days blur into a steady rhythm: dawn rises, footsteps fall, and the endless dunes yield nothing except their cruel monotony. While I love the solitude that the desert brings, I am exhausted. Each night, I collapse beneath a sky filled with the stars’ cold indifference.
Continue with Chapter 11, Part 2: Samarkand. New installments publish daily at 5:00 AM.
