A quiet hum echoed through the vast hall. The walls seemed to breathe with the weight of vows and battles, their ancient stones steeped in both reverence and grief. The Round Table Hall stood still, yet never dormant, a sacred place born not of bricks and mortar, but of oaths, regrets, and embers long freezing. A place that existed neither fully in the physical world nor entirely away from it.
Alistair Thorne stood in the center of the chamber, gazing at the great table before him. The Blessing of Grace glowed at its heart, a quiet flame offering guidance not in words, but in presence. Weapons ringed its edge—remnants of long forgotten warriors, spirits long gone, purposes etched in the nicks of iron.
He had seen many strange places since setting foot in the Lands Between, but this was different. This was not a battlefield, nor a shrine. It was a crucible.
Melina stood silently beside him, her presence more palpable than ever. She did not speak. She didn't need to. Her role was clear now, not just a guide, not just a voice in his ear, but something more. A witness. Perhaps, in the end, even a judge.
Footsteps echoed. A man in full armor emerged from one of the shadowed alcoves. His figure was broad, his steps purposeful, yet not hostile.
"You must be one of the newly arrived." His voice was like gravel pressed into steel. "Welcome to the Round Table Hold. I am D, Hunter of the Dead."
Alistair nodded. He had heard the name in scattered whispers on the wind. A hunter of Those Who Live in Death, an executioner of twisted sorcery and forbidden rites.
Before Alistair could respond, another figure spoke from the far corner, seated cross-legged on the floor, sharpening an invisible blade. "He doesn't look like much. But neither did I, once."
The voice belonged to a pale man with a missing eye and worn robes. His tone was not cruel, just frank, like a blacksmith assessing raw ore. It struck Alistair more as a challenge than an insult.
Melina stepped forward, her voice quiet but certain. "He follows the guidance of grace. That alone is enough."
"Grace guides many," D said. "But not all who are guided can endure what follows."
"I'll take my chances," Alistair replied.
Silence settled again, broken only by the crackle of distant torches. Slowly, the others returned to their business, leaving Alistair to explore the hold.
He moved through the corridors, passing altars carved from dragonbone, portraits of warriors long dead, a gallery of glory and ruin. Everything here was soaked in the same bittersweet weight: this was not a sanctuary for the chosen, but a gathering ground for the damned, those whose paths all led toward ruin in service to a broken ideal.
In a side chamber, he found the blacksmith. The man hulking and horned, bound in chains, looked up from his anvil.
"You're new."
Alistair nodded.
"Name's Hewg. I forge for the Round Table, and for those who still remember what honor means."
Alistair hesitated, then handed over the Hound's Fang. The blacksmith took it, grunted, and turned to his tools.
"This blade has seen blood. Good. I can work with it."
As sparks began to fly, Alistair stepped back and let the rhythm of hammer and flame wash over him.
A new chapter was beginning. One of fire, shadow, and impossible paths. The Round Table had accepted him for now.
But its fires would test him, as they did all things.
***
Check out the "A Silent Voice: My Childhood Friend Is Nishimiya Shoko" if you like wholesome romance + slice of life.