The Weight of Words

In the courtyard of the Temple of Shadows, I watched the Warden spar with two visiting warriors. They moved with precision, their strikes quick and purposeful, but every attempt to land a blow on the Warden was effortlessly deflected. His movements were calm, almost languid, as though he were indulging children at play.

As the match continued, I leaned against the stone railing, arms crossed, and remarked, loud enough for all to hear, “If they’d press the attack together instead of waiting their turn, they might stand a chance.”

The Warden froze mid-step, his back to me. A sharp silence fell over the courtyard, broken only by the sound of his opponents’ labored breathing. Slowly, he turned, his gaze cold and piercing, fixing on me as if he were staring through my very soul. The air seemed heavier now, pressing down on the courtyard like a storm waiting to break.

Without breaking eye contact, the Warden began to cross the courtyard, each footfall measured and deliberate. The sound of his boots against the stone was deafening in the silence, and yet his expression did not change.

When he reached me, he stopped, standing so close that I could feel the weight of his presence, like the shadow of a mountain. He leaned in, his voice quiet but sharp enough to cut through me.

“Do you know my title?”

The question hung in the air, and though my mouth went dry, I managed to reply, “Yes.”

His head tilted slightly, and his voice dropped even lower, forcing me to strain to hear. “Do you understand what it means to be the Warden of Shadows?”

I nodded, though my courage wavered.

The Warden’s breath was steady, his words carrying an edge that made my skin crawl. “Then you must know,” he continued, his tone still even, “that I have ended more lives than you have lived days. That I have silenced greater men than you before they had the chance to utter a single foolish word.”

I froze, the chill of his words sinking deep into my bones. His gaze never wavered.

“Yet here you are,” he said, stepping closer until his face was inches from mine, “speaking in my presence as if you hold the wisdom of the world.”

My breath caught, and I felt the trembling start in my hands.

The Warden straightened, his tone turning softer, more menacing for its lack of volume. “Do you know what the cost of arrogance is?”

I shook my head, unable to form words.

“Good,” he said. Then, with the swiftness of a storm breaking, he thrust a wooden staff into my hands. “Show me.” he said. “If their mistakes are so obvious, surely you can correct them.”

I glanced at the warriors, both seasoned fighters, then back at the Warden. My hands tightened around the staff as I stepped into the courtyard.

The moment the match began, I was on the defensive. Their strikes came fast and hard, a rhythm I couldn’t anticipate. My observations vanished, replaced by the sound of wood cracking against my staff and the sting of blows that slipped through my guard. Within moments, I was disarmed and on my knees, my breath ragged.

I looked up. The Warden stood before me staff in hand.

I heard the whistle through the air just before it struck the top of my head. The crack of impact echoed in the stillness, my vision went blurry, and a warm trickle began to run down my face. Blood.

Through the blur and the blood, I saw the Warden crouched to meet my eyes, inches from my face. “Do you understand now?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, my senses returning. “I was wrong.”

“No,” he said, his voice like a knife. “You spoke as if you knew. That was your mistake.”

I lowered my head, but his voice cut through the silence. “You forget who you stand before,” he said. “If you cannot hold your tongue, I will teach you how to live without one”

The threat hung in the air, its weight undeniable. He turned and walked away, leaving me kneeling in the dirt, the echoes of his words pressing down on me like the shadows of the temple itself.