Though not as towering as Mount Ourea—whose peak soared six thousand meters above sea level—Mount Roca was still formidable. Its sheer size was unmatched, and its base boasted the largest of any mountain in the Alta-Sierra range. Trekking around its massive base would take months, a daunting feat even for the most seasoned travelers.
However, it was different when you descended from its peak. A month’s travel could be cut in just a day or two.
Alaric turned to Jethru, his gaze steady. "Do you know the fastest way to Carles?"
He learned that the Hermit had stayed in the plateau for twenty-five years. If anyone knew the mountains like the back of their hand, it would be him. The general had even offered him gold to act as their guide—an offer Jethru had not refused.
Jethru studied General Alaric. If not for his handsome face and for wanting to see his disciple, he would not divulge the secret passage that would take them at Roca’s slopes facing Carles in just a day.
"There is a way," Jethru admitted, his voice measured. "But it won’t be easy. Are you certain you’re well enough, General? The path is treacherous."
"Can the soldiers who are still ill stay here to recuperate?" He asked.
Jethru nodded. "Of course." He had already received five gold ingots from the general—the latest of which he had used to buy medicine from Calma.
The rest was used to pay for a two-level house that he’d fully purchased there. The upper floor had five rooms, while his master intended to transform the ground floor into an herbal shop.
After the purchase, his wealth had dwindled, but he still needed to buy the furniture. However, fate had placed yet another opportunity in his hands.
Jethru glanced at the bandage on his abdomen.
"Let me check your injury," he said. "I need to know if you can survive the journey."
Alaric lay down on Lara’s bed without protest. He relaxed when he smelt the familiar feminine scent on the pillow.
As Jethru carefully unwound the bandages, he noted the clean, precise stitches. The wound had healed well on the surface, but it was another matter entirely beneath the skin.
"The stitch was neatly done, it does not look hideous at all and it has healed well. You need at least six weeks for the wound to heal.
"I can’t wait that long. We can bind my stomach tighter to minimize the risk of reopening the wound." Alaric said impatiently.
Jethru looked at the Alaric, a flicker of interest appeared in his eyes. Just for a moment, he felt the man on the bed exuded a powerful aura, akin to that o fhis master. The man was indeed not simple.
"I wanted to join the war but I have an old man and three children to care for. Once I send you to Carles and meet my disciple, I will go back to Calma."
"Of course, Sir. I understand."
The following morning, Jethru led the eighteen soldiers to the waterfalls at the southern part of the plateau. The remaining five soldiers were not well enough, so they stayed with Felix, assigned to look after their well-being.
"Holy Shit! How could there be a cave behind the waterfalls? I had bathed here several times but did not notice this." Agilus exclaimed when Jethru led them to a narrow cave hidden behind the cascades.
Indeed, the entrance was masterfully concealed—jagged gray rocks stacked so seamlessly that they blended with the cliffside. The relentless roar of the water had masked its existence for years.
The air was thick with dampness, and their breath came in short, weary puffs. The passage had been treacherous, forcing them to maneuver carefully between jagged stalagmites and stalactites in the dim, flickering torchlight. After an arduous two-hour trek through the cavern’s twisting corridors, they finally emerged onto a narrow rocky ledge.
Now, standing on the ledge—a precarious strip of stone no more than two meters wide and five meters long—they faced an even greater obstacle. Below them, a sheer drop plunged over two hundred meters into jagged rocks below, while above them loomed a daunting, twenty-meter-high slope of smooth marble.
Agilus took one look at the dizzying drop and swayed slightly, his face turning ashen. "What the hell is this?" he muttered under his breath, gripping the rock wall for support. He was afraid of heights.
A soldier ran his hands along the polished rock face, his fingers searching for even the smallest crevice. "How do we climb this?" he asked, frustration creeping into his voice. "I’ve scaled mountains before, but this... this is impossible. There’s no foothold, no grip! It’s as if the gods themselves carved it—smooth and untouched."
Had Lara been with them, she would have immediately recognized the place. In the modern era, it was known as the Portrait of Galeya. From the peak of Mount Ourea, this vertical slope, when viewed from the right angle, resembled the face of a woman—her lips curved into a half-smile, her eyes gazing out into the horizon as if guarding the secrets of the mountain.
Jethru rolled his eyes, unimpressed by their panic. With practiced ease, he reached into the drawstring bag slung over his back and pulled out a rope ladder. Then, without hesitation, he drew his bow, nocked an arrow, and fired. The arrow whistled through the crisp mountain air before embedding itself into a jagged rock high above. The rope ladder dangled securely.
Giving it a firm tug to test its strength, Jethru nodded in satisfaction before beginning his ascent. Despite his age, he moved with the grace of a seasoned warrior—light-footed, agile, effortless.
The soldiers below could only stare in disbelief.
"How the hell does he move like that?" one of them whispered.
"He’s faster than us, and we’re in our prime," another muttered, shaking his head.
One by one, the soldiers followed, climbing until, at last, they reached the summit of Mount Roca.
The view stole their breath away.
Stretching before them, the vast expanse of the sea shimmered like liquid emerald and sapphire under the morning sun. The sky was clear, the air crisp and cool. For a moment, even their exhaustion was forgotten as they stood, mesmerized by the sheer beauty of the world from this height.