Two months of hard training and fighting later :
"You've both made great progress, little boys. You must be starving after that match," Nargomedov said with a grin. "Come on, Ivaar, let's go eat."
"Why me again?" Ivaar groaned. "It's Mickael's turn!"
"Stop being such a crybaby, Ivaar," Mickael shot back. "I don't have much money left. And you— you've got more cash than a damn bank. Where does it even come from?"
Ivaar smirked, looking away. "Alright, alright… I'll explain later."
At the inn :
"So, at the moment, Ivaar is in the lead," Nargomedov announced, tapping the table like a sports commentator. "Six victories and four defeats, against Mickael's five victories and five losses."
Ivaar puffed out his chest proudly. "Guess that makes me the prodigy around here."
"Prodigy my ass," Mickael muttered. "Half of those wins came from opponents who tripped over their own feet."
"Hey, a win is a win," Ivaar said with a grin. "You should try it sometime."
Nargomedov chuckled, taking a long sip from his cup. "Ah, the sweet sound of youth and arrogance. Makes my old ears feel young again."
"Your ears might be young, but your back sure isn't," Mickael said, earning a loud laugh from Ivaar.
"Careful, boy," Nargomedov replied with mock menace. "I might just double tomorrow's training load."
The table fell into laughter. For the first time in weeks, the tension of constant fighting faded, replaced by the warmth of shared exhaustion and banter.
Suddenly, a man burst into the inn, his armor glinting in the dim light. Etched into his chestplate was a coat of arms unmistakably that of a noble family.
"Sir! You must return to the domain immediately. Your father has fallen ill, and your mother…" the knight began, his voice low and grave.
Every head in the inn turned, searching for the man being addressed. Mickael looked around too, puzzled until he noticed Ivaar.His friend's face had gone completely pale.
"What happened to my mother?!" Ivaar shouted, his voice cracking as he shot to his feet.
A heavy silence fell over the room. All eyes were now fixed on him.
"We should depart at once, my lord," the knight said softly, bowing his head.
"No! Speak now, knight!" Ivaar's voice trembled with anger and fear, the words almost breaking as they left his throat.
Mickael took a cautious step closer, his tone calm and steady."Ivaar… maybe you should go upstairs with him," he suggested gently. "It might be easier to talk in private. If you want, I can come too."
Ivaar's lips quivered, his voice barely a whisper. "Thanks…"
Mickael turned toward the knight. "Please… follow him. Don't make it harder than it already is."
The knight nodded silently and followed Ivaar up the stairs.
At the other end of the table, Nargomedov watched the whole scene unfold.He hadn't moved or spoken once, but his sharp eyes had caught everything — the crest on the knight's armor, the tone of his words, and the name he had not spoken aloud. A faint sigh escaped him as he set down his cup.
"So… the boy's from that family," he murmured under his breath.He stayed seated, letting the moment belong to Ivaar. Some grief, he knew, had to be faced without guidance.
In the room:
"I am deeply sorry to inform you, my lord," the knight said solemnly, "but your mother passed away a week ago… from a sudden and devastating illness."
Ivaar froze, his body trembling as tears welled up in his eyes. He tried to speak but no sound came out. The knight lowered his gaze, giving him space.
A minute passed before Ivaar finally managed to whisper, his voice heavy with pain yet determined:"I'll return… immediately."
"It's already late," Mickael said softly, turning to the knight. "Is it really necessary to leave tonight and not wait until morning?"
"The sooner my lord returns, the better," the knight replied respectfully. "We cannot know if his father's condition might worsen during the night."
"I'll leave tonight," Ivaar said firmly, his voice steady despite the weight behind it.
"The carriage is prepared, my lord," the knight added, straightening his posture. "We can depart as soon as you are ready."
Without another word, Mickael turned and walked down the stairs. The common room was quieter now, the patrons speaking in hushed tones, aware that something serious had happened. Nargomedov was still sitting by the window, pipe in hand, his sharp eyes glancing toward the staircase before Mickael even spoke.
"I'm going with Ivaar," Mickael said, his tone calm but resolute. "Even if this is a family matter… I can't just let him face it alone."
Nargomedov gave a small nod, his expression unreadable at first, then softened. "Then go, Mickael. Never lie to yourself. When your heart tells you to act — act. The world respects those who follow conviction more than those who hesitate. Now, call Ivaar. I have something to say to both of you."
Outside, near the carriage:
The night air was cool and silent, the faint chirping of crickets the only sound beyond the distant murmurs of the city. The carriage stood waiting, lanterns flickering on its sides, horses stamping lightly in the dust.
"Ivaar, Mickael," Nargomedov began, stepping closer, his coat brushing against the wind. "You've both been my disciples for months now. You've bled, fought, and grown stronger — not just in skill, but in spirit. Be proud of that. Whatever awaits you, remember this: do not let sorrow or doubt chain you to the past. Always move forward, no matter how heavy the road feels."
"Master…" Ivaar's voice cracked as tears welled up again. "Thank you… for allowing me to dream. Thank you for everything."
Mickael nodded, his voice low but steady. "Don't worry, Master. If I ever lose my way with the aura, I'll find you even if it takes years."
Nargomedov laughed, the sound rough but warm. "Hahaha! Go, my boys! The world won't wait for you."
And so, under the pale light of the moon, the two young men departed, one toward his roots, the other toward an uncertain road that felt like destiny.