Lore found Garron in the forge long before dawn, when Windas still belonged to ash and embers instead of banners and bells.
The forge breathed like a living thing. Heat rolled off the stone in slow pulses, and the air carried the layered smells of oil, soot, and worked metal. Outside, the city slept uneasily, but here there was only the quiet rhythm of labor that never truly stopped.
Garron stood at his bench, broad shoulders hunched, hammer resting idle in one scarred hand while he studied a piece of half-finished work. He didn't look up when Lore entered.
"You're late," Garron said.
Lore stopped just inside the doorway. The forge light caught the new lines in Garron's face—deeper than the last time Lore had been here.
"I didn't know I was expected."
"That's been the problem lately," Garron replied. "You never do."
He set the hammer down with care and reached beneath the bench, dragging free a bundle wrapped in oilcloth darkened by repeated handling. When he unrolled it, steel caught the firelight—greaves first, dark and practical; then a fitted cuirass etched with faint channels that weren't decorative so much as directional; and finally a heavy cloak folded neatly on top.
Lore didn't move at first.
"I didn't know these were ready."
"They weren't," Garron said. "Now they are."
He snorted softly, more tired than amused. "You come and go like a bad habit. Every time I finish something, you're already halfway to another fire. Hard to outfit a man who won't stand still long enough to be measured."
Lore lifted the cuirass. It was heavier than his old armor, but the weight didn't pull. It settled, as though it wanted to sit close to him rather than be worn over him.
"With the full set on," Garron said, finally glancing up, "your magic will reinforce your body the same way it reinforces your spells. Strength won't spike. It'll hold. Endurance won't burn out so fast. Keeps your magic from shaking loose when you push too hard."
Lore nodded. That was enough.
He fitted the greaves first. They locked in with a muted click, adjusting subtly as his mana brushed against them. The cuirass followed, snug without biting. When he clasped the cloak at his shoulder, Garron gave a low grunt.
"About time you looked like you belong where you keep ending up."
Lore flexed his fingers. Heat pulsed faintly through the gauntlets—not eager, not restrained. Awake.
"The sword?" he asked.
Garron's expression hardened immediately.
"Still broken," he said. "Still becoming. And if you rush me, I'll make it worse out of spite."
Lore almost smiled. Almost.
"Be careful with the field blade," Garron added. "It won't answer you. It won't forgive you. And it won't save you if you get sloppy."
"I know."
Garron looked at him then, really looked.
"No," he said quietly. "Not yet."
Lore inclined his head and turned toward the door.
"Lore."
He stopped.
"You keep coming back alive," Garron said. "That's all the encouragement I need."
~~
The summons came before sunrise.
Not by horn.
Not by courier.
A runner intercepted Lore outside the barracks, posture straight, expression neutral.
"Outer yard. Now."
The training ground lay beyond Windas's inner walls, carved from black stone that had been reforged and warded more times than anyone could count. Old magic hummed beneath the surface, not loud enough to hear, but strong enough to tighten the air.
Four pillars marked the ring's edges, each etched with runes meant to measure force, control, and failure.
Lore noticed immediately how few were present.
Far fewer than he expected.
Knight Generals stood apart, their presence quiet but unmistakable. Knight Lords gathered in smaller knots, armor worn and practical. Paladins and Knights filled the rest of the ring, disciplined, silent, watching everything.
Conversation was minimal.
And Lore stood alone.
The only Squire.
He felt it immediately—not disdain, not hostility.
Assessment.
The field blade hung at his side. The new armor settled against him, magic flowing through it in subtle, disciplined currents.
A man stepped into the center of the ring.
Plain steel armor. No cloak. No ornament. Only the sigil at his collar marked his rank.
"I am Knight General Caelis," he said. "Eastern command."
One of several.
That mattered.
"This is not a duel," Caelis continued. "It is a measure."
His gaze rested on Lore.
"Show me how you fight when your blade does not forgive mistakes."
Lore stepped forward.
"Lore of Windas," Caelis said. "Head Squire."
"Yes, sir."
"Draw."
Lore did.
The sword did not answer him.
But the gauntlets did.
Heat surged through his forearms as he moved, mana spilling outward in a controlled burst that cracked against the stone beneath his feet.
"Begin."
Lore struck first.
Fire traced disciplined lines along the blade. When Caelis deflected, Lore snapped his wrist and released a short-range mana flare—heat bursting outward in a concussive wave meant to disrupt footing.
Caelis stepped through it.
Not untouched.
But unshaken.
Steel rang again. Lore followed with another outburst, fire venting from his gauntlets in a sharp arc. The armor absorbed the recoil, steadying muscle and bone alike.
The blow landed.
Stone cracked beneath Caelis's boots.
A murmur passed through the ring.
Not surprise.
Interest.
Lore felt it—the way eyes sharpened, the way bodies leaned forward. The strike hadn't broken through, but it had moved Caelis.
That alone mattered.
Caelis adjusted his stance.
Not defensively.
Respectfully.
Lore pressed forward, mana flaring brighter. Each strike carried weight now—not just force, but intent. Fire snapped and recoiled, disciplined but undeniable.
Caelis met the next blow head-on.
Steel screamed.
The impact drove Lore backward instead.
The yard went silent.
Caelis did not pursue the opening.
"Better," he said—not praise, but acknowledgment.
Lore understood then, dimly, that it wasn't restraint they were measuring.
It was how much force he could bring to bear without breaking.
How much of himself he could commit and still stand.
Caelis stepped inside Lore's reach and twisted.
The field blade tore free and skidded across the stone.
Silence followed.
Not disappointment.
Conclusion.
Caelis's weapon stopped an inch from Lore's throat.
"You fight like someone who believes momentum is power," Caelis said.
Lore steadied his breathing. "It is."
"No," Caelis replied evenly. "Momentum is waste. Precision is power."
He stepped back.
"You survived Waycrest. You adapted under collapse. That earns you candidacy."
Candidacy.
"It does not make you ready."
~~
Lore retrieved the field blade slowly.
No one spoke at first.
The silence wasn't awkward. It wasn't disapproval. It felt settled, as though the yard had reached a conclusion and was simply waiting for the next calculation.
A Paladin nearby adjusted his grip on his spear, eyes lingering on Lore longer than courtesy required.
Another Knight nodded once. Just once.
Lore felt the shift. The way space subtly rearranged itself around him. Conversations didn't start, but they prepared to.
He had moved Caelis.
That fact would travel.
A Knight Lord murmured something to the man beside him.
"…didn't fold."
Not praise.
Record-keeping.
Lore realized the duel hadn't been about proving he belonged.
It had been about deciding how much weight his actions would carry from now on.
A shadow fell across him.
~~
"Head Squire."
Lore turned sharply.
The man wore a Knight Lord's sigil dulled by years of use. His armor bore old repairs instead of replacements.
"I am Knight Lord Semir," he said. "Western detachments."
Another piece of the machine.
"You will report to me when deployed," Semir continued. "Until told otherwise."
"Understood, sir."
Semir circled him slowly.
"You fight like you still expect permission."
Lore kept his gaze forward. "Sir?"
"You look for openings where people might be saved," Semir said. "Not where enemies must be erased."
The words struck deeper than steel.
"I won't order you to stop caring," Semir went on. "That would be inefficient. You hesitate because you believe there's time."
He stopped in front of Lore.
"There isn't."
Lore swallowed. "At Waycrest—"
"Waycrest burned," Semir cut in flatly. "You didn't fail. You arrived late to a losing equation."
No comfort. No blame.
"Holy Knights don't change outcomes," Semir said. "We limit spread. We cauterize."
Lore's jaw tightened.
Semir noticed.
Good.
"My task," Semir continued, "is to show you where conscience breaks."
~~
By midmorning, bells rang through Windas.
Not alarms.
Rites.
A column of white and silver moved through the lower square—polished armor, pale cloaks, banners marked with a broken circle. Nobles stood at the edges, speaking quietly, while common folk bowed.
The Source.
Lore left the square on foot, moving through side streets instead of main roads. Shops stood shuttered, doors half-open where people lingered to watch the city change shape around them.
A man knelt at a wall shrine, fingers pressed to glass. A child tugged his sleeve.
"They'll keep us safe, right?"
The man hesitated. "The Source watches over us."
Lore passed without slowing.
Further down the street, a woman argued with a city guard.
"My husband's a Knight," she said. "You can't just send them out like—"
"They aren't sending Legions," the guard replied. "Just… pieces."
Pieces.
Lore felt the word stick.
At the edge of the lower ward, a refugee cart sat piled with belongings. A man stiffened when he saw Lore's armor.
"Magic Knight," he said, uncertain whether to bow.
"We'll hold the roads," Lore said. It wasn't a promise. It was the truth he had.
"By the Source," the man murmured.
~~
By dusk, Holy Knights departed.
Quietly.
Deliberately.
Lore rode only as far as the eastern road before detachments split apart, pressure spreading across the land instead of armies.
That night, he stood alone on a rise overlooking the road east.
Fires burned far away.
MalWar was not marching.
It was breathing.
Lore clenched his fists, feeling the armor answer.
If this war would grind forward no matter what—
then he would learn how to stand inside it without becoming hollow.
Not today.
But soon.