The fortress loomed quiet in the morning mist, its stone walls soaked in dew and silence. Two weeks had passed since Reivo's confrontation with Princess Alisanne. The tension hadn't lifted—it had crystallized.
Today, they would leave for the capital.
Reivo stood alone by the stables, adjusting the straps of his travel gear. His hair had grown slightly, wilder, darker. A new scar ran along the edge of his jaw—courtesy of Baker's "final test." A reminder that even the last lesson came with blood.
He glanced at the horses, then toward the courtyard.
Footsteps.
"Ready?" came a familiar voice—low, sharp, and tinged with amusement.
It was Baker, hand on the cane, his usual scowl softened by something almost like pride.
"I didn't expect you to come," said Reivo, not turning, finishing a knot on the strap at his shoulder.
Baker shrugged, limping closer. "Didn't want to, to be honest. But habits are hard to kill. And you're the worst habit I've picked up in years."
Reivo cracked a dry smirk. "Flattering."
Baker reached into the folds of his coat and pulled something wrapped in cloth. "I figured you'd try to leave with nothing but that grim stare and whatever blade you stole from the training yard."
Reivo turned now, brows raising as Baker extended the bundle.
He unwrapped it carefully.
A short sword—sleek and perfectly balanced—crafted from blackened steel, its edge traced by a faint red ripple, like old blood frozen mid-flow. The hilt was bound in worn leather, and the sheath bore an etched chimera, its form twisting along the scabbard as if alive.
"Where did you get this?" Reivo asked, turning the blade slightly to catch the light.
"Commissioned it years ago," Baker said. "Never meant to keep it. Thought I'd pass it on to someone worth the steel."
Reivo glanced up. "Someone in particular?"
Baker shrugged. "No. Just someone who didn't fight like a fool." His eyes flicked to Reivo's stance, the way the blade sat naturally in his grip. "After watching you train, it seemed a waste to leave it gathering dust."
Reivo studied the weapon for another moment, then looked back at him. "You sure I deserve this?"
Baker snorted. "No. But you'll need it more than I will. That cursed aura of yours draws danger like rot draws crows."
He paused, the edge of a real frown tugging at his face. "You walk into the heart of the Reign now. It's not a battlefield, it's a game board. Every smile's a knife. Every hand extended wants to pull your strings or slit your throat."
Reivo nodded once, tightening the sheath to his side.
"You trained me well enough," he said. "They'll regret pulling either."
Baker chuckled. "Good. That's the attitude I was after."
He turned to leave, but stopped after a few paces. "One last thing."
For a moment, he didn't look back. When he did, his expression was set, rough as weathered stone, but something tight lived behind his eyes.
"I didn't train you to be good," Baker said. "I trained you to survive."
He stepped closer, close enough that Reivo could smell leather and steel, the familiar scent of years spent in the yard. "Out there, mercy gets measured and sold. Honor gets you cornered. And rules?" He gave a dry huff. "Rules are for people who can afford to lose."
Baker set a hand on the sword, steadying it against Reivo's grip—not taking it back, just anchoring it. "If you have to become something they fear to see tomorrow, then do it. Carry it. Own it. Just don't lie to yourself about why."
His hand fell away. "Win first. Live long enough to decide what you are afterward."
Then, gruff as ever, he added, "That's all the guidance you're getting. The rest—you've already earned."
Reivo watched Baker vanish into the fog, the old mercenary's words echoing in his mind like a brand pressed into flesh. He tightened his grip on the sword, feeling the weight of more than steel. The sheath settled against his hip like it had always belonged there.
He turned toward the courtyard—and saw them.
A procession approached slowly: guards in polished armor, Meira and Lira walking side by side in travel cloaks, their hoods down. Lira gave him a small nod, her expression unreadable. Meira looked at him longer, eyes narrowing just slightly, as if sensing the tremor in the air around him.
And then came the chariot.
Black, reinforced with runed gold along the edges. Four sleek horses pulled it steadily across the stone path. Atop it stood Alisanne, wrapped in a dark crimson cloak lined with silver. Her hair caught the rising sun, and for a moment, she didn't look like a princess—she looked like the herald of something vast and terrible.
She stepped down lightly as the chariot halted.
"Are you ready?" she asked, voice soft but clear. Not demanding. Not cold. Just… asking.
Reivo nodded once. "Yes."
Her eyes lingered on his face. "A new scar," she noted.
"Gift from Baker," he replied.
She tilted her head, then looked down at the sword at his side. "And that?"
Reivo looked to the weapon, then back at her. "Another gift. This one I plan to keep."
Alisanne smiled faintly. "Good. You'll need it."
Without another word, she turned and stepped back onto the chariot. A guard gestured to Reivo. "You ride up front, just behind the escort."
Reivo mounted the second chariot, this one more utilitarian. The horses shifted, nervous perhaps from his presence—or the cursed aura that seemed heavier these days.
They set out soon after, wheels crunching against gravel, boots thudding in rhythm. The fortress gates opened wide, then slowly creaked shut behind them, leaving cold stone and memory behind.
They traveled in silence for some time, the landscape unfolding in rolling hills and sparse trees. The morning sun burned off the mist, revealing the full clarity of the world again. Reivo breathed it in, letting the fresh air clear his thoughts. The capital lay weeks away. He would have time—time to plan, time to observe, time to prepare for whatever the Reign intended to mold him into.
But peace never lasted.
------
After a few days into the ride, Reivo's gaze drifted eastward. At first, he thought it was a shadow cast by a passing cloud.
But it didn't move.
A thick, dark column of smoke rose into the sky—not gray, but black, oily and heavy. The kind of smoke that came from burning homes, not trees.
Reivo stood slightly in the chariot, squinting. "There," he called, pointing. "Smoke. Looks like a village."
The lead scout galloped ahead, returning moments later with a grim face.
"It's a Dungeon breach," the scout said. "Confirmed. At least a two-star by the strength of the monsters. Undead type. "
The caravan slowed. Alisanne climbed out of her chariot, frowning as she looked toward the distant smoke. "How far?"
"Half an hour if we push the horses," the scout replied.
Alisanne turned to Reivo. "I won't order it. We're not equipped for a full assault."
Reivo didn't hesitate. "I'm going."
He was already gripping the sword in its sheath, his heartbeat slow, focused.
"You go alone." Alisanne said after a pause. "We'll see what kind of nightmare you really are."
And Reivo, turned his path toward the burning village.
Smoke, steel, and screams waited just beyond the horizon.