The quiet after the carnage was never peace. It was just the world catching its breath.
Leon stood surrounded by cooling bodies and overturned stalls, the twin daggers still dripping in his hands. His breathing had evened out, but his stance hadn't relaxed. Not yet.
Because in front of him, a woman sat astride a horse—a figure as out of place in Grayridge as a jewel in a dungheap.
She'd arrived alone. No fanfare, no guards, just hoofbeats and silver armor flashing beneath a ruined sky. Her violet hair trailed behind her like a war banner, and the insignia on her breastplate—sword and shield—meant nothing to Leon, but it looked important.
And she'd looked at him like he was the strangest thing here.
She dismounted in a smooth motion, her gaze already scanning the scene with a general's precision. Her eyes—sharp, amethyst, and utterly unreadable—fell on him, bloodstained, tattered, and very much armed.
"You," she said, her voice a command disguised as a word. "Name."
Leon tilted his head, still catching his breath. "Only fair if you go first."
A pause.
Then, calmly, without blinking: "Seraphine Vael. Knight-Commander of Duskmoor."
Leon blinked. "…Huh. Didn't see that one coming."
She didn't react to the tone. Not even a twitch.
"You were fighting?"
"Defending myself. Looked like nobody else was going to."
"You're young."
Leon snorted. "Yeah, thanks for the reminder. In case I forgot the part where my legs barely reach the ground."
Her mouth tightened just slightly.
"You killed that?" she asked, nodding toward the goblin brute crumpled in a pool of its own blood.
Leon shrugged. "It tried to kill me. I stopped it first. Simple math."
Before she could speak again, the air shifted.
Distant hoofbeats. Boots on cobblestone. Orders barked. Steel drawn.
The cavalry arrived—late, loud, and very much ready for a fight that was already over.
A column of armored soldiers thundered in from the southern road, some mounted, others on foot, their banners fluttering in the wind. Spears, shields, cloaks of Duskmoor gray.
They came to a halt behind her, surrounding the scene in a wall of polished steel and wary eyes.
Leon adjusted his grip on his daggers—not tighter, not looser. Just enough.
One of the soldiers approached. "Commander Vael. We came as soon as—"
"Late," she cut in, rubbing her temple like the headache was already there.
The man fell silent.
Seraphine kept her gaze on Leon. "You're not from Grayridge."
"Nope."
"Then why are you here?"
Leon licked his lips, coughed once from the smoke still hanging in the air. "Selling soup. Sounds stupid, but… that's the truth."
Her eyes flicked to the ring on his finger, then the daggers, then back to his silver eyes.
"You're coming with us."
Leon raised a brow. "Do I get a choice, or…?"
"Not for now."
He glanced at the armed wall of soldiers, sighed. "…Fine. But I'm keeping my things. And I don't like people touching my stuff."
"Understood."
With that, she turned on her heel, heading back toward her steed.
Leon fell into step beside her, bloody daggers sheathed but still visible, tension trailing him like a second shadow.
Behind them, soldiers whispered.
A kid.
Covered in blood.
Standing over corpses.
And smirking at their Commander like it was just another Tuesday.
Leon didn't know where this was going.
But it smelled like complications.
The shop was half-collapsed, walls cracked and windows shattered—yet it was the quietest place left standing near the market. Charred wood and broken shelves framed the room like a war exhibit. A single chair had survived.
Commander Seraphine Vael sat in it like it was a throne.
Leon stood before her, still in bloodstained clothes, daggers sheathed but visible at his waist. He didn't fidget, but he did scratch absently at a blood-crusted sleeve while she studied him.
A few soldiers lingered near the entrance, their whispers a little too loud. Leon flicked them a glance. "I can hear you, you know." Silence followed.
Seraphine's eyes didn't leave him. "You have the look of someone who should be dead."
Leon shrugged. "Had worse odds. Still here."
"Where did you learn to fight like that?" Her tone didn't rise. It didn't need to.
He cocked his head. "Trial and error. More errors than trials. Probably more swearing than both."
She leaned back slightly. "Fine. Where did you learn it, then?"
"In a place where time felt like it stopped. Just me, my knives, and the need to keep going."
She didn't blink. "Sarcasm won't help you here."
"That wasn't sarcasm. That's just… how I explain things that don't make sense."
Her eyes narrowed. "You're deflecting."
"Maybe. Or maybe I'm just used to nobody believing me anyway."
Seraphine paused, then gestured subtly. One of the soldiers stepped forward and placed Leon's soup pot gently on the floor beside him.
Leon glanced down at it, then back up. "Nice to see it survived. Thanks."
"I want the truth," she said. "Not stories. You fought with precision. Timing. That doesn't come from hunger or fear."
His gaze sharpened.
"You're not wrong. But hunger teaches fast. Pain teaches faster."
"Who are you, Kid?"
"A survivor. That's it. For now."
She tilted her head. "You're not normal."
"Yeah, people keep saying that."
"I'm not complimenting you."
"Didn't think you were."
Silence stretched, broken only by the scuffing of boots outside and the occasional groan of the wounded.
Finally, she asked, "How old are you?"
Leon raised an eyebrow. "…Physically or emotionally?"
Her lips twitched like she almost sighed. "The one that isn't sarcasm."
"Seven. Honest answer."
Her eyes flickered—just slightly. "Seven, and standing on a pile of corpses."Leon opened his mouth, then faltered for a moment. He was trying to hide it, but his fear slipped for a moment. "I didn't—uh, I mean… I didn't choose that. I just… handled it."
The stumble was small, but enough. For the first time, Seraphine saw not just a fighter standing on corpses, but a boy.
Another pause.
Then she rose, the chair creaking.
"You'll come with us to Duskmoor," she said. "For your protection—and ours."
Leon's gaze flicked to the soldiers at the door, then back to her. "…Not like I've got much of a choice, huh?"
"No."
"Then I guess you'll just have to see what a seven-year-old with two knives and too much free time is hiding."
Her eyes sharpened. "We will."
Leon smiled thinly. "Fair warning, I'm boring once you get to know me."
"We haven't even started."
She stepped past him toward the door, soldiers snapping back into motion.
Leon bent, picked up his soup pot, muttering, "…Let's hope this isn't the part where everything goes downhill."
About half an hour later, the fires were out. The bodies were piled. The screams had quieted, leaving only the stink of blood and ash.
Grayridge was used to pain. But even it had never looked this hollow.
Leon stood at the edge of the ruined square, soup pot strapped to his back, boots dusty, and eyes distant. He stayed quiet, watching soldiers work with grim efficiency. No one approached him—not after what they'd seen.
That was fine.
He didn't want company. He wanted answers.
And instead, he got a horse.
Seraphine had been giving orders without pause, voice sharp and surgical. Now, she sat astride her stallion, violet hair pulled back, armor spattered.
She looked down at him like someone trying to fit a puzzle piece that refused to click.
"You're riding with me," she said.
Leon squinted at the horse, then at her. "…Not a fan of horses. Prefer not to break my neck falling off."
"You're seven. You'll bounce."
"That's… not reassuring."
She extended a hand.
He hesitated, then sighed, tightened the strap on his pot, and took it.
She hauled him up with ease. He landed behind her, awkward at first, shifting his grip so it didn't look like he was clinging even though he was.
The soldiers nearby didn't comment, but a few exchanged looks.
A white-haired boy with blood on his hands, climbing onto the Commander's horse like he belonged there? It didn't make sense.
Leon leaned a little to the side. "…So, uh, am I an assistant now? Or a prisoner?"
Seraphine's voice was unreadable. "That depends. How good are you at surviving paperwork?"
Leon groaned. "…I'd rather fight goblins again."
She spurred the horse forward, soldiers falling into formation behind them.
As they left the smoke and ruin behind, Leon glanced over his shoulder—just once.
That cursed town had been the start of his new life.
Now it was behind him.
Ahead? Duskmoor.
A real city. A real commander.
And a whole mess of complications waiting to happen.
He tightened his grip on the saddle, shifted awkwardly, and muttered, "…Figures. Yeah. Just my luck."