The doors closed behind him with a soft click.
The knight stood beneath a vaulted ceiling lined with gold-trimmed chandeliers. The walls were marble-white, unblemished by age or dust, lined with portraits in heavy frames. Faces looked down at him—kings, ladies, knights—each one painted with such precision they might blink at any moment.
The old man did not wait.
He stepped forward, gesturing the knight to follow.
"Come, come. No need to linger in the atrium. The Master is most... particular about time."
The knight walked slowly. Each step echoed far more than it should.
The armored figures behind him resumed their positions—silent, constant, unflinching.
He glanced at one.
The armor was old. Dented in places, reinforced in others. The other one was not much different.
He faced forward again.
The hallway was too long.
Carpets of deep crimson lined the floor, and tall windows on either side offered a view into an empty garden—lush, green, and impossibly perfect. No insects. No wind. Nothing moved.
Too perfect.
Every part of him wanted to draw his sword again. But something told him not to. Not yet.
"Many knights have walked these halls before," the old man said, as if hearing his thoughts. "Most chose to stay. You'll love it here!"
The knight said nothing.
They stopped at a tall black door with a golden handle shaped like a thorned branch. The old man turned.
"May I offer some advice, good sir?"
The knight tilted his head slightly.
"Speak respectfully. Do not interrupt. And whatever you do…" He leaned in closer, lowering his voice.
"Do not question his hospitality."
He smiled again. Knocked once. Then twice.
"Master Adraval," the old man called through the door, "The knight has arrived."
A long pause.
Then a voice—calm, melodic, and inhumanly steady—answered.
"Let him enter."
The old man bowed deeply. Opened the door.
The knight stepped in.
The door shut softly behind him.
The knight stood still in the grand study, eyes tracing the room's strange beauty—high windows laced with moonlight, shelves packed with tomes whose spines bore no titles, a fireplace that crackled with a flame too white to be natural.
And then there was the man.
He stood at the heart of the chamber, hands clasped behind his back, posture relaxed, head slightly tilted—like one would greet an old friend, not a blood-streaked stranger.
The man's robes were a rich gray-blue, simple but clean, edged with golden stitching. His face was pale, not sickly, but untouched—as if the world outside had never kissed it.
"Welcome," the man said. His voice was calm, disarmingly so. "Forgive the abrupt invitation. The roads are no longer safe."
The knight said nothing.
"I am Adraval," the man continued with a gentle smile. "The current keeper of this household."
He gestured toward a pair of antique chairs set beside the fire.
"Please, be at ease. This is but a simple house, and I am but a man who enjoys quiet company."
The knight remained where he stood.
Adraval chuckled faintly. "Ah… cautious. That is wise."
He turned and walked slowly toward a nearby shelf, his hands trailing across its edge.
"You must have seen them. The creatures in the field."
"…Yes."
"Terrible things," Adraval sighed, shaking his head with a kind of mournful elegance. "They roam those grasses endlessly, clawing at wind and shadow. Always hungry. Always searching."
He turned back toward the knight, eyes calm.
"I sealed the field long ago, to protect this place. The seal holds them in, keeps them from attacking the mansion. A… necessary precaution."
His tone was light. Soothing, even. There was no pride in his voice. No obsession. Only kindness.
The knight narrowed his eyes behind the helm.
"They weren't just beasts," he said at last. "They fought. With weapons."
Adraval gave a slow nod.
"Yes. Some of them were once men, I suspect. Lost to madness, perhaps. The Hollow War left more scars than even time can mend."
He folded his hands in front of him.
'The Hollow War? What is that?'
The knight wondered. But he decided not to ask the mysterious man as he didn't want to give away any weaknesses.
"But come. You've traveled far. I'd rather speak of rest than ruin."
A long pause hung between them.
"…May I ask your name?"
The knight hesitated.
His mind raced, empty. Blank. Nothing rose. Not a word. Nothing. Until he made something up.
He forced an answer.
"…Allen."
Adraval stood perfectly still.
His smile didn't waver.
But something changed. Just for a breath. Just for a flicker.
The air thickened. The fire cracked louder than it should have. A page turned itself on one of the books.
Then, just as quickly, all returned to calm.
"Allen," Adraval repeated gently. "A fine name."
He smiled once more and turned back toward the fire.
"You are welcome here, Allen. My home is open to you. Please—enjoy your time within these walls."
And then, he looked back, eyes sharp and kind all at once.
"So long as you do not open the wrong doors."
The room that Adraval gave him was large yet modestly furnished.
It bore wooden walls,some lanterns infused with mana. The bed was at the center.
'What is this Hollow War?' he asked again. As usual,his question was not answered.
He looked up at the ceiling and then looked down. He took off his helmet,washing his face with the water in the room.
He looked at the mirror. The most clogging up the mirror,not showing his reflection.
The Knight sighed.