The morning came with a blinding light spilling through the frost-covered window, stabbing into Silius's eyes as he stirred. The warmth of the woolen sheets clung to him like a plea, and for a moment, he considered staying buried in their embrace. But duty had a cruel rhythm.
He pushed himself to the edge of the bed, wincing slightly. His body still ached—his movements stiff, uneven. The healing wasn't complete.
Outside the window, he could see his father already in motion, barking orders in the courtyard, surrounded by knights and loaded carts. Preparations for departure.
Silius limped to his dresser, his gait stiff. He pulled on his clothes slowly—thick black boots, a silver-inlaid chest plate that stopped above the waist for flexibility, and a slate-grey cloak. Practical. Durable. Perhaps underwhelming.
Am I underdressed? he thought, glancing down at himself. No… better to wear something that moves than something that shines.
As he adjusted the buckles, his mind wandered—first to the tournament, then to the capital itself. Glicent. Named after the ancient King of Wisdom, a Dragon-ranked mage known across the world. The capital was said to be breathtaking, an empire of stone and enchantment wrapped in golden banners and ancient trees.
And I'll see the King, Silius realized suddenly, his heart stuttering. The most powerful man on the continent—rumored to wield magic that could silence mountains. Just the thought of it made the sparks within his core pulse restlessly beneath his skin.
He stepped out into the hall, the cold stone floors smoothing beneath his boots. Narrow windows let shafts of pale light stretch across the walls. Between them, torches crackled and spat embers, throwing dancing shadows on bare stone. The ceiling arched with uneven stonework, each brick a reminder of a time when this estate had been revered.
Once, people had traveled from all over to seek aid here. His mother and father—then celebrated as honorary knights—had been known as protectors of the northern frontier. But after her death, the halls fell quiet. His father resigned, content with hunting wyverns and shadowing bandits in the cold.
The flame had left him.
Silius made his way to the main foyer, descending the spiral staircase. The great oak doors groaned as he opened them, letting the wind bite his cheeks as he stepped outside.
To the left, the training grounds wrapped around the estate like a scar—quiet now. To the right, carts were being loaded with supplies for the people who lived in the villages below.
"Morning, young master," a few knights called, saluting as he passed.
He offered a short nod, heading toward the voice that stood out above the rest—his father's.
Gladus stood near the gates, dressed in the red and gold ceremonial armor of the old honor guard. The insignia of the capital blazed at the center of his breastplate, while the sigil of their house—a broken sword beneath a thunderbolt—rested above his heart.
"Silius," Gladus called, eyes never leaving the scroll he held, "head to the gates. I'll join you shortly. I need to appoint someone responsible while we're gone."
Silius gave a quick nod and turned toward the open gate, twenty meters ahead. As he walked, he found his eyes drifting again to his own outfit, uncertain.
But no one said anything.
Waiting at the edge of the caravan were two knights beside a white-draped wagon and their saddled horses.
One was familiar—Odin.
The plump knight gave a warm, lopsided grin. His round face was red from the cold, his belly stretching against the leather straps of his armor. He looked softer than most warriors, but beneath that warmth was iron—he had helped train Silius as a child, before Gladus deemed him "too soft."
"Master Silius," Odin said, extending a hand to help him up. "Good to see you on your feet."
The other knight was striking in an entirely different way.
Tall. Towering, even—taller than Gladus, taller than most men Silius had ever met. Clad head to toe in dark steel, her helm masked her face completely. Only a sliver of her features could be seen—aged lines around her eyes, faint but unmistakable.
She bowed with precision. "My name is Lonnie. It's an honor to escort you, young master. I look forward to your performance at the tournament. I trust you won't disappoint us."
Silius nodded, slightly caught off guard by the gravity in her voice.
He stepped into the caravan, settling onto the cushioned bench as the knights took their positions atop their white horses. The waiting stretched thin for a few minutes.
Then Gladus arrived, stepping into the carriage without a word. His armor creaked softly as he sat, the golden trim catching what little morning sun filtered through the trees.
Odin let out a sharp whistle.
The caravan creaked into motion.
Snow crunched beneath the hooves. The sound of movement replaced the silence.
They passed the old, weather-worn gate. The wooden sign once engraved with the proud title Gladus Estate was so eroded now it said nothing. Just a blank board, forgotten by time.
The trail curved downward, a winding path through frostbitten trees. The mountains stood behind them, tall and silent, like sleeping giants.
Ahead lay the journey south—a two-day ride through snowy ridges, windbitten forests, and eventually the thawed earth of the lowlands. The capital waited beyond.
It would've been an exciting journey.
If not for the silence.
Father and son sat across from one another, saying nothing. The same silence that filled the halls of their estate now followed them down the road—heavy, cold, and familiar.