The deal was made.
The words still clung to Aiden's mind like molten iron cooling against the flesh of his thoughts. He had sealed his course—whether toward greatness or damnation, he did not yet know.
But already the armour weighed heavy upon his shoulders: new knightly armour, its steel polished to a cold gleam, its plates creaking with every stride.
On his back shone the sigil—a strange fusion of two legacies, Merlin's spiral and Leonidus' lion, etched deep as if into the marrow of his destiny.
The mark burned like a second spine, a reminder of what he had claimed and what he might yet betray.
Knighthood was a ladder, but the rungs were oiled and broken. Aiden knew the truth of it: the sons and daughters of nobles climbed swiftly, lifted by blood and coin, each step eased by inheritance.
Commoners, however, were chained to the first rung, condemned to bear steel and bend the knee for life. No banners of their own, no voices in council, only service—eternal and thankless.
