The Capital – House of Mortani (Western Branch)
A small banquet was held in a side hall of the Mortani estate. Sraphiel himself did not attend; instead, he left it to the members of the western branch of the family. The atmosphere was lighter than the courts of the palace, but every glance still measured worth, and every silence carried weight.
At the far end sat Sir Darius, his dark blue armor glinting beneath the lamps, though his right hand was still bound with an old bandage. He spoke little, his eyes watching the flow of conversation with a hard stillness.
When Liana Mortani—a daughter of the western branch—passed by to refill her cup, their eyes met for a brief moment. No words were spoken, yet the silence that followed was heavier than any exchange.
A noble at the table leaned toward another and whispered:
— "Darius stares at her too often… strange, isn't it? A knight of common birth daring to admire a star of House Mortani, even if she's from their lesser branch."
The other smirked coldly:
— "Ambition doesn't suit the poor. Their swords belong in the yard, not at a wedding."
Darius did not respond, but his grip on his cup tightened until a thin crack spread across the glass.
The Training Grounds – Two Days Later
The sky was heavy with clouds, the ground slick with mud. Captain Raun lined the trainees into two rows, his voice sharper than the weather:
— "Today… a new test. One side attacks, the other defends. This time… there will be blood. Prepare yourselves."
The ranks divided. Kaizlan's group stood among the attackers. Facing them, the defenders were led by Hark, his eyes flicking nervously between the sky and the lone torch at the edge of the yard.
The whistle shrieked.
Kaizlan charged first, mud spraying with his steps. He slammed into a wooden shield lifted clumsily by Bartol. For a heartbeat the defense wavered—until Ilda's voice rang out, counting her steps aloud:
— "One… two… three!"
She leapt at the perfect moment, closing the gap before it broke.
Wooden clubs rose and fell, thudding against shoulders and helmets. Milo took a blow to his side, gasped in pain, yet pushed forward with watery eyes.
Sirin's voice cut through the clash:
— "Don't look at the pain! Move!"
With a sharp strike she broke Bartol's defense, sending him to his knees.
The test ended at Raun's second whistle. Blood mingled with mud, faces pale but unbroken.
Raun's gaze swept across them as he said:
— "The first blood shocks you… the second steadies you. Those who cannot endure—there's the gate. Those who remain… learn that the body may break, but the line must not."
That Night – By the Fire
Milo sat alone, holding his side where the blow had landed. Sirin passed by, stopped, and quietly sat beside him.
He spoke softly:
— "I thought I wouldn't rise again… but your voice—it was like a blade in my ear."
She didn't answer at once. She only looked at the fire and said:
— "A voice doesn't bring the dead back… but sometimes it reminds the living they're not dead yet."
Milo's hand tightened on the small charm tied around his wrist. He said nothing more, but his eyes clung to it as if afraid to let go.
The Capital – A Side Palace Chamber
In a quiet chamber, Lady Lorenvall sat with two of her advisors, shuffling sealed letters.
One spoke:
— "A message from the northern border… it claims the Silent General appeared for three days, then vanished again."
The other chuckled faintly:
— "So which is he? A man… or a ghost?"
Lorenvall pressed her seal into the wax with calm certainty:
— "It makes no difference. His name alone stirs hearts. Let the rumor spread… fear can be sharper than a thousand spears."