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The doors of the hall slammed shut behind them with a dry, hollow crack.
The sound echoed through the empty corridor and slowly bled away, as if the castle were pulling back its own breath.
Éon kept walking — fast, steady, with steps that felt rejected by the floor, as if each one demanded restraint.
Karna tried to keep up.
His shoulder throbbed.
His breathing scraped inside his chest.
But he didn't complain.
Éon didn't look at him.
Didn't look at anything.
He passed by guards who cleared the way without daring to meet his eyes; the air around him was too heavy to be challenged.
He walked like someone trying not to think… because thinking would hurt more.
Karna drew a slow breath.
"Éon—"
"No." The word came short, cold.
There was no irritation.
There was weight.
A weight Karna recognized — the kind you carry alone.
They turned down the corridor.
Light filtered through the windows and carved long shadows across the floor — shadows that followed Éon, but never reached him.
Karna tried again, quieter this time, almost a whisper:
"I just wanted to thank—"
"I said no."
The tone didn't cut.
It sank.
It was the answer of someone who didn't want to open a wound still bleeding.
Karna closed his mouth.
The silence returned — and this time, it seemed to have color.
Heavy.
Cold.
Loaded with everything that hadn't been said in the hall.
They reached the inner bridge.
It was there that Éon stopped.
He didn't turn.
Didn't draw breath.
He simply stood still, as if the world had taken something from him and he was fighting not to notice.
When he finally spoke, his voice came low.
Too low for someone so firm.
It was the kind of voice that only appears once the pain has already been accepted and there is no reason left to hide it.
"For three seconds, I considered whether I should accept… or intervene." He opened his hands slowly, still not looking at Karna. "Three seconds."
He said it without drama.
Without guilt.
Without asking for anything.
Just said it.
Then he turned his face, at last, and met Karna's eyes.
The light in his gaze wasn't anger.
It was something quieter — almost sad.
"Don't thank me," Éon continued. "Because if you were in my place… no matter the consequences, or who stood against you… you wouldn't have hesitated."
The shadow of the past drifted through the air.
"That's how it was on the mountain," Éon said, unflinching. "And just as I have my bond with Éreon… you have yours with Telvaris."
The sentence hung in the air — not as an accusation, but as a truth both of them had always avoided saying aloud.
A dark truth.
A truth that, from that moment on, could no longer be ignored.
When Éon spoke again, his voice had changed — lower, older, heavier.
"When I received the order to hunt the Viscountess…" he began, still holding Karna's gaze, "the order came direct. Precise. Éreon never leaves room for doubt."
He breathed slowly.
"And he also didn't mention the child."
Éon's fingers closed as if the past fit inside his hand.
"When I saw her…" he searched for the words for a moment, "…alone, defenseless… I hesitated."
To hesitate.
A word heavier than any wound.
"Seeing that child," Éon went on, "reminded me of all the others. The orphans I killed carrying out the Director's orders."
The corridor seemed to shrink around them.
"At the orphanage, it was simple," he said, without emotion. "The Director said doubt could never exist. Ever. If there was any risk… I eliminated it. Because I believed it was right."
Without asking.
Without thinking.
Without allowing hesitation.
Karna swallowed hard.
Éon seemed to speak more to himself than to anyone present.
"And when I hesitated…" his voice dropped even lower, "…the voice began."
He touched the hilt of the Totsuka no Tsurugi.
"For years, I thought it was the katana. That the Totsuka whispered the price of hesitation."
The memories returned with cruel clarity:
"If you stop, someone dies."
"Do it."
"Don't hesitate."
A sharp silence cut the air before he continued:
"But today I understood." Éon lifted his gaze, and something dark lived there. "Éreon doesn't speak without purpose. He never does anything without calculating first. He didn't mention the child… because he wanted to see what I would do."
Karna stepped forward, trying to say something, but Éon cut him off — not with coldness, but with a truth that burned:
"Seeing him there… brought everything back. And I remembered Nika."
The name fell like a blade.
"What she tried to teach me," he added, his voice rough for an instant. "And what I never wanted to learn."
He drew in a steady breath.
"I cannot repeat the mistakes of the Director and Nika," he said. "Nor Éreon's."
Then Éon faced Karna with a sincerity that cut clean:
"Karna… if I have to choose between you and Telvaris…" his voice turned cold, but not hard, "…I won't hesitate to kill you."
It wasn't a threat.
It wasn't judgment.
It was fate.
A fate he had already accepted.
"Think about that," Éon finished. "Nika knew about Phoebrus's betrayal. She knew he was the one who told the Count about Edda."
The last sentence carried a weight time itself could not cure.
Éon let his voice fall a little — not out of fragility, but precision.
"And she hesitated… because she believed, absolutely and without question, that he would never hurt us."
Éon's eyes narrowed, as if he were looking across centuries.
"That belief cost her life. And the lives of many others." He whispered — "the same as sixteen centuries ago." "To believe and trust that something is immutable… is to embrace your own ruin."
Éon held Karna's gaze for a moment far too long.
Nothing moved — only the weight of what had been said.
Then he turned his back.
"Let's go." His voice came low, exhausted, with no space for debate.
Karna stood still for a second, caught between guilt and something he couldn't name.
But there was no time.
No choice.
He drew a breath and followed.
The sun had already dipped far enough to announce the end of the afternoon — and with it, the inevitable beginning of departure.
The inner courtyard was almost empty as the light shifted in tone.
The caravan was being prepared to leave, and the sound of soldiers was being swallowed by the wind.
The shadows of the walls stretched long across the stone floor as Éon finished fastening the saddle straps.
His movements were precise, silent; no gesture wasted.
His hand slid along the leather like someone tying down more than equipment — someone tying down decisions so they wouldn't slip free.
Karna, a few steps behind, checked his own horse with the same rigidity.
Neither spoke.
Neither needed to speak.
A cold wind crossed the courtyard.
The kind of wind that only comes when something important is about to happen.
From a higher point of the castle — where the view reached the entire courtyard — Éreon watched him.
Alone, where the wind was cold and no one called his name.
He rested his arms on the worn stone.
Seeing him there, preparing to leave… brought a familiar weight to his chest.
Nine years together created that kind of silence.
Sèsinmè approached him slowly.
"Won't you say anything to him?"
Éreon kept his eyes on Éon below.
"I don't think it will be necessary," he answered with that measured calm of his. "We've been together for nine years. He has my memories."
A brief pause.
"I believe he already knows."
Marcus stood beside him, observing Éreon in profile, saying nothing.
His presence spoke louder than words.
Éreon noticed, but didn't look away.
He simply raised one corner of his mouth in the faintest smile.
"Something to say, Marcus?" he asked.
The knight breathed deeply before speaking.
"Today is the tenth day of the eighth month. From what I heard from Prince Éon, tomorrow you turn sixteen."
He crossed his arms.
"The journey to the Eastern Kingdom will take time… and we will be leaving in the opposite direction."
He glanced toward the courtyard.
"I believe it would be better to at least congratulate him. Before they leave."
Sèsinmè nodded, pragmatic:
"I believe Sir Marcus is right."
Her eyes returned to Éon below.
"Many things can happen."
Éreon kept his gaze fixed on his brother — distant, motionless, as if any movement would break the control holding him together.
"There's only one thing I can say to him," he murmured, almost to himself. "May the gods protect him… or devour him quickly."
Sèsinmè turned her face toward him, briefly surprised.
"I thought you hated the gods."
Éreon let out a short, dry laugh.
"And I do," he replied. "But it's something I heard from a woman… a long time ago."
The brief pause carried an ancient weight.
He pushed away from the edge of the wall.
"Let's go. We're leaving as well."
In the courtyard, Éon finished tightening the last straps of the saddle.
Something made him lift his gaze — a silent, instinctive pull.
He looked exactly toward the spot where Éreon had been watching him seconds before.
Karna noticed and stepped closer, following the prince's line of sight up to the walls.
"Everyone is ready," he said, firm but quiet enough not to break the silence.
Éon mounted his horse in one precise movement.
A colder wind swept across the courtyard.
He looked up one last time — even without seeing anyone there.
And then murmured, as if answering something unsaid:
"May the gods protect him… or devour him quickly."
And he left — without looking back.