The warehouse of Zephyrus Astram was not a simple storeroom. It was larger than most family estates, a hall too grand for a mere student. Rows of sealed doors lined its walls, each hiding treasures more suited to a noble's treasury than an academy. Zephyrus moved through this labyrinth with ease, finally stopping at a plain door that seemed no different from the rest. Yet when he opened it, the air within shifted, heavy with a presence that pulled Connor in like a tide.
Inside, weapons slept in silence, each blade and spear resting upon crafted stands. Yet it was clear that among them, one drew all attention—the relic that Zephyrus had brought "just in case."
Connor understood, through Kyle's voice within, that this was no gesture of kindness. Zephyrus was not seeking allies, nor asking favors across borders. What he sought was something colder: control. A debt disguised as generosity. A leash fastened not to aid, but to restrain. To offer a dwarven blade was to place a chain of iron around another's neck.
The weapon itself was mesmerizing. Long and narrow, its scabbard carved from wood darkened to a deep brown, it seemed alive. An aura of ancient craft radiated from it, faint yet undeniable, the mark of dwarven forging. Their blades were not just weapons, but the crystallization of secrets passed down in mountain forges unreachable by common folk. For a mercenary who had held only cheap steel, even standing before it was overwhelming.
But Zephyrus was not content to let him merely look. With a smile painted bright, he guided Connor closer, his hand pressing against the mercenary's shoulder. The push was light, almost playful, yet impossible to resist under the weight of noble status. Connor stumbled forward, and his instinct reached out to steady himself. His hand landed upon the very blade, and with that touch, the trap was sprung.
Zephyrus leaned back against the wall, relaxed yet watchful. Connor lifted the sword slightly, testing its weight. Even without drawing the edge, he felt the burden of its value—an artifact worth more than ten years of mercenary wages, more than his entire life's earnings. His forehead tingled, the same subtle warning he had come to recognize whenever danger lingered nearby.
Kyle's explanation echoed in his mind. Zephyrus trusted no one. Even if a sworn servant raised steel against him, he would already have prepared a counter. To him, people were never companions, only variables to be calculated, controlled, and chained.
The dwarven blade was not a gift. It was a leash.
Connor forced a smile and praised the weapon, masking his unease. But inside, he seethed. To accept it would mean placing his neck beneath another's boot. To live under such a leash was worse than poverty, worse than death. So he did the unthinkable. With steady hands, he placed the blade back upon its stand.
His words were polite, but his refusal was absolute.
Zephyrus's grin held, but it was stiffer now, the ease of his mask cracking for just a moment. In that silence, Connor knew he had defied more than an offer—he had defied a noble's will. And though the encounter ended without blood, the chain that Zephyrus had tried to clasp still lingered in the air, invisible and suffocating.
The dormitory brought no peace. Connor collapsed onto his bed, exhausted not from battle, but from tension. Every day in the academy seemed to add new weights to his shoulders: the Hall Test, the choice of a weapon, the looming shadow of Kurnugia, and now Zephyrus Astram with his dangerous smile. Problems multiplied instead of fading, each one sharper than the last.
Kyle reminded him of truths better left unsaid. Maiael's lineage tied back to Duke Tesias Astaroth, the lion who had once bitten a dragon. Eighteen years ago, the Hercule Empire had nearly collapsed under Kurnugia's tyranny, a dragon that ruled over death and demanded endless wealth. The punitive expedition, led by Tesias himself, had ended with the beast subdued, chained not by death but by humiliation—reduced to the role of a maid serving his daughter.
It was a story that felt too strange, too incomplete. And yet, it explained the dread that clung to Maiael's bloodline.
If Connor was to survive, he would need answers. Kyle suggested the Academy's library, a vault of records spanning centuries. There, among scrolls and grimoires, he might uncover forgotten truths of the dragon and perhaps stir Kyle's fragmented memories. It was a plan, fragile yet necessary.
But Zephyrus remained a problem of equal weight. Kyle revealed the balance of his powers: a Gift of inborn swiftness, the reason his movements were like vanishing shadows, and a Curse that was almost laughable—an inability to ride mounts of any kind. Horses, carriages, even humble carts rejected him. He had walked all the way from the Alima Union, a month-long journey on foot, surviving only through his Gift.
It sounded absurd, but it was no small burden. To others, such a curse would be crippling. To Zephyrus, it had simply forged caution sharper than steel. He was a man who never acted without certainty. And though Connor had rejected the leash, Kyle believed Zephyrus would not strike again so soon. He was too wary to approach one who had already seen through his ploys.
Or so it seemed.
A knock came at the dormitory door. The sound was quiet, deliberate, carrying weight in its simplicity. Connor's body tensed as Kyle fell silent. He hid the notes they had prepared and cautiously opened the door.
An old servant stood waiting, dressed in a black suit, the kind of retainer who had served noble families for decades. His words were courteous, but his presence was suffocating. He claimed to carry something Connor had "left behind" in Zephyrus's warehouse.
Connor frowned. He had left nothing there.
Then the servant lifted a long box, over a meter in length. Its shape and weight were unmistakable.
The dwarven blade had followed him home.
And with it, so had the chain.