The first few days of Ragnar's command were a study in controlled chaos. The Seventh Knight Company was, as promised, a collection of the kingdom's most privileged and problematic young nobility. He learned their names, their houses, and their particular brands of arrogance. There was Leonhard of House Lucandel, whose sense of entitlement was as vast as his family's lands; Eleanor of House Baskerville, whose sharp tongue could flay a man as efficiently as any sword; and a dozen others, each believing their lineage was a substitute for discipline and skill.
Their induction was not by merit, but by royal decree—a tradition requiring all heirs of major houses to serve a mandatory three-year term in the knights upon turning eighteen. They saw it as a tedious formality, a delay before they could assume their true positions of power. Ragnar saw it as raw material, however unrefined.
Their first official mission arrived swiftly: the subjugation of a Behemoth rampaging through the western farmlands on the capital's outskirts. The creature, a massive, horned beast with a hide like stone, was trampling crops and terrorizing villages. The mission briefing also noted they would be operating in conjunction with a contingent of mages from the Magic Tower for long-range support and containment.
The assembly point was a field just outside the city walls. The morning was crisp, the air tinged with the scent of dew and distant smoke. The knights of the Seventh stood in a loose, disorganized cluster, their polished armor gleaming. The wait began.
It did not take long for the complaints to start.
"This is ridiculous," Leonhard Lucandel grumbled, shifting his weight and casting a disdainful look towards the empty road from the city. "How long does it take for a few bookworms to gather their robes and wands? We're knights, not nursemaids. We should be moving out now."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the group. Eleanor Baskerville nodded, her arms crossed. "Precisely. Our time is valuable. This beast won't slay itself, and I have a soirée to attend this evening."
Ragnar stood slightly apart, his arms crossed over his chestplate, Excalibolt a silent, dormant presence at his hip. He said nothing. He simply observed. This was a test, as much a part of their first mission as the Behemoth itself. He was watching their discipline, their patience, their attitude towards allies they deemed beneath them. Their behavior now, in this moment of minor inconvenience, was more telling than any sparring match.
The grumbling continued, growing louder and more entitled. A few of the younger knights began making bets on how "useless" the mages would be in a real fight. Ragnar's expression remained an unreadable mask, but his mind was cataloging every word, every sneer. This arrogance was a weakness he would need to burn out of them, sooner rather than later.
Then, a voice cut through the morning air, clear and familiar.
"Ragnar!"
He turned. A group of mages in the distinctive robes of the Magic Tower was approaching, their staves tapping softly on the dirt path. And at their head was Lyra. She looked different outside the tavern—her robes were practical yet elegant, her storm-cloud hair tied back, and her eyes held a focused, professional light. In her hand, she held a staff tipped with a crystal that crackled faintly with latent crimson energy.
Her appearance had an immediate and palpable effect on the knights. The grumbling ceased, replaced by a wave of stunned silence, then low, appreciative whistles. Lyra's beauty, combined with the confident aura of a powerful mage, was a potent combination. Leonhard Lucandel's petulant scowl vanished, replaced by a predatory, interested smile. He straightened his posture, running a hand through his hair.
"Well, now," he murmured, his eyes fixed on Lyra. "The Tower sends its most… captivating assets."
He took a step forward, several of his cronies following suit, their previous impatience forgotten in the face of a new distraction. "My lady," Leohard began, his voice oozing charm. "I am Leohard of House Lucandel. It seems fortune smiles upon us today, to have such… delightful company on this dreary mission."
Lyra's polite smile was tight, her eyes flicking past him to Ragnar, a silent question in them.
Before Leonohard could take another step, Ragnar moved.
He didn't shout. He didn't draw his sword. He simply took one smooth, deliberate step that placed him directly between Leonhard and Lyra. It wasn't a aggressive move, but it was one of absolute, unassailable finality.
The air changed.
Ragnar did not look at Leonhard. His gaze was forward, towards the distant western fields where their mission lay. But an aura erupted from him—a subtle, controlled, yet terrifyingly dense pressure. It was the scent of ozone before a storm, the feeling of static raising the hair on their arms. It was a whisper of the crimson thunder that slept within him, a silent promise of annihilation.
The knights behind Leonhard froze mid-step. Their smirks died. The casual arrogance was wiped from their faces, replaced by a primal, instinctual wariness. They felt, in that moment, like small animals who had just stumbled into the territory of an apex predator.
Into the ringing silence, Ragnar spoke. His voice was low, barely above a whisper, but it carried to every member of the Seventh with the clarity of a blade being drawn.
"She," he said, the single word layered with a possessiveness that was not about romance, but about a bond forged in shared secrets and parallel pasts, a declaration of absolute, unyielding protection, "is mine."
The threat was not spelled out. It didn't need to be. It hung in the air, as tangible and dangerous as a naked blade. Leohard Lucandel, heir to a Grand Duchy, took an involuntary step back, his face pale. He looked from Ragnar's impassive profile to Lyra, and then back again, all his charm and bravado utterly crushed under the weight of that simple, devastating statement.
Behind Ragnar, shielded by his broad back and the intimidating aura he projected, Lyra felt a fierce blush heat her cheeks. It wasn't from embarrassment, but from a sudden, overwhelming surge of emotion—a mix of relief, fierce pride, and a strange, warm feeling she couldn't quite name. He hadn't claimed her as a prize, but as a partner. As his. In a world of political games and arrogant nobles, his direct, powerful protection was a shield more solid than any magical barrier.
The field was utterly silent save for the rustle of the wind. The mission, the Behemoth, the waiting—all of it was secondary. In that moment, Ragnar had not only established the primacy of his command; he had drawn a line in the earth that none of his knights would ever dare cross again. The Seventh Company now understood the true nature of the force that led them.