Reynald's confusion was total.
Not the kind born of ignorance—but of contradiction.
This person's presence, his every movement, defied reason.
He should not have been like this.
Reynald's breath came hard and shallow, vision still ringing from the last impact. His blade trembled slightly in his grip, not from exhaustion—no, his training had long since drilled that away—but from something worse.
Doubt.
'What is this man?'
The battlefield had rules. Patterns. A structure to violence that every knight learned—how to control a fight, how to predict an opponent's rhythm. But this guy didn't follow them. He stepped through them, like a man walking over a shattered mirror, untouched by the shards.
Every slash, every motion… it was elegant.
Filled with emotions that didn't suit the battlefield at all.
Reynald staggered back another step, the weight of his longsword biting into his shoulder. Focus.
He had a mission.
That was all that mattered.
'He' had given it.
