Okhist's decree still hung in the air when another voice cut across it like a blade.
"A thousand lashes."
The hall froze. Every head turned, every breath caught in a throat. Even the mob who were already on their knees felt their souls seize up as though chains had suddenly wrapped around their necks.
Kazel stood there, smirk gone, his blue eyes colder than steel. His words hadn't been shouted—but the quiet authority behind them was enough to make the walls themselves seem to tremble.
The two white knights stiffened. The mob behind them went pale, their bodies shaking under a weight they couldn't understand. A thousand lashes wasn't punishment—it was execution.
Even Okhist paused. The black knight's crimson plume shifted as he tilted his helm, studying the boy who spoke to him as though he were the one in command.
"…Young master," Okhist said slowly, voice measured. "That… is no punishment. That is a death sentence."
Kazel's gaze didn't waver. His steps carried him forward, deliberate, as if each one ground the silence deeper into their bones.
"They came to my home," he said, voice low but cutting. "They dared knock at my door like dogs. They dared to speak my name without knowing the weight of it." His eyes flicked toward the white knights. "If they cannot grasp that, then a thousand lashes will make sure no one else forgets."
The mob visibly trembled. Some bowed their heads to the floor. Others bit their lips until they bled. The oppressive silence made every heartbeat in the hall feel deafening.
Okhist's gauntlet flexed slightly. His men looked to him, desperate for a reprieve, but he gave them none. He remained still, black armor gleaming in the torchlight, only his low chuckle breaking the tension.
"…Hah." His helm tilted once more, this time in something resembling respect. "You truly are from the Immortal Sect."
He didn't reject Kazel's demand.
Instead, Okhist raised his hand. "Then a thousand lashes it will be."
The mob's cries erupted at once—pleas, protests, curses—only to be silenced by a single glare from their leader.
And just like that, the building no longer felt like the Order of the Shield and Spear. It felt like a place of execution, with Kazel as the unseen executioner presiding over it.
The mob's desperate cries still echoed faintly in the rafters when Okhist lowered his hand.
"Take them away," he commanded. His voice was iron, brooking no delay. Black-armored knights moved in at once, dragging the offenders by their collars. The scrape of boots and muffled whimpers followed as the guilty were pulled from the hall, their fate sealed.
The rest of the Order stood like statues, not daring to breathe too loudly in Kazel's presence.
Kazel, however, didn't spare the condemned another glance. His smirk returned, faint but sharp, as though everything had unfolded exactly as he wished.
Okhist watched him in silence for a moment longer, before inclining his head. "Young master," he said at last, "your grievance has been acknowledged. The Order of the Shield and Spear does not shy from responsibility."
He turned, cloak of black and crimson shifting behind him as he gestured. "Come. Let us speak where ears are fewer. Compensation is due."
The hall stirred at those words. Compensation. It was not a mere apology—it was tribute, given under duress.
Without hesitation, Kazel strode after him. The knights parted once more, opening a path up the stairs toward the captain's chamber. The air was heavy with tension, a reminder to all who watched: the Immortal Sect's young master did not bow, not even here.
When they entered the office, Okhist closed the door himself. The heavy oak thudded into place, cutting off the whispers of the onlookers. The chamber was dimly lit, lined with shelves of maps, contracts, and ledgers. A large desk of black wood dominated the room, and behind it hung a banner depicting the Order's crest: a shield split by a spear.
Okhist removed his helm, setting it carefully on the desk. His face was revealed—weathered, scarred, a man who had seen countless battles. His dark eyes locked onto Kazel with a weight equal to the silence between them.
Okhist studied him in silence, then—unexpectedly—let out a low chuckle.
"I recall," he said, voice deep with amusement, "the time you were caught by the Blue Phoenix. Its beak had you dangling like prey before the hunt. The entire battlefield froze at the sight… half convinced you'd be crushed in its jaws."
The black knight's scarred lips curled into the faintest grin. "Tell me, young master—how did you survive that beast? Most men would not have lived long enough to even scream."
The office, heavy with the scent of parchment and steel, seemed to hold its breath. This was no idle jest—it was Okhist's way of probing, measuring the boy before him against the legend he had heard.
Kazel leaned back slightly in the chair, his smirk never wavering."I poked a hole in its eye," he said as if recounting something trivial, like brushing dust off his sleeve.
The room stilled. Even the faint scratching of quills from the clerks below seemed to vanish.
Okhist's brow twitched—not in disbelief, but in acknowledgment. Slowly, the black knight's laughter rumbled from beneath his helm, sharp and heavy."Of course you did, young master… of course you did."
Okhist's laughter faded into a low hum as he leaned forward, gauntleted fingers tapping the armrest of his chair."As a way of apology, young master, allow me to extend an invitation," he said, his voice steady but carrying weight. "The Shield and Spear has been granted the rights to an expedition. Not just any… but one of exclusivity, whispered only among our upper ranks."
He rose from his seat, his dark armor catching the faint torchlight."There are ruins far to the west, carved into the bones of a forgotten age. Rumor speaks of a treasure slumbering within—a relic of a distant past, older than sects and kingdoms alike."
Okhist's gaze lingered on Kazel, sharp and deliberate."Join us. Claiming such a prize requires hands unafraid of blood… and men who laugh at death. Qualities, I believe, you possess in excess."
Kazel's smirk tilted sharper, his arms folding."And what kind of relic are we talking about, black knight? Don't tell me you're inviting me on a fool's errand."
Okhist gave a low chuckle, then shrugged, the plates of his dark pauldrons groaning softly."Truth be told, I have no certainty either. Historians argue amongst themselves. Some claim it is the Cloak of Flight—woven by a forgotten artificer, said to let a man soar above mountains."
His eyes narrowed, a flicker of intrigue sharpening his tone."Others insist it is the Jewel of Truth—a crystal said to reveal deceit, shattering lies the way steel shatters glass."
Okhist leaned forward, resting his hands on the edge of the table."Either would change the balance of power in these lands. And either would be worth a thousand lifetimes to possess."
Kazel leaned back in his chair, then slowly shifted forward, his elbows resting on his knees. His blue eyes locked onto Okhist's helm, unblinking, weighing him like a butcher sizing up a cut of meat.
Silence stretched between them, thick enough to smother the air in the room. The white knights dared not move; even their breathing softened.
Finally, Kazel spoke, his tone low, deliberate."Cloak of Flight, Jewel of Truth… pretty names. But what I see—" his gaze hardened, "—is whether the man inviting me actually believes his own words."
Okhist did not flinch, though the tension rippled through the room like drawn steel. Instead, he gave a low laugh, the kind that carried more weight than mirth."You look at me as though you would cut me open to see if I bleed conviction, young master."
"Maybe I would," Kazel replied with a thin smile.
Okhist inclined his head, unoffended. "Then we are agreed."
Kazel didn't rise. Instead, he leaned forward, elbows resting on the armrests, eyes narrowing like a predator measuring distance."When?" he asked.
The sudden weight in his voice made the white knights flinch.
Okhist straightened in his seat. "Three days. We march at dawn. Preparations are already underway."
"Three days…" Kazel muttered, tapping a finger against the armrest. His smirk crept back, cold and deliberate.
Okhist chuckled softly behind his helm. "Good. Then I'll expect you among us, young master. The ruin awaits."
Kazel's gaze lingered on him for a long breath, then he finally stood, cloak brushing against the stone floor as he turned toward the door. "See to it that your men don't make another mistake… or there will be no expedition."