Thierry stood inside the grand hall, stiff in his shirt that felt more like a noose than attire. Beside him, Emma fidgeted nervously, her pale hands clasped in front of her dress. Her blonde hair was pinned back, accentuating just how frail she looked beneath the flickering lamplight. Amongst the murmurs of onlookers, Veron met his gaze with an infuriatingly easy smile. Thierry's name hung heavy in the air, Veron's declaration still lingering like an ill-placed joke.
Bastard's always grinning. What's he playing at now?
Emma, who stood beside him, began trembling slightly—not out of fear, it seemed, but anticipation. Her eyes flicked toward him.
"I didn't expect… any of this," she whispered, clutching her bow case with both hands. Her voice was small, thin, like her frame. Even under layers of linen and leather, she looked too delicate to be part of any cohort.
He offered her a gentle smile. "You and me both."
I can barely remember your name, and now I'm your moral support? Gods help me.
She gave a nervous laugh and fell back into silence beside him as Magnus dismissed the hall. Outside, the light that bled from the hole in the sky above—the sun, if you could still call it that—spread across the world like golden ichor. Those same rays had finally coalesced into the moon, which loomed high in the sky with unsettling swirls trapped beneath its surface.
The estate was still buzzing. Carriages clattered along the cobbled roads, clansmen barked orders, and the inquisitors kept their cold watch over it all. Thierry kept his expression calm and controlled—every bit the composed young man he'd been trained to be at the circus.
But inside?
Why me, again? Of all the bastards in the world, why is it him?
Veron appeared around the corner like a character from a poorly written play, arms wide, as if he'd known exactly where to find them.
"There you are!" he said, his smile unbearably bright. "Come, my mother wishes to meet you both. She's a bit peculiar…"
"Peculiar?" Thierry echoed.
"A clansman's word for strange," Veron replied lightly.
Fantastic. Another dastardly nightmare. Just what I needed.
They followed him through a narrower wing of the estate. The halls here were older, darker, lined with portraits of long-dead warriors and lords, their expressions all vaguely disappointed. At the far end stood a tall door adorned with the crest of Clan Mara—a set of scales superimposed over a watchful eye.
The Lady of Clan Mara was already seated when they entered. A tall woman with sharp features and darker hair than her son's, she exuded the kind of grace that didn't need to be announced. A cane leaned against her chair, its handle shaped like a serpent.
"So," she said, eyes sweeping over them like a hawk's. "These are the ones you've chosen?"
Veron nodded. Thierry stepped forward, offering a small bow. "It's an honor, my lady."
I'm already lying. I hate this already...
Emma followed suit, stumbling a little in her bow. Lady Mara didn't scold her. Instead, she tilted her head.
"You're frail," she said simply. "But the frail can still fly, if given the right wings."
Emma flushed.
"Come," the Lady said. "You'll need arms to fight the monstrosities out there. The forge is open for you kids."
They were led to the forgery below the estate, near the colosseum. The heat hit Thierry like a wave, the smell of metal, oil, and ash clinging to every surface. Weapons lined the walls, each with a subtle glow, as if they were infused with energy.
Thierry's gaze was drawn to a blade tucked away near the back. It was a shortsword, practical in length, but unique in design—the hilt was a dark green, and a red line ran the edge of the blade like a vein ready to burst.
As he reached for it, a faint hum pulsed through his fingertips.
Don't get excited. It's just a sword. Still…
Emma stood before a display of bows, her hand hovering uncertainly. She finally picked up a bow made of white bone—elegant, unnerving, almost too light for its size.
"It feels… right," she said.
"Good," Veron said with a nod. "A weapon should feel like an extension of your will. Anything else is decoration."
They left the forge with their chosen weapons, silence hanging between them as they walked through the estate's outer corridors. The last of the carriages was being packed. The cohort was gathering outside the east gates.
Esther stood with her arms folded, leaning on her long, barbed spear. Her feline tail swayed idly behind her, and her brown hair was tied back. Lee stood beside her, twin axes crossed over his back, towering above the rest of them with bronze skin and a brooding gaze.
"So these are the other two?" Esther asked, one brow raised.
Emma stiffened under her gaze.
Thierry gave a small bow. "Thierry. This is Emma."
Esther gave a single nod. Lee didn't speak.
Friendly bunch, aren't we?
As the carriage doors opened for them, Emma hesitated beside Thierry.
"Do you think… do you think I'll be able to keep up?" she asked quietly. Her eyes, wide and uncertain, met his.
Thierry hesitated, unsure how to respond. They'd barely exchanged a dozen words. What could he possibly say?
"Of course," he said, offering her a reassuring smile. "You wouldn't be here if you couldn't."
Why do I even bother lying? I'm not your therapist, girl.
She smiled weakly, clutching the bow tighter.
They climbed into the carriage. The others were quiet—Veron humming to himself, Esther sharpening her spear, Lee staring out the window. Emma sat beside Thierry, the white bone bow across her knees.
Thierry turned his head toward the window. The luminescent rays of light from the moon traced lazy paths across the sky, illuminating the jagged hills and fractured forests beyond Berken. The horizon ahead looked vast, wild, unknown.
And yet…
He felt it again. Something subtle. Like a breath not taken, or a glance not caught. The world, shifting just slightly to make space for him.