"James, are you alright?" Alexandre rushed toward him, helping him off the ground as his eyes scanned for injuries.
"Y-yes, I'm fine," James muttered, dusting himself off.
"Boy, I know this is sudden… and confusing," Alexandre said, his hands tightening around James's arms. His gaze fixed on him—his purple eyes dulled, and a fleeting shadow of sorrow crossed his face. "But I need you to go with Henry."
"Yes… okay, Grandpa," James answered, his voice cracking. He knew better than to argue.
Ever since that letter came, everything's been falling apart. If I have to leave… then I must become stronger.
James turned to Henry, his fists trembling.
"Promise," he whispered.
"Promise…?" Henry repeated, brows furrowed, meeting James's determined stare.
Alexandre stood in silence. He already knew what James meant.
"Train me," James said, his voice breaking into resolve. "Make me stronger. I'm tired of being weak."
Henry's eyes widened.
Henry's eyes narrowed. I understand how you feel. Helpless—it must be killing you. You blame yourself for everything, though you don't even know half of it. He exhaled slowly. The least I can do to lighten your burden is this—
He straightened, his tone steady.
"Very well. I vow to teach you everything I know. I will make you strong enough to stand on your own. But be warned—your path will be difficult. You will not be treated as a noble, but as any ordinary pupil."
James's fists clenched at his sides, his voice clear.
"If I can grow stronger, I don't care what happens to me. I agree."
Henry's stern expression softened into a rare smile.
"Then from this day forward, I will take you as my pupil."
He bent, retrieved his hat from the ground, and placed it firmly on his head. Turning toward the edge of the mountain, he spoke without looking back.
"Say your goodbyes, James. Then follow me."
Alexandre knelt before James and pulled him into a tight embrace.
"Oho… it feels wrong telling you this like this, but—your parents… they're alive. Somewhere out there. When word reaches you, don't believe everything you hear. They are good people."
His face twisted as though he had bitten into a sour lemon.
"Wait—what?" James staggered back, slipping from his grandfather's arms. "What do you mean alive? Where are they? What's going on?" His voice rose with every word.
I understand you must be feeling bewildered right now, Alexandre thought, raising his hand to comfort James, but the boy pulled away.
"Tell me, Grandpa!" James roared. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
Alexandre sighed.
"It was too dangerous… But now, danger is bound to follow you whether you know the truth or not. Keeping it from you makes no difference anymore."
He rose to his feet, his eyes solemn.
"You are strong, James. Smart, too. I know you'll uncover the truth about your parents one day."
James's chest heaved, but the storm in his voice began to settle.
"…Okay," he whispered.
"Till we meet again. May the stars watch over you," Alexandre said, turning away.
James turned toward Henry, who was bent over a battered chariot. Its doors had been torn off, the steeds scattered during the fight.
"Damn it—one thing after another," Henry muttered, partially restoring the vehicle with his Sig. With a sweep of his hand, the doors rose from the dirt and fixed themselves back in place.
"I'm sure this will get us there," he said as the last wheel locked into position.
The rumble of the wheels was the promise of a journey. This was no delicate chariot, but a Roberto coach—a hulking, four-wheeled box built for the brutal demands of long travel.
Inside, however, it was a sanctuary. The genius of its design lay in its hidden grace: the body of the coach was suspended by thick leather straps, absorbing shocks and softening the ride, far beyond the jarring discomfort of a common wagon.
It was more than transport. It was a statement. While common folk walked or rode mules, the coach carried its passengers in a moving chamber of quiet dignity. It whispered of wealth and status, of the power to buy comfort—and the privilege to remain untouched by the harsh realities of the open road.
Henry drew a silver whistle from his inside pocket and raised it to his lips. No sound reached James's ears, but the forest answered.
Hoof beats thundered through the trees, rhythmic as drums of war. Out from the shadows came two beings— Taller than any Pegasus James had ever seen, their coats gleamed darker than midnight, yet their silver manes shimmered like flowing starlight. Vast wings, feathered and strong, folded against their flanks, and their eyes shone like distant constellations—unyielding, eternal. Dark Haris, steeds of the old world, creatures spoken of in hushed reverence.
Just one would be worth a man's weight in gold.
"Harald and Hedwick," Henry called, his voice carrying authority, "you two cowards—first sign of a fight and you run away."
With practiced ease, he fastened them to the coach. The moment their wings unfurled, the earth fell away beneath them.
They soared the entire day, swifter than the wind, carrying James farther than he had ever traveled. The roads and cottages of his fief shrank to nothing, swallowed by horizon and cloud. Before him rose lands unknown, towers and rooftops of strange design—architecture unlike the stone-hewn houses of the north. A new world unfolding, radiant and foreign.
Though beauty lingered at the fringes, the deeper they pressed into the heart of the city, the more it decayed, like a jewel left too long in shadow.
"Welcome to Ceali, James. Once hailed as the City of a Thousand Jewels… though such glory is long buried." Henry's voice carried the weight of memory, his face tightening as if every stone and shadow recalled him.
The people who tread these streets seemed no more than cogs in a vast, grinding machine called life. No street stone remained unsoiled; instead, a mire of dark, clinging mud swallowed every step, fed by the filth the nobles, in their decree to "keep the city clean," cast down from the upper quarters. Their garments were little more than rags, their faces etched with the hollowness of endless hunger.
The architecture shifted with every block, as if the city itself were writhing in decay. Houses were fashioned from crooked timbers scavenged from shipwrecks, bricks pried from fallen walls, ragged cloth stretched taut for roofs, scraps of metal hammered into place. The air was thick with rot, sweat, and the acrid tang of despair.
"This is what life looks like for people without a voice," Henry said, turning to face James.
James's eyes widened, his hands trembling. All he wanted was to look away, yet no matter where he turned, the scenery remained the same—a relentless testament to suffering.