The castle of Count Vinni Duke is located in the south of the Empire, around a two-day ride from the Blade Domain.
Enormous and imposing, its towering walls curve along the mountainside as though growing from the rock itself. Tall watchtowers stand against the grey sky, each flying the Family banner — a red crossed sword on a dull white background — as sharp as a cut on the battlefield.
Angelie Blade, Duchess of the Blade Family, is making her way into the palace.
Her long, platinum hair cascades down her back like silk in the dim morning light. Instead of her usual heavy armour, she wears a form-fitting dress that is simple yet sturdy.
Embroidered on her chest is the silver sword emblem — the proud symbol of the Blade family.
Her cold, grey-blue eyes quickly scan the vast main hall, where the banners of the Vinni Family hang silently.
Each of her footsteps on the stone floor echoes back sharply.
"It's been a year since that day, hasn't it?"
"Angelie, my dear granddaughter."
Angelie gently bowed her head and placed her hand on her chest.
She looked calm. "Thank you for still remembering me... Uncle Vinni."
"I hope you're still well."
"Ha ha."
Count Vinni laughed, his deep chuckle carrying a hint of mockery.
He was reclining on a gilded chair, his ring-adorned fingers lightly tapping the armrest. His plump figure was swathed in a red velvet robe trimmed with white fur, which did little to hide his bulging belly, which protruded whenever he moved.
His slanted eyes, narrowed beneath thick eyelashes, gleamed with greed.
"Angelie is still as eloquent as ever."
"My foolish son... he is indeed lucky to be marrying you."
Angelie tilted her head slightly, her brows furrowing.
"Marrying?" Her voice remained soft, but the coldness in it froze the air.
"Did I not tell you about that?"
A sharp pang shot through Angelie's chest.
She pressed her lips together and raised her chin slightly.
"That sucks! Perhaps I've forgotten a few things because I'm getting old."
"But I invited you here today mainly to discuss your marriage to my son."
Angelie tightened her grip.
Her voice deepened.
"Uncle Vinni, if you invited me just for that nonsense..."
"then how would I know if you truly want to help me inherit the Blade Family?"
"About that..." Count Vinni crossed his arms, his sharp gaze fixed on her.
"My dear Angelie," he said in a syrupy, condescending tone. "Let me tell you something."
He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice as if savouring each word.
"Even if your father — the duke himself — had included your name in the will..."
"You still can't do a damn thing."
He let out a dry, mocking laugh.
"Because your brother—"
"He is not my brother."
Angelie retorted immediately, her eyes darkening.
"Fine. He's your father's illegitimate child."
"I repeat... That conman is not my father's son."
"My father only has two children: Me and my sister, Liliana."
Vinni shrugged, the corners of his mouth curling in mockery.
"No matter how you put it, he will still be the heir of the Blade Family."
"And you will renounce the Blade name and marry my son."
"I have discussed this with the king, and he has agreed."
Angelie stood tall and unblinking, staring directly at him.
A moment of silence...
"Finally, you reveal your true nature."
"You have forgotten all that you swore to my father before he died."
"Enough of this," said Count Vinni, gritting his teeth. "I am obliged to be loyal to the Duke... and you are not the heir."
He narrowed his eyes, his voice deep and hushed like a warning.
"It would be best if you complied with my arrangements."
Angelie slowly removed her white glove.
Each movement was deliberate, soft and precise.
Then, without saying a word, she threw it at the Count.
It cut a clean arc through the air and landed neatly at the foot of the throne.
"Then let's go by tradition," she said coolly.
Without waiting for a reply, she turned on her heel.
No hesitation. No looking back.
Count Vinni froze momentarily, his face stiffening.
The corners of his mouth twitched, forming an angry curve.
"Well, you little brat..."
His fingers curled tightly around the armrest until the wood cracked.
A glint of murderous intent flickered in his eyes.
…
"How could a skinny ogre hide in a place like this?"
The three soldiers on patrol searched the small alleyway next to the abandoned blacksmith's shop.
"You're an idiot! Do you know why it's called the Skinny Ogre?"
The old soldier glanced into the gap between the two grey brick walls.
"But there's nothing here either."
"See? I told you."
The soldier holding the torch shrugged.
"Maybe it rolled over and died somewhere."
"Anyway, it's seriously injured."
The man handed a torch to the person next to him and laughed nervously.
"Hey, how about we stop by the Brauhaus for a few pints?"
"No way, Walter!"
"If Sir Gray catches us drinking beer on duty, we're finished!"
The youngest soldier whispered, his face as tense as a stretched string.
"But he's with the Duchess's escort..."
"Even so, it's still not allowed. Don't be silly."
While the two were still arguing, the old soldier moved closer to the dilapidated blacksmith's shop.
"Hey! Come and look at this!"
"Huh?"
The two of them ran over immediately.
The old man knelt down and shone his torch onto the dusty ground nearby.
"These footprints are fresh," he said. "They're not from an animal."
"A child?" The young soldier leaned down to take a closer look.
"No, they're longer and deeper. Besides, why would a child come here, to a place that has been abandoned for so long?"
The flickering torchlight moved across the ground and along the moss-covered walls.
The youngest soldier's voice trembled slightly.
"Could it be ... the Orge?"
"Shh."
The old soldier immediately raised his hand, signalling for silence.
His gaze fell upon a dark corner where an iron door had been torn off its hinges, leaving only a rusty one swaying in the wind.
He had a gut feeling that something was lurking behind it.
Then—"rustle"
It was a faint sound, like fabric rubbing against stone.
"There's something in there..." Walter whispered, crouching down slightly.
The old soldier nodded and quietly drew his sword from its sheath.
"If it's alive..." he said softly. "Then this is the ideal hiding place."
The wind howled through the crumbling walls, carrying the smell of dampness and dust.
No one spoke.
The air felt thicker.
The old soldier tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword.
He took a deep breath to regain his composure.
"You two, get ready..."
He lunged forward and kicked the rusted door open.
Rumble!
The door swung open with a Familyg, sending the sound echoing through the space.
At the same time, something startled in the thick darkness.
A mysterious metallic swish echoed from deep within.
"They really came all the way here ?"
A tense whisper.
Heavy footsteps echo across the stone floor.
The torchlight pierces the dusty, cobwebby mist.
And then...
'Who... Who are you?"
Walter's voice trembled as if something cold were crawling down his spine.
He took a step back, unable to take his eyes off the figure in front of him. An invisible, nameless fear tightened around his throat, choking him.
Before the three soldiers stood a knight, looming in the midst of the ruined chamber.
His iron armour was old and dusty, scratched as if it had just survived a battle.
There was no banner.
No colours.
He was just an anonymous figure, standing motionless in the light.
Not an Orge...
But the old soldier tightened his grip on the sword hilt.
The sensation...
The sensation emanating from that being was not human.
Yet it did not resemble a monster either.
The knight's breath felt unreal.
His beat was irregular; it was difficult to ascertain whether he was still alive.
The instinct that had once saved the old knight from the monster's axe and the poisonous marshes to the south echoed in his ears again.
"Me?"
The knight's question broke the heavy atmosphere.
For a brief moment, the old soldier calmed down just a little.
'Who... are you?' Walter asked tremulously, more quietly this time, as if verifying a hunch.
The knight gently tilted his head.
His iron helmet creaked like an unlubricated hinge.
"I am just ... a mercenary."
The old soldier raised an eyebrow; he was on high alert.
"So what are you doing here now ? Do you know how chaotic everything is?"
There was a moment of silence...
Then-
The knight replied, "I've just returned to this house..."
"...to try and remember my old blacksmith friend."
"Are... are you serious?"
the youngest soldier asked. However, before he could finish his sentence, he edged his hand closer to the hilt of his sword as the knight moved — his instincts had kicked in.
The knight slowly took out a singed portrait, its corner yellowed and stained by time and dust.
"This is him." He fell silent.
He pointed at the man in the portrait.
"My best friend."
"But now he's gone."
The youngest soldier looked at the portrait cautiously. Despite the charring, the face of the middle-aged man was clearly visible — it was a gentle face, with eyes that seemed to smile. For a moment, he almost believed the story was true.
"What's his name?"
the older soldier asked in a low voice.
The knight paused for a moment.
"..."
"Garn.."
"Garn Kestor."
"He... he used to forge swords for the Northern army."
"Northern army?"
"You mean the army of the Blood Empire?"
"Blood Empire..."
The knight murmured.
"Are they... vampires?" he reacted.
"...!?" The soldiers shuddered and took a half-step back collectively.
"Ah... It's nothing." he replied awkwardly.
"How.. how long ago did he pass away?"
"Twenty years ago."
"In a fire."
The third soldier, who had remained silent until now, looked around the dilapidated room.
His gaze swept over the soot-stained burn marks still visible on the walls and ceiling.
It was as if he were comparing the story with the scene before him.
Finally, the old soldier sighed.
He took another step back.
"You'd better leave this place soon."
The two young soldiers exchanged glances, as if about to ask a question.
But he raised his hand, signalling for them to withdraw immediately.
"We don't have time. This place is not safe."
His footsteps were cautious.
The knight did not respond.
He just stood still.
His hand was still resting lightly on the charred photograph, as if he were trying to touch a long-shattered memory.
The three soldiers quickly backed away.
They didn't dare take their eyes off him until his figure gradually faded behind the rusty iron door.
The old soldier only breathed a sigh of relief once everyone had left the alleyway.
He murmured to the other two.
"That knight... he's not ordinary."
"There's something about him that... that stirs my survival instincts."
...
"I never thought anyone would find this place."
But fortunately-
"The story I fabricated… it fooled them."
A dry, cold gaze gleamed in the darkness.
I took off my helmet and quietly put it on the floor.
I sat down with my back against the wall.
A faint smile crept across my lips; it was neither tired nor sorrowful.
"Since when ..."
"... have I become so good at lying?"
...