The study smelled of old parchment and spiced incense, a sharp contrast to the restless chaos that churned in Orven's chest. Shelves lined the walls, each crammed with records, maps, and scrolls, but his attention fixed on the Viscount, who sat in a high-backed chair carved from dark oak. The flickering light of a single oil lamp cast long shadows across the room, making the noble's sharp features seem sharper still.
"Sit, boy," the Viscount said, his tone calm but not without weight. He gestured to a chair opposite him.
Orven obeyed cautiously, his hand never straying far from the dagger sheathed at his hip. He had followed the threads of whispers, rumors of corruption and exploitation, expecting to find a villain in this man's seat of power. Yet as the Viscount regarded him with cool, calculating eyes, Orven saw no trace of cruelty—only exhaustion, like a man carrying too many secrets for too long.
"You've been stirring quite the noise in my city," the Viscount continued. "Few slip through my notice. Fewer still leave such an impression." He leaned forward, folding his hands. "Tell me, Orven Kale, why you seek me."
Orven's eyes narrowed. "You already know why."
"Perhaps. But I'd rather hear it from you."
The words clawed their way out of Orven's throat. "I want to know who started it. The war between Asura and Jade. The one that…" He hesitated, his voice threatening to betray him. "…destroyed everything I had."
For a long moment, silence stretched between them. The Viscount studied him, eyes glinting with something unreadable. Finally, he exhaled, leaning back in his chair.
"You seek truth," the nobleman said. "But truth is not a simple thing. It's a web of decisions made by powerful men—and broken men—over decades. You think you'll find a single thread to cut and make sense of it all. But when you do, boy, you'll see just how tangled the world truly is."
"I don't care how tangled it is. I'll untangle it myself."
The Viscount chuckled softly. "Spoken like a mercenary boy who's seen too little of the world's games and thinks himself above them."
"I'm not playing games."
"Yet here you are, sitting in front of me." The Viscount's expression hardened. "You came seeking monsters in the dark. And perhaps you found one. But perhaps not the one you expected."
Orven's grip tightened on the armrest. "You're saying you're not behind this?"
"I am saying," the Viscount said, his voice lowering, "that you and I share an enemy. And if you're willing, we might yet pull the roots of this conflict from the soil together. But I will not lie to you—my methods are not always clean."
The mercenary's chest tightened at the admission. "You're asking me to trust you."
"I am asking you to see sense. Alone, you are but a boy wielding a blade and a grudge. Together, we may topple the ones who burned your village from their thrones."
The room grew colder as Orven weighed his words. His mind raced with memories: the smell of smoke clinging to his hair as he ran through the burning ruins of his home; the screams of neighbors, silenced one by one; the crushing weight of guilt that had followed him through the years like a shadow he could never escape. He had sharpened his blade on that guilt, carved his body into a weapon, yet still, he had nothing but fragments of truth.
And here, across the table, was a man offering him a path forward.
"What do you want from me?" Orven asked.
"Loyalty," the Viscount said simply. "Not blind loyalty, but tempered trust. Work with me. Let me teach you how to strike without being struck. Let me open the doors you can't kick down yourself. In return, I will give you the knowledge you seek. The truth you crave."
Orven's hand flexed against his knee. The thought of working under a noble made bile rise in his throat. He had seen men like the Viscount—pampered tyrants cloaked in power—but there was something different here. A spark in the noble's voice told him this wasn't a game for glory or riches; it was something deeper, darker.
And he needed answers.
The Viscount's piercing gaze held him steady, waiting. "What will it be, boy? Will you walk out that door and drown in ignorance? Or will you take my hand and finally begin your hunt?"
Orven's breath came slow and heavy. He thought of his parents' faces, of laughter over warm bread, of the peace he'd taken for granted. He thought of ash.
His hand drifted from his dagger. His lips parted.
"…Yes."
The Viscount's expression softened—not with warmth, but satisfaction. "Good. Then your life changes tonight."
Orven felt the weight of his decision settle over him like a cloak, suffocating yet inevitable.
And so, in the dim glow of the Viscount's study, the boy who once fled from flames chose to step back into the fire.