The sun had long abandoned the sky.
What remained was a bleeding twilight—an indigo veil draped across the Rosenfeld estate, casting stark silhouettes along the high walls of the training courtyard. What had begun at morning with disciplined drills had, by dusk, transformed into a battlefield of intent.
Now, torches flickered like exhausted sentries around the grounds.
Frost clung to steel.
Breath misted with effort.
The final match ended.
A wooden practice sword fell from trembling fingers and struck stone.
Clack.
It echoed through the air, final and conclusive.
The last combatant dropped to one knee, chest heaving. The victor did not raise her blade—it simply hung limply from her hand, as if even victory weighed heavy on her bones.
Samuel stepped forward and brought down his hand.
The contest was over.
A Day of Silent Watching
Kel had watched every match.
He arrived at first light and stood beneath the shadow cast by the eastern archway, wrapped in a dark winter cloak, his face partially hidden beneath its hood. He did not move. Did not address anyone. Only observed.
Not the strength.
Not the technique.
But the moment each knight faltered—
And whether they broke or rebuilt.
Hours passed.
Swords clashed.
Knights struggled, adapted, endured.
Some fought like they were trying to win.
Some like they were trying to prove something.
Only a few… fought like they had nothing left to lose.
Kel's gaze lingered on those.
Finalists
By nightfall, three stood above the others.
Samuel announced, voice clear but heavy with spent authority:
"First place… Reina Asheville."
A single torch flame wavered as if bowing.
A young girl—fifteen years of age—stepped forward.
Not tall.
Not imposing.
Her brown hair was tied tightly back, stray strands damp from sweat and winter air. She wore a standard knight trainee's uniform, navy with silver trims, torn in places from the match. Her cheek held a faint bruise, and frost dusted her boots.
Her posture remained straight.
Her eyes… steady.
Not triumphant.
Simply resolved.
Whispers rose from several knights nearby.
"Asheville—wait, wasn't her family—?"
"The one from the northern collapse?"
"…she was only a trainee when she joined…"
Kel listened without looking away from her.
Reina Asheville.
House Asheville—once a small warrior noble lineage from the northern territories. Renowned not because of politics or land holdings, but because every generation produced at least one knight who died honorably in service.
Honor did not protect them from betrayal.
Her father ended his life at her age of ten.
Her uncle seized control.
She was erased.
Forgotten.
Until she walked into Rosenfeld territory alone at twelve.
Not seeking pity.
Seeking a place to stand.
Now… first place.
Her fingers flexed around her training sword.
She bowed once to Samuel.
No smile.
No visible pride.
Just silent acknowledgment.
Kel noted: She expected nothing from this victory.
That mattered.
"Second place… Serin Wallor."
A girl, also 15. Skilled, intelligent. But during the critical moment in her match, she hesitated. Her eyes sought acknowledgement from watching peers—something the world rarely gives.
"Third place… Landon Vire."
A boy of 16. Strongest in aura output. Most physical force. But when pushed to limits, fought to survive—not to advance.
Kel watched them.
Samuel dismissed them with formal words regarding the rewards, to be given at the Duke's recognition ceremony tomorrow.
That was what they believed.
That was what most believed.
But Kel's decision was not tied to tomorrow.
He stepped back from the archway shadows.
Selection
Samuel approached quietly.
No formal bow. No unnecessary courtesy.
Just presence.
"Have you decided?" he asked.
Kel's eyes remained fixed upon the three gathering their breath.
His voice was soft, almost lost to frost.
"Call first and third to my quarters."
Samuel nodded. No question of why.
"Reina Asheville," he confirmed. "And Landon Vire."
Kel's expression did not change.
Samuel paused.
Then asked one question—
"And the second-place holder, Serin?"
Kel's gaze flickered.
"A person who hesitates for validation," Kel replied quietly, "cannot walk beside someone who may be forgotten."
Samuel said nothing.
Kel began to walk.
The Night Air
He walked along the stone path leading back toward the inner wing. Torches burned low, casting long shadows that stretched around him like quiet ghosts.
His pace was unhurried.
Yet not relaxed.
He looked ahead—not at the door he was heading toward, but somewhere further.
Tonight, he thought, marks the first step.
Not outside the estate.
But outside solitude.
His breathing slowed.
Each step precise.
He reached his quarters just as the first snow began to fall.
Inside Kel's Quarters
The room was dim.
Only a low lantern glowed on the small table near the window. The dark night pressed against the glass like a silent witness.
Kel removed his outer cloak, hanging it with silent motion.
His body ached—not from exertion, but from the slow erosion of his curse. Watching had drained far more from him than combat ever could.
He sat at the edge of the seating couch within his chamber, back straight.
He did not look tired.
Only still.
They will arrive soon, he thought.
He considered their faces.
Reina, whose eyes carried neither entitlement nor desperation—only persistence.
Landon, whose strength came where intellect waned, but whose gaze held something rarely seen in young knights: awareness of his own shortcomings.
Kel's fingers subtly curled over his knee.
They don't know.
Not yet.
Not that I will ask them to walk beside someone who may collapse before the journey ends.
He took a long, controlled breath.
Then exhaled.
Footsteps
Two sets of footsteps approached the hallway.
One crisp, deliberate.
The other heavier, uncertain.
Samuel spoke just loud enough for Kel to hear.
"They have been brought."
Kel stood.
His expression returned to the calm emptiness he wore before the world.
"Send them in," he said.
Without mention.
Without explanation.
Samuel opened the door.
Reina entered first.
She did not bow too deeply.
She bowed precisely.
Landon followed—awkward, but sincere.
The door closed softly behind them.
Kel watched them silently for a moment.
Neither spoke.
Smart.
He nodded once.
"Thank you both for coming," he began quietly.
His eyes lifted to them—ice-gray beneath dim light.
"I have brought you here… not to speak of rewards."
Landon shifted, confusion flickering.
Reina's expression did not change.
Kel continued.
Slowly.
Calmly.
Each word deliberate.
"I brought you because I am searching…"
He paused.
The silence between them deepened.
"…for those willing to walk beside me."
Reina's eyes narrowed—just slightly.
Landon blinked.
Kel's voice softened further.
"Not for a month. Not for a season."
"For two years."
The room became still.
As if even the flame feared to flicker.
Kel stood straighter.
"Not as knights of Rosenfeld."
"As companions."
Reina's fingers tightened.
Landon's breath caught.
Kel lowered his gaze, briefly.
Then looked back up again.
"You have until tomorrow morning to answer."
A pause.
Then—
"If you accept… you will walk a road without name. Without crest. Without certainty of return."
He turned away, walking toward the window.
The frost bit gently at the glass.
His reflection met his own eyes.
Then he said the final words of the night.
"If you refuse… you will still receive your rewards with honor."
A heartbeat.
"And forget this conversation ever occurred."
He did not turn back.
Reina exhaled quietly.
Landon swallowed.
Kel added only one final note:
"The door is open."
He let silence finish the sentence he did not speak:
You may go.
They left.
Without words.
Without sound.
The door clicked.
Kel remained by the window.
Looking at the snow.
Not smiling.
Not bracing.
Only thinking:
"If no one walks beside me… I will walk alone."
The snow continued to fall.
Inside the room—
Only Kel's steady breathing remained.
Alive.
Quiet.
Prepared.