-POV: Landon Vire-
The door closed behind him more quietly than it had any right to.
Landon Vire stood in the corridor outside Kel von Rosenfeld's quarters, facing the empty stretch of stone and shadow as if it were a battlefield he hadn't trained for.
His heart hadn't stopped hammering since he'd stepped out.
He swallowed.
The echo of Kel's voice still clung to him like frost.
"Two years."
"Without crest. Without certainty."
"As companions."
Companions.
Not knights.
Not guards.
Not subordinates.
He flexed his hands slowly at his sides. The leather of his training gloves creaked softly, stretched over bruised knuckles still throbbing from the last match.
Third place.
He'd scraped into it, and even that had cost everything his body could give.
And yet—
He had been summoned.
Not first.
Not second.
—third.
His lips pressed into a tight line.
He started walking.
The Weight of Third Place
The corridor was narrow this far from the central estate—walls of dark stone, lit only by infrequent wall sconces that sputtered with tired candlelight. His shadow followed him, stretched and broken along the uneven floor.
He walked with more stiffness than he wanted to admit. His ribs ached from a heavy blow taken midway through the contest. His right shoulder protested every swing. His legs felt like they'd been filled with packed sand.
But he still walked with his back straight.
A knight-in-training did not limp where others could see.
He turned down another hall, headed toward the barracks-area meant for lower-ranking knights and trainees.
Voices drifted ahead. Familiar. Roughened by exertion and confidence.
Landon slowed.
Not enough to be obvious.
Just enough to listen.
"Did you see Reina? Gods, the way she countered that last feint—"
"They're saying the Duke himself will recognize the top three."
"Third place got lucky. I thought Vire would fall out by the fourth pairing. He always just… holds on."
A snicker.
Not cruel.
Not kind.
Just… true.
Landon's jaw tightened.
He resumed walking, not altering his stride, not turning his head when he passed the open barracks door where several knights lounged against bunks and benches, cleaning their weapons, laughing.
One of them raised a hand in casual greeting.
"Oi, Landon! Heard a summon came for you and that Asheville girl. What did the young master want—"
Landon answered without stopping.
"Instructions about tomorrow's reward distribution."
His tone was steady.
Deceptively so.
The knight laughed. "Haah, so formal. You'll make a fine commander one day."
Landon's lips twitched once.
Not a smile.
More like the ghost of one that died before it reached his eyes.
He continued on.
They didn't need to know.
Not yet.
He wasn't sure he believed it himself.
Inside the Room
His chamber was plain, utilitarian.
A narrow bed pushed against the wall. A small wooden chest at its foot. A single shelf with a few well-used manuals—basic aura circulation, sword fundamentals, tendon strengthening. A peg held his second training coat, still damp from snow.
He closed the door quietly behind him and leaned back against it for a brief moment.
The silence rushed in.
Dampened the world.
He lifted a hand and ran his fingers through his hair, pushing sweat-dried strands back from his forehead. A dull ache pulsed behind his eyes.
"…Companions," he murmured.
The word sounded strange in the small room.
He pushed himself off the door and moved to sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, springs protesting faintly. He unlaced his gloves, pulling them off one finger at a time.
His knuckles were a mess of raw skin and bruising.
He stared at them.
Third place.
He hadn't expected more.
He'd gone into the contest knowing exactly where he stood—not among the brightest, nor the swiftest, nor the most technically refined.
But he endured.
He'd always endured.
Not rising.
Not falling.
Just… refusing to break.
He flexed his fingers and winced as pain flared.
Then, slowly, he allowed his thoughts to drift back—
Back to that darkened room.
Kel von Rosenfeld standing beneath muted lamplight.
A Ghost in Human Skin
Kel hadn't looked like the nobles Landon had seen before.
There was no lazy arrogance.
No gilded contempt.
His posture was straight without effort, his hands relaxed, his breathing quiet. The dark coat he wore had clean, severe lines. No jewelry. No unnecessary decoration.
But his eyes—
Landon shivered slightly, remembering.
Grey.
Still.
Like a winter sky over a frozen lake.
Not dead.
But not quite… alive, either.
As if something in him had already stepped past the line where normal people stopped.
"I am searching… for those willing to walk beside me."
He'd said it without flourish, without illusion.
"Two years."
Landon had felt, for the briefest moment, what that actually meant.
Not travel.
Not adventure.
Not promotion.
Two years of uncertainty.
Of danger.
Of waking each morning unsure if the person you walked beside would still be breathing that night.
Because Kel was cursed.
Everyone knew that.
A curse that ate at his life span, his strength, his future.
Landon closed his eyes.
He'd heard the stories. Everyone in the manor had. The cursed heir who couldn't properly circulate aura. The sickly child whose existence was a stain nobles whispered about behind fans and goblets.
Except…
The cursed heir had stood alone before two hundred nobles and won.
And now.
That same heir was asking him to follow.
Not as a knight.
As a companion.
Fear
His heart stuttered.
He leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands together hard enough to make his bruised knuckles burn.
"…What are you doing, Vire," he muttered under his breath. "You're thinking like some story-book idiot."
If he accepted—
He might die.
If he accepted—
He might vanish.
No crest.
No banners.
No official record of what he had done.
If he fell on the road, some merchant caravan might find a corpse in the mud and never know his name.
His family—
He exhaled sharply.
There wasn't much to consider there.
House Vire was not a true house. It had once been a minor branch under another banner. Debt and bad choices had stripped it of title and most land. Now, his parents lived as land stewards in worn-out holdings, eternally anxious, eternally grateful that at least their son had managed to become a knight trainee under a Duke's household.
"Stable work, Landon," his father had told him. "Do not draw too much attention. Do not get too involved in noble affairs. Just serve and live."
Safe.
Steady.
Slow.
Suffocating.
Landon opened his eyes and stared at the wall.
"That's all they ever wanted from me," he whispered. "To be steady. Solid. Third place forever."
A decent knight.
Reliable.
Forgettable.
Was that all he wanted?
His throat tightened.
He grit his teeth.
"…No."
The word left him before he fully processed it.
He sat with it.
Let it sink in.
Fear gnawed at him.
But over it—something else.
A strange, burning frustration.
At himself.
At his limits.
At the idea that he would spend his entire life standing in the third row of formation, watching the front line decide how history remembered the day.
Why Me?
He let his head fall back, eyes tracing the cracked line along the ceiling.
"Why me," he murmured.
Reina was obvious.
First place.
Disciplined, relentless, eyes that never lost focus.
He'd fought her once in training before.
He'd lost.
Badly.
Not because she was stronger in aura.
But because she refused to let wasted motion exist. Every strike had purpose.
Kel's choice of her made sense.
But him?
He scrubbed a hand over his face.
The answer came quietly, unwelcome and yet… undeniable.
Because I didn't fall.
In the contests today—
Others had stronger swings.
Others had faster footwork.
But Landon.
Landon Vire had taken hits that would've dropped another man.
He'd hit the ground.
Gotten back up.
Staggered.
Reset his stance.
Breathing ragged.
Eyes clear.
He'd lost some rounds.
But he never broke.
Kel had watched all of it.
Every stumble.
Every shaky exhale.
Every time Landon chose to stand again instead of staying down and accepting defeat with grace.
"You fought to stay."
He imagined Kel's quiet eyes seeing that, weighing it.
Maybe that was why.
Not because he was exceptional.
But because he was stubborn.
Because he didn't stop.
Even when he should have.
"…You really are an idiot, Vire," he whispered. "That's not a talent. That's just refusal to quit."
His lips twitched.
This time, it almost became a smile.
Foolishness or Courage
Kel had given them until morning.
If they refused, they would still receive rewards.
A fine third-place sword.
A chance at a stable future.
Routine.
Training.
Gradual advancement.
Regret.
The thought formed quietly and immediately.
Regret.
It sat beside him on the bed like an uninvited guest.
Because no matter how safe that path seemed, from now on, he would know—
He had been asked to walk a path no one else saw.
He had been asked to stand beside a cursed heir who refused to bow to his own death.
He had been offered the chance to be part of something that would never be recorded properly in polite noble histories.
He could say no.
He could live.
He could forget.
Except…
He wouldn't.
The older Landon imagined himself—ten years from now, twenty—sitting in a barracks, giving orders, polishing armor, teaching juniors to hold their swords straight.
He imagined hearing a rumor someday.
That Kel von Rosenfeld had died in some obscure corner of the Empire, alone.
Or had risen somewhere far beyond reach.
Either way—
He would remember.
I was asked.
I said no.
His stomach twisted.
He stood up sharply.
The sudden motion sent a lance of pain through his shoulder.
He hissed under his breath.
Then laughed once, low and humorless.
"…So that's it, then."
He walked to the small, narrow window, pushing the warped shutters aside. The night outside had settled dark and clean, pricked with cold stars. Snow traced the stone edges like thin scars.
The training courtyard lay still in the distance.
He stared at it for a long moment.
Then, without really deciding to, he reached for his cloak.
Under the Night Sky
The courtyard was nearly deserted.
Only a few late-duty guards lingered around its perimeter, breath misting beneath their helms. They paid him little mind once they recognized him as a trainee.
Landon stepped onto the frost-hardened ground.
The air bit into his lungs when he inhaled.
It hurt.
He welcomed it.
He walked to the center of the field, where so many matches had been fought just hours earlier.
The ground still bore marks.
Scuffs.
Footprints.
A faint smear of dried blood where someone's nose had broken.
He tightened his grip on the sword at his hip—a standard training blade, nothing special.
He drew it.
The sound of metal leaving leather was soft but clear in the quiet.
He stood there a while, blade hanging loosely at his side.
Then, slowly, he lifted it.
His stance was not perfect.
His form was not elegant.
But it was solid.
He closed his eyes.
Inhaled.
Exhaled.
"Even if you fall…"
Where had that thought come from?
He wasn't sure.
But it had arrived.
"…I will walk."
Not ahead.
Not above.
Beside.
Like a support that refused to crumble until the very end.
He slashed once through the air.
Twice.
Each motion sent complaint through muscle and bone.
He didn't stop.
Swing.
Reset.
Swing.
Reset.
His breath grew harsh, then ragged.
He kept going until his arms trembled.
Until the sword felt twice as heavy.
Until his vision blurred at the edges.
Then he lowered the blade and laughed again, softer this time.
"That's right," he muttered. "I was never the fastest. Never the strongest."
His eyes narrowed.
"But I was always the last to stay down."
He slid the sword back into its sheath.
The decision was already made.
Fear still sat with him.
But it was no longer in charge.
Morning
He did not sleep well.
Dreams bled into waking moments—Kel's grey eyes, the weight of the word "companion", the feel of snow underfoot as he swung his sword alone.
But morning came all the same.
Dull, grey light seeped into the room.
Landon stood before his small washbasin, splashing cold water over his face. It stung. It helped.
He dressed in his cleanest training uniform. Tunic dark. Belt straight. Boots polished.
He checked himself once in the tiny, warped shard of mirror above the basin.
Not impressive.
Not striking.
Just a young man with tired eyes and a jaw set a little too hard.
He nodded to his own reflection.
"Let's regret this properly if it goes wrong," he muttered. "Not because we lacked courage."
He left his room.
The corridors were waking now—servants moving, knights preparing for morning drills. No one stopped him.
He walked.
Heart steady.
Feet certain.
He reached Kel's door.
He hesitated for a single breath.
Then lifted his hand and knocked.
Once.
The voice that answered from within was calm.
"Come in."
He opened the door.
Kel stood near the window again, as if he had not moved all night. Light spilled weakly across his pale face, his expression composed, unreadable.
Their eyes met.
Landon bowed—not deeply.
Just enough to show respect without subservience.
When he straightened, his voice was steady.
"Lord Kel," he said, "if your path is as dangerous as you say…"
He clenched his fist at his side.
"…then it will need someone stubborn enough to keep walking even when you cannot."
His throat felt tight.
He forced the next words out anyway.
"I will go with you."
Kel watched him for a long moment.
No smile.
No dramatic reaction.
Just a slow, subtle shift in his gaze—as if confirming something he had already half-believed.
He inclined his head.
Once.
"Then," Kel said quietly, "we walk."
Landon bowed again.
This time, there was something lighter in the motion.
Not because the burden had lessened.
Because, for the first time in his life—
He was not walking toward a future already chosen for him.
He was walking toward one he had chosen himself.
Even if it killed him.
Even if the cursed heir he followed fell halfway through.
He would walk.
And if Kel fell—
Landon Vire would be there.
At his side.
Not as a witness.
As someone who had decided, on a cold night beneath distant stars:
"Even if you fall, I will walk."