"Grand pappy, I want that candy," Layla says, her small finger pointing toward a wooden cart stacked with bright, colored sugar drops.
Sir Rowan lifts her into his arms, the metal of his pauldrons clinking against his leather jerkin.
He tilts his head, a small spark in his eyes. "What did you just say?"
Layla lets out a soft chuckle, her hands twisting the wool of his cloak. "I want that candy."
"No, before that," Rowan says, his face deadpan, though the hard lines around his mouth soften. "What did you call me?"
Layla's smile slips into a timid curve.
Her head ducks, her voice dropping into a low, tentative note. "Grand pappy... should I not call you grand pappy?"
Rowan draws her close, burying her small frame against his shoulder guard.
The deep, heavy weariness in his spine seems to lift for a brief moment.
"No, no. You can call me that, sweetie. You should always call me grand pappy."
He pulls back, a rare, completely unforced smile breaking across his weathered features.
Layla's face brightens instantly. "Okay, grand pappy!"
Rowan carries her over to the cart, the scent of boiled sugar thick in the air. He sets her down on her feet but keeps a firm hand on her shoulder. "Choose any three, Layla."
"Three?" Her eyes widen into massive circles, her palms pressing against her cheeks. "I can get three of them?"
"Yeah."
She darts forward, her fingers hovering over the glass jars before carefully selecting three red drops.
Rowan counts out three bright bronze coins, dropping them into the vendor's hand.
Layla instantly hooks her fingers back into Rowan's palm, holding her sweets close to her chest. "Thank you, grand pappy."
Rowan brushes his hand over her hair, smoothing down the stray strands. "Let's go meet Erwin."
He leads her toward a heavy black carriage waiting on standby near the curb.
Lifting her with effortless care, he places her onto the velvet bench inside before climbing in after her.
The door shuts with a solid thud, and the carriage begins to rattle, the rough vibration of the muddy outer streets smoothing out as the iron-rimmed wheels transition onto the clean, white stone roads of the inner district.
They pass through the shadow of the giant inner walls.
The massive gates groan open, and Layla presses her face flat against the carriage glass, a half-eaten candy tucked into her cheek.
Her eyes track the towering marble pillars, the manicured hedges, and the gleaming armor of the high guards.
She has never seen a place so spotless, so devoid of grime.
The carriage pulls to a halt before the wide, white-stone square of the palace training grounds.
Rowan steps down first, reaching back inside to lift Layla into the open air.
"Here we go," he grunts.
Layla looks at the vast courtyard, her fingers tightening around his sleeve. "Is it okay for me to be here, grand pappy? I'm not a noble..."
Rowan reaches down and delivers a gentle, rhythmic flick to the center of her forehead.
"Don't worry about that. You go play over there in the garden." He points toward a sprawling terrace filled with blue roses and white stone fountains. "I'll send Erwin out to find you. Don't go anywhere else, okay?"
Layla nods, but her boots stay glued to the stones. She looks up, her expression suddenly turning fragile. "Grand pappy... can I ask you something?"
Rowan crouches, his heavy knees popping as he brings his eyes level with hers. "What is it, Layla?"
"I always ask daddy about brother Leonard, the brave princess, and the fairy brother are gonna come back," she says, her voice dropping into a small, fragile whisper.
"He just tells me to pray, and that they'll be back soon. But I've been praying so much. So much, grand pappy. And they're still not here... Can you tell me when they're coming home?"
Rowan's gaze drops to the white stones between his boots.
The silence stretches for three heavy heartbeats before he forces his eyes back up to meet hers.
He reaches out, his thumb catching a speck of sugar near her lip.
"They'll be back really soon," Rowan says, his voice steady, carrying the absolute weight of a captain's promise.
"Since you're praying so hard, they won't be long. So don't worry about it. Go play. And if you pick the prettiest flower in that garden for me, I'll buy you more candies when I come back out."
Layla jumps, a bright burst of laughter escaping her as she bolts toward the green hedges of the terrace.
Rowan stands up slowly, the smile vanishing from his face as he turns toward the training ground barracks.
He enters a quiet ready-room on the left, the stone walls cutting off the sound of the wind. Sinking into a heavy chair, he fixes his eyes on the empty hearth.
"I hope you're all doing fine," he mutters to the quiet room.
A sharp, rhythmic knock strikes the timber of the door.
"You can come in, Aruma," Rowan says.
The latch clicks. Aruma steps into the room, his movements silent, fluid, and entirely without weight. He bows his head slightly, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.
"I got rid of him, just like you asked, Master.
His name was Wesker and he won't be reporting to anyone anymore." Aruma straightens, his fingers flexing against his belt.
"That's the fifth this week. How long are we going to keep trimming the branches, Master? Just give me the word. Let me assassinate the Bishop. It's all going to be settled that way."
Rowan stands up, the iron plates of his armor heavy in the quiet room. He walks over and places a massive hand on Aruma's shoulder, his grip tightening.
"We can't do that, Aruma. We have to take him down politically first. Strip away his leverage, expose the corruption to the courts, and *then* we kill him.
If we strike now, the Pope will get furious. You know how sensitive the church matters are right now. We cannot afford a holy war inside our own walls."
Aruma drops his chin, the tension leaving his shoulders. "If that's your wish, Master... I understand."
Rowan pats his shoulder, his voice softening.
"And I've told you a thousand times, you don't have to be so formal with me when the doors are shut. You're my first pupil. You've been at my side for years. Drop the formalities already."
"No, Captain," Aruma says, his eyes fixed on the insignia on Rowan's breastplate. "I respect you the most. If I drop the titles, I'll be degrading myself."
Rowan sinks back into his chair with a low grunt. "There you go again. Well... did you take care of the corpse?"
"Everything is done," Aruma replies. "The clay has cleared. You don't have to worry about a thing, Master."
"Good," Rowan says, leaning back. "How is Erwin doing?"
A rare, sharp spark lights up Aruma's dark eyes. "The man has serious potential, Master. You never fail to find talented individuals. He's working himself to the bone out there. I know he'll be a great knight in the future."
"You praising someone... that's rare," Rowan lets out a low chuckle. "So you saw his potential too? That's good. You can take your leave now, Aruma.
Go tell Erwin to take a break. Layla is out in the garden—send him there so he can get some rest."
Aruma bows from the waist, his boots making no sound.
"Understood." He turns and slips out the door, the wood settling back into the frame without a click.
The capital feels like a distant dream.
Budsle remains silent.
Too silent.
The heavy, stagnant smell of boiling water and stale rye bread fills the narrow kitchen of the house.
Henry sets two cracked earthenware bowls on the table, the wooden spoons clicking against the clay.
Near the front window, Leonard stands motionless, his hands clasped behind his back, his unblinking eyes fixed on the gray stones outside.
He still can't get Rose's voice out of his head.
"Sir?" Henry calls, his voice cracking the heavy silence. "Breakfast is getting cold."
Leonard doesn't move for a second.
Then, with a slow, deliberate drop of his shoulders, he turns away from the glass.
"Right... I'm coming. Go call the ladies."
Henry turns and climbs the creaking wooden stairs. He stops before the small bedroom door, his knuckles striking the old timber twice.
The latch moves instantly, and Grace opens the door.
Her eyes are bloodshot, thick red lines tracing through the whites from a total lack of sleep.
"Henry," she whispers, her voice flat and dry. "What is it?"
"You didn't sleep either, my lady," Henry says, his gaze taking in the tight set of her jaw. "That makes the two of us. The breakfast is ready. Bring her highness downstairs too."
Grace steps out into the narrow hallway, pulling the door shut behind her until it's nearly closed.
She leans in close, her voice dropping so low it barely carries over the floorboards.
"Her highness isn't feeling well after last night. She... she hurt Leonard. She keeps blaming herself for the loop, for the entity, for everything. She wants to apologize to him, Henry, but she can't bring herself to face him."
Henry looks down his jaw tightening.
"Just bring her downstairs. Sir Leonard will handle it—you know how he is. And we'll be there too, my lady."
Grace draws a long breath, her shoulders sagging. "You go ahead. We'll be down in a minute."
Henry walks back down to the kitchen.
Leonard is already seated at the rough table, his eyes closed, his scarred hands folded tightly over his lap as he repeats a silent grace. Henry sinks into the chair beside him, the wood groaning under his weight.
Leonard opens his eyes, his gaze steady and dark. "Is everything alright?"
Henry nods once, looking at the steaming bowls of water and dried fish. "Yeah... they're coming."
The stairs creak under a light, hesitant weight. Grace steps into the kitchen first, her hand firmly guiding Elsbeth by the elbow.
The princess looks like a ghost. Her long hair has been tied neatly into a low ponytail by Grace, but the clean style only emphasizes the deep, dark purple bags sinking into the skin beneath her eyes.
Her fingers are locked around the edges of the black leather book, clutching it against her chest like a shield.
Leonard and Henry stand up in unison, the legs of their chairs scraping loudly against the floor as they push them back to let the women sit.
Elsbeth sinks into the seat, her gaze glued flat to the grain of the wooden table.
She cannot bring herself to look into Leonard's face.
The kitchen falls into a suffocating quiet.
The only sound is the rhythmic, scraping slide of spoons against clay as they begin to eat.
Beneath the table, out of sight, Grace reaches over and catches Elsbeth's hand, her fingers squeezing the princess's cold knuckles with a tight, anchoring grip.
Elsbeth's spoon stops mid-air. Her frame shudders, a low, broken note escaping her throat as she stares down at her plate.
"I'm sorry..." she whispers, the words small and wet. "For last night... I'm really sorry."
Leonard sets his spoon down. He looks across the table, his face softening. "You don't have to be sorry about anything, my lady. I'm glad you let your emotions out. Please... don't worry about it."
"N-no, it's not alright," she chokes out, her head shaking as a fresh tear cuts through the grime on her cheek.
"I'm relying on all of you too much. I watched them take Luan away right before my eyes... and I couldn't do anything.
Then I hurt you too. I'm... I'm good for nothing."
The tears drop onto the wooden table.
Grace instantly shifts her weight, pulling Elsbeth into her shoulder, her arms wrapping tight around the girl's shaking frame.
"That's not true," Grace says, her voice fierce, ringing with absolute conviction. "Don't say that. You are the hope of this kingdom—the light at the end of a very dark tunnel.
We are all here for you, and it is not a bad thing, your highness. You can rely on us... because we are relying on you too."
Leonard lets out a slow, measured breath, the weight of the town pressing on his shoulders as he nods.
"I agree with Grace. Relying on someone isn't a weakness, my lady. If it were, none of us would still be standing."
He leans forward, his dark eyes locking onto her until she looks up. "We look after each other here. And about Luan... the moment we break this loop and clear this town, we will get word from Sir Azik. Just stay strong. Put your trust in us. Rely on us."
Henry lowers his spoon into the bowl, the metal striking the clay with a dull, final thud.
He looks at the princess, his midnight-black tunic making his frame look broad and solid in the light.
"We promise you, your highness," Henry says, his voice dropping into a hard, unbreakable register. "We will survive this town. And then... we will save him too."