Kirian's POV
The great hall of the palace was quieter than Kirian remembered.
Rows of pillars stretched toward the vaulted ceiling, banners of gold and deep crimson hanging motionless in the still air. The gathered heroes stood in loose formation before the throne, their presence filling the space with a subdued tension—anticipation mixed with something heavier.
Kirian stood among them, posture straight, hands relaxed at his sides.
As always, his gaze drifted.
For a moment, the present blurred, replaced by memory.
He remembered their first day here—how they had been summoned, dazed and disoriented, ushered through these same halls under watchful eyes. Back then, everything had felt unreal. The armor, the banners, the throne at the center of it all.
The Veylor Empire, the king had called it.
A name spoken with certainty, with history behind it.
Kirian had felt it then—a sense of being chosen.
Back on Earth, his life had been full. Not perfect, but complete. Friends, family, ambitions. He hadn't been searching for escape. And yet, when the goddess had reached for him, when he had opened his eyes in this world, something inside him had settled.
A role had been given.
A responsibility.
He had accepted it without resistance.
Training had followed. Weeks of it. Grueling days that tested his body and sharpened his skills. He adapted quickly—faster than most. The goddess's blessing guided him, and the path ahead felt clear, almost inevitable.
That was when his thoughts shifted.
To Louis.
Standing a short distance away, the druid's presence was unmistakable—not because he drew attention, but because he didn't. There was a heaviness around him, subtle but persistent. An atmosphere that made people hesitate without knowing why.
Kirian had noticed it early on.
At first, he had assumed distance. Coldness, perhaps. But that impression hadn't lasted.
Every time someone spoke to Louis—truly spoke to him—the weight seemed to turn inward. His responses were calm, measured. His tone unguarded. Conversation with him was… easy.
Too easy, considering how others described him.
It was odd, Kirian thought, before his attention drifted elsewhere.
A man who didn't reach out, yet never pushed away.
His gaze flickered as another memory surfaced.
Noah's voice, loud and unconcerned, echoing through the training grounds days ago.
The Berserker hadn't been complaining—Noah rarely did—but his companions had. Three of them, always close, always feeding off each other's frustrations.
They had talked about Louis.
About how he skipped joint training sessions. About how he spent his time "farming" instead—always with some beautiful assistant by his side.
It wasn't fair, they'd said. Not when everyone else was bleeding and sweating for strength.
Kirian remembered Noah's reaction clearly.
Indifference, at first.
Then curiosity.
Which beauty? Noah had asked, half-amused.
And that was when Kirian had realized who they meant.
The female assistant. The one with the glasses. Quiet. Observant.
Beneath the lenses and reserved demeanor, there was no denying it—she was beautiful. More than that, she was competent. The kind of presence that didn't announce itself.
Much like Louis.
Kirian's thoughts returned to the present as movement rippled through the hall.
The king's briefing was drawing to a close. Assignments had been given. Borders named. Threats outlined, though not in detail. Each hero would be sent where they were most needed.
The king's final words faded into the hall, leaving behind a silence that felt deliberate rather than empty.
Kirian straightened slightly, instinctively attentive. This was usually the moment where they were dismissed—where duty scattered them in different directions.
Instead, someone stepped forward.
Noah.
The Berserker's boots echoed once against the stone floor before he stopped. His posture was loose, almost casual, hands resting at his sides. Yet Kirian could tell—Noah had already decided.
"Your Highness."
The title was correct. The tone was not.
It lacked reverence—not openly, not enough to call it disrespect—but there was no weight behind it. Noah spoke as one addressing an obstacle, not a sovereign.
Kirian's gaze flicked sideways, just in time to see Counselor Marcus close his eyes.
Slowly.
Tiredly.
"As my party prepares to depart for the Marquis domain," Noah continued, hands resting casually at his sides, "I find it… inefficient to travel without proper support."
Marcus exhaled through his nose.
"I request that the instructor's assistant accompany us."
There it was.
No name. No title beyond utility.
Not her, not Natasha. Just a function to be assigned.
Kirian watched Marcus this time. The counselor's fingers tightened against the staff he leaned on, knuckles paling as his patience thinned. This was not new. Noah had brought this up before—privately, insistently—and had been refused just as firmly.
Yet here he was again.
In front of the throne.
Noah tilted his head slightly, as if clarifying something obvious. "Her presence would ensure continuity. Morale. Comfort during travel."
Comfort.
The word sat wrong in the hall, heavy in the silence that followed. Noah did not smile, but his eyes drifted—briefly, deliberately—toward where the assistant stood among the others, as though already claiming space beside her.
Kirian felt it then.
This wasn't a request made in good faith. It wasn't strategy or necessity. It was entitlement dressed in clean words.
Marcus finally opened his eyes.
"Hero Noah," the counselor said, voice measured but worn thin, "this matter has already been—"
"I'm aware," Noah cut in, unbothered, gaze returning to the king. "Which is why I bring it before Your Highness directly."
The hall remained still.
Kirian didn't look at the king.
He looked at Louis.
And for reasons he couldn't explain, Louis was smiling.
Not amused. Not restrained. Not mild.
A grin—wide, stretching too far, teeth showing as though the expression had forgotten moderation entirely. The kind of grin that felt personal even when it wasn't directed at anyone.
The hall changed.
Not suddenly.
Not violently.
It settled.
The air thickened, pressing down, as though something unseen had taken its place among them. Breaths slowed. Postures stiffened. A subtle resistance crept into every movement, like walking through deep water.
Kirian felt it immediately.
A flare of irritation—sharp, instinctive. Followed by something colder. Disgust, maybe. Or the unease of standing too close to something that did not acknowledge the rules everyone else lived by.
His gaze flicked around.
He wasn't alone.
Knights clenched their swords without realising it.
A noble shifted in his position, lips thinning. Another looked away too quickly. Someone near the pillars swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing. Even those who masked themselves well carried it in their shoulders, their stillness just a touch too deliberate.
It touched everyone.
Lightly for some.
Heavier for others.
But no one escaped it.
At the center of it all, Louis stood relaxed, hands at his sides, grin still fixed in place—unforced, unguarded.
Unaware.
He did not notice the weight.
Did not sense the tension crawling through the hall.
Did not see the looks cast his way.
To him, it was just a moment.
And the grin remained.