Two months had passed since the sky burned, and the capital of Aethelgard sounded different.
The screams were gone, replaced by the rhythmic clack-clack-thud of hammers and the shouting of foremen. Scaffolding hugged the charred remains of the West Wing like wooden bandages. The smell of smoke had faded, overtaken by the scent of fresh sawdust and wet mortar.
Arthur walked through the Lower Courtyard, flinching every time someone bowed to him.
"Bless you, Sir Arthur," a flower girl whispered, dropping a garland of winter-blooms at his feet.
"Thank you," Arthur mumbled, sidestepping the flowers. His leg was stiff—a lingering reminder of the gravity crush—and a jagged scar now ran from his collarbone to his left shoulder, a souvenir from the shattered glass of the Queen's quarters.
He wasn't wearing his farm tunic anymore. He wore a simple, well-fitted black doublet and trousers, clothes befitting a "Hero of the Realm." He hated them. They felt stiff.
"They look at me like I'm a statue," Arthur muttered to himself. "I just want a turnip. A normal turnip."
He made his way toward the ruined section of the Keep. The guards let him pass without a word, snapping crisp salutes that made Arthur want to hide.
In the center of the devastation, where the crater from his impact still marred the flagstones, a lone figure was working.
Conrad, the Last Guardian, was on his hands and knees. He was digging through a pile of shattered masonry with his bare hands, tossing stones aside as if they were pebbles. He looked frantic. His armor was gone, replaced by a simple tunic soaked in sweat.
"Conrad?" Arthur called out.
The giant froze. He stood up slowly, wiping stone dust from his face. He looked older than he had two months ago. The gray in his beard seemed to have spread.
"Arthur," Conrad rumbled. "You should be resting. The healers said your mana channels are still fragile."
"I'm fine," Arthur lied. "What are you doing? The masons said this area was cleared."
"It is not cleared," Conrad said, his voice tight with suppressed panic. "It is missing."
"What is?"
"The Sword," Conrad pointed to the empty ground. "Bellona. It fell here. I saw it. But when the dust settled... it was gone. I have turned over every stone in this castle. If looters took it... if that cursed blade falls into the wrong hands..."
Arthur blinked. "Oh. That."
He scratched the back of his head, looking sheepish. "Right. I haven't really had a chance to tell you. I was... unconscious for a while."
"Tell me what?" Conrad stepped closer, looming over him. "Do you know where it is?"
Arthur sighed. "Yeah. It's... here."
He held out his right hand, palm up.
He didn't chant. He didn't focus his mana. He just thought about the weight.
The shadow cast by Arthur's arm suddenly rippled. It didn't behave like a shadow; it behaved like ink. It swirled upward, condensing into a solid shape.
Shhhink.
The Sword of Bellona materialized in his grip. It didn't look rusty or damaged. It gleamed with a dark, oily sheen, darker than the night sky.
Conrad stumbled back, his eyes wide. "You... you bonded with it? A spatial bond?"
"I guess?" Arthur shrugged. "She just... comes when I call."
Conrad stared at the blade. It was the legacy of his best friend. The weapon he had guarded for eighteen years. And now, this farmboy was holding it as casually as a hoe.
Instinct took over. Conrad reached out. "Let me see it. I need to check the bindings."
His massive hand moved toward the hilt.
HISSS.
The sword didn't just vibrate; it snarled. A pulse of red lightning erupted from the black steel, arcing toward Conrad's hand.
"DO NOT TOUCH ME, OLD MAN."
The voice boomed from everywhere and nowhere. It wasn't the bored voice Arthur heard in the void; it was a demonic, guttural roar that shook the remaining glass in the windows.
Conrad yanked his hand back, smoke rising from his fingertips. He looked terrified. "It spoke."
"She," Arthur corrected. "She's... moody."
"She?"
Suddenly, the red lightning retracted. The black smoke around the blade swirled and condensed.
Sitting on Arthur's shoulder, swinging her legs as if she were sitting on a park bench, was a tiny figure. She looked like the devil from the void—horns, obsidian armor, red eyes—but she was the size of a kitten.
She yawned, revealing tiny, razor-sharp teeth.
"You are loud," Bellona complained, looking at Conrad. "And you smell like dust. Go away. Arthur is warm."
She snuggled against Arthur's neck, closing her eyes.
Conrad stared. His mouth opened and closed. "That Devil... is napping on your shoulder."
"She sleeps a lot," Arthur admitted, patting Bellona's head with a single finger. She purred, a sound like a distant earthquake. "It's the only time she's quiet."
Conrad looked at the boy. Then at the chibi-devil. Then at the sword.
He let out a long, shuddering breath. The tension that had held his shoulders up for eighteen years seemed to snap. He sank onto a piece of broken pillar, laughing softly. It was a dry, incredulous sound.
"Gareth," Conrad whispered to the sky. "You lying bastard."
He looked at Arthur, his expression hardening into something new. Not protection. Not pity. Respect.
"She has chosen," Conrad said firmly. "I am no longer the wielder of Bellona."
"Does that mean I can give it back?" Arthur asked hopefully. "It's really heavy."
"No," Conrad stood up. "It means you have work to do. You wield the weapon of a Guardian, Arthur. But you swing it like a lumberjack. It is embarrassing."
Arthur groaned. "Does this mean more laps?"
"Laps?" Conrad smirked, crossing his massive arms. "Boy, laps were the appetizer. Tomorrow at dawn, we begin the real training. If you are going to hold that sword, you will learn to be worthy of it. Or I will beat you until you are."
On Arthur's shoulder, Bellona opened one red eye.
"Good," she squeaked. "Give him hell, Conrad."
Arthur looked at the giant warrior and the tiny devil. He felt the weight of the sword in his hand—heavy, dangerous, but his.
"Fine," Arthur said, gripping the hilt. "Dawn. I'll be there."
"Don't be late," Conrad turned to walk away, already planning the drills. "We have a lot to fix."