Perhaps because of their conversation, Armand dreamed of their first meeting that night, amidst Flint's snoring and Darryl's quiet breathing.
He just turned seventeen that day. While he had been sent to several missions for the last four years as a knight apprentice, they had been quite minor. But now, as a full-fledged Holy Knight, the mission he was involved in was a high-stakes subjugation of one of the most dangerous mutants on land: the Rangda.
Found in the tundra of the northernmost of Dominions, Skaldrhiem, Rangdas possessed a terrifying appearance. They stood two to three meters tall on two feet, with pale-white faces, large bulging eyes and protruding fangs. Their thick white fur covered their whole body and protected them from both the cold and physical attacks. While their primary weapons were their long, retractable claws, their most fearsome trait was their ability to wield dark and ice magic.
Armand remembered the chilling freeze that seemed to seep deep into their bones, the constant thin layer of sheet ice on his face. That day, just before they set off for the mission, he received a letter from the Fontaine house that chilled him all the same; his mother had passed away. Her funeral would be held in two days' time, and he was not to attend.
He had not seen her mother, Lariette, for close to ten years. She had not been a great mother to Armand in any way, but a sense of emptiness came over him. Perhaps he had just lost the only person who still held any fondness for him. Armand quietly wondered - if he perished during this subjugation, would anyone care at all?
"Who sent a child here again?"
While he was deep in thought, a tall, red-haired mercenary with a scar on his face walked by, an alcohol flask in hand.
Armand stiffened. "I'm a sworn-in holy knight."
"Hmm." A lazy nod. "So were half the boys I buried."
Armand looked at him coldly. He was in no mood to humour a mercenary.
A brown-haired mercenary quickly grabbed his red-haired companion and dragged him away. From a distance, Armand could hear him whispering.
"Flint, are you a madman? Why are you picking a fight with Armand Fontaine?"
"Who?"
"You know, the second son of Zenet's First Regent? The winner of the Tournament? The one who beat Milan up two months ago?"
"Ah..." A sense of recognition could be heard from the red-haired mercenary, but his tone stayed lazy. "Well, that bastard Milan deserved it, anyway. But I'm surprised. He looks like your typical pretty noble boy. Can't believe that runt defeated Milan."
"Lower your voice, you idiot! If something happens to you, I'm not getting involved..." Their voices grew fainter and fainter as they walked away.
Armand gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, but he quickly released it. There was no trace of emotion on his face. The younger knights around him looked awkwardly at each other, but no one said anything.
The scene in his dream faded, replaced by the prolonged fights with the Rangdas. The battles were brutal. The Rangdas' movement was unusual - they were attacking in packs, which was odd since they were originally solitary creatures.
Armand swung his sword for what felt like the thousandth time, his shoulder and eyelids heavy with exhaustion. Around him, blood bloomed across the snow like grotesque red flowers. His movement, previously aided by divine power to allow him to manoeuvre in the snow, had grown sluggish.
A gigantic Rangda close to him swung its extended claws, conjuring a storm of blizzard on the knights and mercenaries. Before it hit them, Armand promptly raised a holy barrier around them.
"Armand! Watch out!"
In his dream, he saw the face of young Rhoderick, his now second-in-command, pale in shock. The ground beneath him had sunk from the pressure and started to give way to the cliff below.
Armand gritted his teeth as he prepared himself for the fall, but a red-haired man swiftly grabbed onto him. It was Flint.
He looked worn out, but there was still a humorous glint in his eyes.
"Hanging there, brat?"
Too tired to reply, Armand said nothing. With a grunt, Flint pulled him up.
When he regained his footing, the mercenary unexpectedly slapped him across the back.
"Not bad. Thanks for the barrier, kid. If you survive this, I'll buy you a drink."
"I'm not a kid."
Flint snorted. They did not have time to chat longer as the Rangdas launched continuous attacks. It was not after the battles ended that Armand realised he had not thanked him. After debating for a night, he set off to the mercenaries' camp area to find him, which was not difficult. It seemed he was quite well-known as the fastest mercenary to rise through the ranks, from silver to gold-tier.
When he found him, Flint was tending to an injured older mercenary. From Armand's perspective at that time, his effort seemed futile - the older man had suffered severe frostbite, which led to sepsis. He hesitantly waited until the mercenary finished.
He remembered Flint raising an eyebrow at him.
"To what do I owe the honour of your presence, Sir Fontaine?" He said in a flat, almost mocking tone.
His tone slightly irked him, but Armand had dealt with way worse. Calmly, he said, "I'd like to thank you for helping me that time."
This time, Flint's confused expression was genuine. "That time? What time?"
"When I nearly fell off the cliff."
"Ah...." That seemed to jog his memory. "Well...it's no big deal." He looked away, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably.
"Regardless, thank you." Armand bowed his head, then turned around. "Then I'll take my leave."
"Uh...okay."
Armand started to walk away, but then he heard someone call his name.
"Armand."
He turned around, expecting Flint to say something, but Flint and the injured mercenary were no longer behind him. Instead, an expansive darkness surrounded him. In Flint's place stood a stunning woman, draped in a lavish red gown and decorated with pearl jewellery.
"Mother....?"
His mother, Lariette, used to be named the most beautiful woman in Zenet. A gifted opera singer, her singing and beauty captivated many, who likened her to a siren. In the end, it also captured the heart of one of the most powerful men in Zenet.
She looked at him with striking, but lifeless eyes. He wondered if there had been a moment she appeared as more than a flawless, impeccably made-up figure.
"Armand. Wake up."
He heard someone calling him again, but the voice did not seem to come from his mother. That meant...
"Armand!"
Armand's eyes snapped open. Under the faint starlight of the moonless night, a woman with bluish silver hair sat on the side of his bed, staring down at him. Her ethereal beauty was as cold and distant as moonlight on snow in Skaldrhiem.
He forced his muddled mind to wake and sat up. "...Seraphine?"
She stared at him, then gestured towards the window.
Armand's instinct and strict training took over, and he was immediately fully alert. It was faint, but he sensed the presence of several people outside, all with killing intent. Quietly, he summoned his sword.
Suddenly, Seraphine reached out underneath his pillow. Armand awkwardly shuffled around as she pulled out a small pouch. Inside it was a leather tag inscribed with a magic circle.
"...dream magic?" Now that he looked around, neither Flint nor Darryl was awake yet.
Seraphine nodded solemnly. She had been careless; she should have expected the Order to move quickly. She sighed.
"Seems like we have visitors."