"They are all stories," Lord Sued replied, his voice steady yet touched with quiet wisdom. "But sometimes, hidden inside those stories, are truths—like a seed buried in soil, waiting quietly to grow."
"How do you know he existed?" Arion asked, incredulous, a faint scoff beneath his breath.
"Because I see his light every night," Sued replied, his gaze wandering far beyond the walls of the world. "No matter where I stand."
Arion looked away. "Right. A flicker in the sky. Must be divine, then," he muttered. "It's only a star."
There had been many bright stars in his old world too—cold, distant things that burned without meaning. No one there had ever pointed to one and claimed it was once a man, let alone one who defied fate and rose to the heavens.
Names... he had learned they meant little. Many bore the names of kings, saints, or long-fallen heroes, but that did not make them noble, or brave, or destined for anything more than an ordinary end.
A name was not a sword in the hand. It was not courage in the heart. It was not the strength to face monsters or the madness to climb towers for the sake of someone else's freedom.
A name was a wish someone else made for you. A hope, nothing more—and never a promise.
That thought settled in him like a stone dropped in still water, sending quiet ripples through everything he believed.
"Perhaps, you're right," Lord Sued said, his tone gentle but firm. "You will know the truth in time. Until then, focus on your training. Do not neglect your studies. One day, you will rule Ortenia—and guiding a whole county is no simple task."
Later that night, Arion lay in bed, the soft scent of lavender mingling faintly with the worn parchment and woodsmoke that filled the quiet chamber.
His thoughts were tangled and restless. The burden of what he had learned dulled the sharp edges of his fear, and though sleep came, it brought no peace.
For in his sleep, the whisper that had long haunted his dreams—Sacrifice. Strength.—did not fade.
Tonight, it screamed.
SACRIFICE. GIVE. STRENGTH.
In that dreadful dream, Arion found himself standing before a dagger—not one of mortal scale, but a monolith of iron and menace, rising high as a tower, its blade gleaming cold and pitiless. All around, a sea of worshippers knelt in reverent silence, their heads bowed so low they seemed to pray to the earth itself.
Then, like a tide drawn back by unseen force, the mass parted—row by row—making way for a lone figure.
A young woman stepped forth, barefoot and trembling, her cheeks streaked with tears. Her steps were hesitant but unbroken; though fear clung to her like frost, she did not flee. She walked—slowly, sorrowfully—toward the blade that waited with cruel patience.
From the congregation, a man rose. He wore a mask of deepest black, featureless save for the hollow eyes. Wordless, he moved toward her and bound her to an altar of cold stone with chains that clinked like iron bells in a crypt. Once, Arion thought, those chains had shone—silver, perhaps even white. But now they were stained, near-black with age and sorrow.
The masked priest drew a blade from within his robe. There was no ceremony, no chant—only the swift plunge of steel into flesh. The girl cried out, her body arching in protest, but the chains held fast.
With deft hands, the priest reached into her chest and pulled free her heart—still beating, still warm. Blood sprayed his hands, her face, the stone.
Arion's soul recoiled. Revulsion gripped him like a vice. He wished to turn away, to scream, to vanish from this place.
But he could not.
The world spun—and then stilled.
He was no longer the watcher. He was the sacrifice.
He felt the cold bite of chains on his wrists, the sharp stone beneath his back. He saw, with wide and terrified eyes, the priest standing over him—his crimson hands now cradling a much smaller heart. His.
Blood surged into Arion's mouth, hot and bitter. It filled his eyes, his throat. He choked and writhed, drowning not in water, but in his own lifeblood. The pain came in waves, each one sharper than the last. His limbs thrashed, his lungs begged, and only wet gurgles answered.
Then the priest looked at him—not at the boy in the dream, but beyond it. Beyond the veil of sleep. The masked eyes saw Arion himself, the one who slumbered in the quiet dark of Castle Thornecrest.
And in his mind, clear as a bell tolling doom, the whisper rose to a roar:
Sacrifice. Give. Strength. Death.
Then the void swept in—vast, breathless, cold as grave soil—and he fell.
Arion awoke with a jolt, heart pounding, his shirt soaked through and clinging to his skin like wet gauze. His breath came fast, shallow. The taste of blood still lingered on his tongue, and the echo of the whisper still rang in his ears.
Alone in the dim hush of his chamber, with shadows long and the silence heavy, he could not bear it.
Soft as a whisper, he crept through the halls of Castle Thornecrest, past stone and tapestry and flickering oil lamps. He reached the door to his parents' chamber and, with the hesitant grace of a frightened child, slipped inside.
He nestled between them without a word, curling into the familiar safety of their warmth. Though he bore the soul of another life, heavy with the memory of a world lost, that night he clung to comfort not as a man, but as a child—small and trembling in the dark.
His mother did not stir in surprise. Her hand found his cheek and stroked it gently, slowly, as though she had been waiting.
A faint scent of mint oil hung in the air—cool and clean—and with it came calm. The rhythm of her breath, the soft rustle of sheets, the pulse of her hand—these things anchored him. Though fear lingered at the edges of sleep, it carried him off at last, quiet and kind.
But Lord Sued did not sleep.
He had felt it—just before Arion entered the room—a presence. Fleeting, yes. But real. It had drifted from the direction of the boy's chamber like smoke from a fire that refused to be seen.
It left behind no mark, no sound. Only a wrongness, a disturbance in the stillness, like breath on the back of one's neck when no one is near.
Sued lay still, his eyes fixed on the dark ceiling above.
His hand rested on the hilt of the blade beside the bed, and his thoughts—grim and circling—offered no peace.
What new devilry had dared to fix its gaze upon his house?