Leon bypassed knocking.
He opened the double doors to his father's study and entered.
The aroma of parchment, smoke, and pine resin permeated the space. The back wall was lined with tall bookshelves. A map of the southern border was partially spread out on the desk. Two candles wavered, each close to dripping.
Lord Cedric Valhart lifted his gaze from a letter he was holding, his brows already knit in concern.
"You're back earlier," he remarked.
Leon placed the sealed package on the desk. The convoy came under attack. Two sentinels deceased. "One trader injured."
Cedric stayed still. "By whom?"
"Not thieves."
Leon dug into his satchel and retrieved the cloth-covered dagger he had taken from the lifeless beast—black metal, jagged edge, and not resembling anything made by human hands.
He placed it on the map.
His father's gaze lingered on it for a moment too long.
Leon held on.
Cedric breathed out gently and reclined in his chair. "I was informed that those sightings were merely rumors."
Leon moved ahead. "Negative." They were not. "And the one guiding them—it recognized me."
Cedric's jaw clenched. "What are you trying to say?"
Leon placed his hands on the table, knuckles flushed. "It indicated." Gazed into my eyes and said, 'You shouldn't be here.'"
The quiet that ensued was overwhelmingly noisy.
Cedric remained lying down. Did not dispute. He simply looked at the blade and remained silent.
Leon spoke in a softer tone. "You were aware they were relocating once more."
"There is no evidence."
Leon's fist struck the table. "That isn't a response."
His father eventually raised his gaze. The weariness in his expression wasn't due to age. It was heaviness. The type that had established over time.
"Do you believe the nobles would support a tale of a ghost?" Cedric spoke softly. "They hardly gathered when the doors collapsed."
"I'm not inquiring with them," Leon stated.
Cedric's gaze intensified. "Then who do you inquire about?"
Leon remained silent.
He faced away to go.
Roderic was staying in the corridor.
"News travels quickly," he stated.
Leon maintained his speed. "Excellent." "Perhaps that will make someone care."
"Do you believe this alters anything?"
Leon paused at the stairwell's summit. "They have returned, Rod." The ones from the ancient tales. "The ones that Father mentioned were missing."
Roderic laughed derisively. "You battled three crooked thugs and a man in a cloak." "That's not a prediction."
Leon faced him. "You missed how it gazed at me."
"Not at all," Roderic responded. "I notice how you're gazing at everything—as if it's already ablaze."
"It is so."
"Negative." "You're merely seeking something to ignite."
Leon strolled by him.
His boots resonated on the stone, loud and swift. He required air. He required steel in his grasp. He required quiet for a sufficient time to contemplate.
However, silence failed to arrive.
Not when he arrived at the training area.
Not at the moment he grabbed the blunt knife.
Not when he began to swing.
The movement was beneficial.
Unlike before—not a beat, not a definition. Simply background sound. Only the surge of wind and strength. His arms shifted ahead of his head catching up.
Hit. Change direction. Stage. Swing.
Once more.
Quicker.
"Hello."
A voice pierced the circle.
Leon halted in the middle of his swing.
Rissa stood across the fence, arms folded, braid secured more tightly than normal.
"She said Yundar told her you were struck," she stated. "Did you die out there?"
"Nearly."
She entered the room. "More terrible than I?"
He breathed out. "They did not fail to hit."
Rissa gave a single nod. "Yundar asked me to have you go through another round."
Leon grabbed the sword once more. "That's okay with me."
This time, she refrained from pulling out daggers.
She picked up a small spear.
The battle was unlike any that had occurred previously.
No looping. No gradual escalation.
Rissa arrived quickly.
She thrust downwards. Leon moved aside, the blade striking the handle.
She turned. The spear swung around and struck his wrist. He made a low sound. Allow the pain to direct the turn. Cut diagonally.
She evaded, but not smoothly.
His sword grazed her sleeve.
She smiled.
Next, it became more challenging.
They battled quietly, except for the sound of footsteps and breathing.
Every strike compelled Leon to remain vigilant. To reflect.
She didn't allow him any room to wander.
Not even for an instant.
By the tenth bout, he had blood on his lip. By the twelfth, there was a mark across her collar.
Both refrained from requesting a halt.
At last, Rissa snagged his sword with the rear of her spear and twisted it from his grip.
The sword rattled behind him.
Leon took a step back, breathing heavily.
Rissa brought down the spear. "What is happening?"
Leon cleaned the blood off his chin. "I witnessed something." "An entity that ought not to be present."
"And what?"
"I don't believe it was merely gazing at me."
Rissa gave a slow nod. "Then you should prepare for its return."
She threw him his sword.
He seized it by the handle.
She turned and walked off, calling back over her shoulder:
"Next time, I'll carry both daggers."
Leon remained in the ring long after Rissa had gone.
The lanterns were ignited around the estate, their glow creating lengthy shadows on the walls. His hold on the sword remained firm, yet his stance had relaxed. He gazed at his boots—coated in dust, worn, with one lace almost frayed.
He had hardly a moment to catch his breath since that demon disappeared into the woods.
At that moment, it seemed as though something was poised to emerge from the silence surrounding him.
He put the blade in its sheath and headed for the training shed. As he walked by, he saw the rack with the axe resting against the wall. His hand remained close to it. Then let go.
Not this evening.
He dug into his tunic and retrieved the fragment of black stone—the one he had stashed after breaking the training block days earlier.
He was unsure why he had retained it.
However, this evening, he gazed at it for an extended period of time.
It caught the flashlight oddly. Not comparable to steel. Not similar to rock.
He rotated it in his hands.
The blade remained keen.
And for a moment, just one—it appeared as though something that wasn't him was mirrored in it.