A few days had gone by since Alfrenzo's quiet exit from Marquis's manor. In those few days, the harbor of Duskwatch looked like a beehive of activity, the ring of brass tools clangored as the men shouted and fought busy, busy, busy.
Argen Duskwatch stood in the cold biting air with his arms crossed, near ruined docks, the breath from his mouth misting around his face. Varin stood next to him, his bandaging had been changed, but his tone was measured and calm.
The wagons and carriages were being loaded with mana cores and the carcasses from the monstrous beasts that streamed from the gate, the massive forms loomed large under the canvas but one could just barely see a faint trace of mana-glow between them, as if they contained lightning caught in the treads.
"These… they'll go to Eclion?" Argen said quietly, voice cold and hard.
Varin nodded. "Yes. Alfrenzo's people will take them. Perhaps they could be… repurposed. Or studied."
Argen scowled. "It feels treasonous," he grumbled. "To work with the man who threatened our vassals, so he could profit from their fear."
Varin sighed softly, "I understand your feelings of anger," was all he said. "But Alfrenzo sent food and grain the very day after the battle — no demands made, no threats. And now he's sending lumber and goods to rebuild what was lost.
Argen said nothing, his jaw working in silence. His heart was pulled in two directions; the memory of his father's stubborn determination and the soft, practical voice of Varin, who stood beside him.
____
Far to the north, in Eclion, Rhea stood by the village square. She furrowed her brow, watching Dion give instruction to the men loading sacks of flour and bread into horse-drawn carriages. The air was crisp against her cheeks; she hardly noticed the cold.
She didn't understand her son's endless plans, this constant push to help men who once stood silent while her husband fell. She held her shawl around her shoulders, her heart wound tight with dread.
A maid appeared beside her, breathing visibly in the morning chill. "My lady," she said softly, "Sir Luenor is here to see you."
Rhea turned, her heart skipping. When she walked in, he was waiting, taller than she remembered, almost eye-to-eye with her now. His dark hair was tied back. His green eyes were calm, though purposeful.
He smiled and embraced her, his tone warm. "Mother."
"You don't visit me enough," she said softly, trying to hide the little quiver in her voice. "I see you in pieces. Always busy, always away..."
Luenor pulled back, his smile filled with regret. "There is much to do, Mother," he said gently. "I still have to train... manage our affairs. The world does not halt for grief."
Her eyes went flat. "I don't want you to commit more crimes," she said, her voice wavering. "You have done enough... We have lost enough."
He took her hands in his, their warmth and strength enveloping her. "If I do not fight back, Mother... the world will consume us," he said, his tone even. "I have to gain vengeance— for Father. For the name they attempted to erase."
Tears filled Rhea's eyes, but she shook her head. "I do not want you to lose yourself to vengeance," she said earnestly. "I do not want you to lose your soul."
Reaching forward, his thumb brushed the tears before they fell. "If anyone ever makes you cry, Mother," he said quietly, smiling fiercely, "I will burn the world."
She let out a shaky laugh. "You're so much like your father," she whispered, her heart breaking and healing, all at once.
With that, Luenor smiled, and they wrapped arms around one another as if they were holding the entire world in their arms.
Later that day, Luenor found himself standing in his office, the dim lamplight reflecting off the polished wood. He held a sword in hand, iridescent veins spiraling down the blade looked like faint trails of blue light pulsing softly with the heartbeat of the world itself.
He could feel it, the mana within the steel, a whisper of power, which resonated with the quiet chorus of mana he had learned to feel. Even the tiniest movements left trails of air shimmering before the initial swing, with a faint scent that came like aroma of ozone cold steel.
Telmar simply stared in quiet curiosity. "This is a Skyshard Blade," he said. "We pulled it from one of Duskwatch's dead knights. A refined mana stone in the core, fused into the steel itself."
Luenor's face lit up. "A mana stone fused to steel," he marveled with his fingers tracing the runes on the hilt. "A weapon that breathes power."
He turned up to Telmar, a glimmer of curiosity and ambition in his eye. "Find out who makes these," he commanded softly. "Where they come from. I want to know everything."
Telmar lowered his head. "I will see to it, my lord."
As Telmar exited, Luenor turned back to the blade with a fluid respectfulness. He made a few slow practice swings, feeling the weight in his grip and how it split the air with a whispered promise of blood and vengeance.
In the stillness of his office, Luenor Sureva, heir to everything and bound to nothing, prepared for the next storm. The world had tried to strike his name from the record—he would carve it again into the very bones of the earth, one stroke at a time.