The capital's gates loomed like the jaws of a slumbering beast.
Leonhard and his knights rode in silence, the weight of failure clinging to their shoulders. Behind them, walking barefoot over the cobblestones, was the boy they had found—the hollow child, silent as a shadow, obedient as a ghost.
Arthur.
The silver spires of Eltaris, the Crowned City, pierced the sky, their brilliance masking the rot festering beneath.
Markets buzzed with forced laughter, nobles paraded with empty pomp, and priests blessed the streets while their pockets overflowed.
A kingdom built on performance.
The gleam of power. The stench of decay.
Leonhard's horse trotted through the main square, past murals of kings and banners proclaiming justice and glory.
But justice didn't live here.
Not anymore.
---
Inside the royal palace, the air was heavy with the scent of incense and polished stone.
The king's court had gathered—a parade of noble families draped in velvet, their faces painted with courtesy but stained with greed.
At the head sat King Reynard, frail and sunken in his golden throne.
Beside him, the queen, serene and radiant, her emerald eyes reflecting a calm curiosity.
Leonhard knelt before them, his knights lined up behind him.
"Your Majesty," Leonhard began, his voice steady but sharp. "I bring a report from the northern territories. A village has been destroyed. The work of a force we've long chosen to ignore."
The nobles stirred uneasily.
One noble sneered. "Bandits, no doubt. Another burned village is hardly a threat to the kingdom's heart."
Leonhard's gaze sharpened. "It wasn't bandits. The site bore ritual markings. Fire magic beyond natural means. They took the villagers. All of them. Left no bodies behind."
The murmurs thickened.
Another noble scoffed, clearly annoyed. "Are you still chasing those ghost stories, Leonhard? The cults, the so-called church in the shadows—it's all children's tales. Your pursuit of them only wastes the kingdom's resources."
Leonhard's jaw tensed. "These tales left an entire village in ash."
The king leaned back, his voice thin and dismissive. "And yet, here you stand with no culprits in chains. No leads. No victories. Why should the crown invest in shadows?"
Leonhard's fists clenched. "Because those shadows are moving."
He gestured, and his knights stepped aside, revealing the boy trailing behind them.
Arthur's eyes were void, his steps mechanical. His body moved, but his spirit had not returned.
"A survivor?" the king asked, uninterested.
"A shell," Leonhard replied. "He follows commands but shows no will. No memories. The villagers are gone. But he… endured."
The court whispered among themselves.
"A broken child."
"An empty thing."
"Dispose of him."
Leonhard's voice cut through them like a blade. "I will not."
The king's gaze cooled. "Why burden yourself with a boy so clearly lost?"
"Because someone must," Leonhard answered flatly. "Because we've abandoned too many already."
Silence.
Leonhard's answer left the nobles shifting uncomfortably.
But the king shook his head, waving a hand lazily. "End the investigation. There's no merit in chasing ghosts. The boy—he's of no value. Release him to the streets if you wish to soothe your conscience."
Leonhard's teeth ground together. So this is how low we've fallen? Discarding lives like broken tools?
It was then the queen's soft voice broke the tension.
"Perhaps," she began gently, "there is value in keeping the boy, even as a servant."
All eyes turned to her.
"If nothing else, he is a curious thing. Who knows what purpose he may yet serve?"
The king sighed, uninterested. "If you insist, my queen. Let Leonhard do as he pleases. But this matter is closed. Pursue it no further."
Leonhard bowed, though his heart raged beneath the armor.
"As you command, Your Majesty."
But he would not forget this.
---
The Sword Saint's estate was quiet, structured, more training ground than noble palace.
Leonhard valued strength and discipline above all. His knights respected him not for his title, but because he stood with them on the battlefield.
Arthur followed him through the halls, silent as always.
"Prepare chambers for him near the eastern wing," Leonhard instructed his steward.
"The servants' quarters, sir?"
"No. I want him close."
The steward blinked but obeyed.
As they walked, a familiar voice called out from the training yard.
"Father!"
Theresia.
She approached swiftly, her crimson hair tied back, a wooden training sword resting casually over her shoulder.
She was fierce, radiant, and sharp-eyed—a warrior's daughter through and through.
She eyed Arthur, curiosity flickering across her face. "You brought home another stray?"
"He's yours now," Leonhard said. "He'll serve under you."
Theresia raised an eyebrow, circling the boy. "He looks like he's already dead."
"Then give him a reason to live."
Her smirk softened. "I'll try not to break him too fast."
She crouched, lowering herself to Arthur's eye level. "Hey. I'm Theresia. You'll be following me from now on, got it?"
Arthur's gaze was vacant. No response. No reaction.
Theresia ruffled his hair anyway.
"We'll see if you wake up someday."
Leonhard watched silently. He didn't know whether the boy's mind would ever return. But in the heart of a kingdom rotting from within, perhaps this small act of defiance—a refusal to abandon the discarded—was still worth something.