"He fights like smoke—but I've only ever seen fire move like that."
---
(Arago, Rechillia – Safehouse, Late Evening)
The firelight crackled.
Alberta sat across from Duke Aslac, the storm behind her eyes more dangerous than the sea outside.
"You arranged the ambush."
"With Ceasare," he said.
"To test the ones walking beside you. I don't trust Cornelius. Not entirely. And Dantes…"
He trailed off.
"No one knows where he came from. No title. No record. And that name—The Hollow Fang—means something in the mercenary world."
"You risked our lives," Alberta snapped.
"I watched every step. I would've intervened."
"You already came too late."
---
He moved to the window, shoulders heavy.
"The Church, the Crown, rebel cells in Sudbury... too many variables. We don't know who set fire to Montagne estate."
His voice dropped.
"And someone inside the palace knows."
"You're going back to the capital."
"And you," he said, turning, "go to Sudbury. Herleva. Beatrice. You need to understand the blood you carry before others try to use it against you."
Alberta stared at him a long moment.
Then, softly:
"Don't disappear again."
"Not unless I'm killed."
He gave her a tired smile.
"And if I am—burn everything until the truth rises."
---
(Rechillia Coastal Trail – Dusk)
Wind hissed through the grass.
Cornelius and Dantes rode side by side, the path stretching like an old scar toward the fortress of Arago.
After a long silence, Dantes spoke.
"You don't flinch when people mention Conrad. That takes practice."
Cornelius kept his gaze forward.
"I learned long ago that loyalty isn't always rewarded. Sometimes it's punished."
Dantes nodded faintly.
"Classic Conrad."
---
(Arago – Fortress Gates, Nightfall)
The Rechillian stronghold loomed ahead, cold and towering.
As they approached the gate, twelve knights surrounded them, torchlight catching on polished steel and narrowed eyes.
"Names. Purpose."
Cornelius stepped forward.
"We're here to confirm the presence of two companions, taken during an ambush near Glinsthía."
A knight snorted.
"No seals. No heralds. You expect us to trust the word of a noble bastard and a blade-seller?"
The words sank like a weight in the air.
Cornelius stiffened. Just slightly. But his silence was deafening.
---
Dantes dismounted. Slowly. Casually.
But his voice, when it came, was a blade.
"Say that again."
The knight grinned.
"Oh? The mongrel defends his leash?"
Dantes stepped forward. Calm. Collected.
"Call him that one more time, and I'll shove your tongue so far down your throat you'll start choking on your lies."
The circle of knights grew quiet.
Even Cornelius looked over, eyes wide—not with fear, but with something deeper.
Surprise. And something like… gratitude.
But Dantes never looked at him.
Only at the knight.
---
Another stepped forward—Serge Duval.
Tall. Broad. Eyes like coin edges.
"If the mutt wants to yap, let's see how he swings."
"Any weapon," Dantes said flatly.
"I prefer dual blades."
The gate captain turned.
"Duval. Arena. Now."
---
(FLASHBACK – Years Ago, Castle Grounds of Solendawn)
Aslac stood under the training canopy, arms crossed.
Before him, a boy no older than fifteen spun two blades with ragged precision—not graceful, but driven. Each movement raw, like the boy was trying to carve his name into the air.
"You're too tense," Aslac called.
"I'm not," the boy snapped back.
"Then loosen your stance."
The boy didn't.
He just pivoted sharply, blade sweeping in a downward spiral, footwork slipping around a phantom opponent.
And Aslac's breath caught.
Because it wasn't learned. It was instinct. Something born, not taught.
The boy turned. Sweat on his brow. Fire in his eyes.
"Again."
---
(Arago – Courtyard Arena, Present Night)
The torches circled like watching eyes.
Cornelius stood just outside the dueling ring, tense. He'd seen many duels—but this wasn't sport. This was something primal.
Dantes stood calm in the center, blades drawn, coat tossed aside.
Above, on the balcony—Alberta, Francesca, and Duke Aslac stood watching.
Francesca leaned on the rail.
"I bet ten silver."
"You don't have ten silver." Alberta murmured.
"Then you can owe me when he wins."
Aslac didn't speak.
But his jaw was tight.
His eyes never left Dantes' feet.
---
(The Duel)
Duval swung first. Heavy. Powerful. Brutal.
Dantes ducked low—pivoted—sidestepped.
Blades flashed in the dark.
Steel clanged. Sparks jumped.
He wasn't dodging. He was dancing.
Every movement was measured, like he'd memorized the air before the duel even began.
Duval struck again—overhead.
Dantes caught the blow between both swords, twisted, rolled behind him, and slammed his hilt against the back of Duval's leg.
The knight staggered.
Gasps from the watching soldiers.
---
Aslac's hand tightened on the rail.
That movement—
That signature spiral spin.
That heel pivot.
It wasn't just familiar.
It was impossible.
---
Duval charged—wild, desperate.
Dantes met him—head-on.
With a blur of steel, he stepped in close, locked blades at the knight's throat, and whispered—
"Yield."
Duval froze.
Then dropped his weapon.
The arena went still.
---
(After the Duel – Lower Walkway)
The captain approached, stunned.
"You may enter. Your companions are inside."
Cornelius nodded, quiet.
Dantes didn't smile. Didn't speak.
From the stairs, Duke Aslac descended slowly, each step heavier than the last.
He crossed the courtyard, boots echoing against the stone.
Dantes turned toward him, face unreadable.
They stopped, inches apart.
Then:
"Tell me something," Aslac said quietly.
"That footwork…"
"…Are you his son?"
"…Or his disciple?"