Chapter 10 - Part 3: Preparations

The heavy doors of the throne room shut behind him with a dull, echoing thud. The silence beyond was striking—almost reverent. He didn't glance back. His steps carried him forward, down the corridor and out into the open courtyard where the cold air wrapped around him like thin steel wire.

The training grounds stretched wide before him—dust, dummies, weapons racks. The distant clang of iron and grunts of sparring soldiers faded as they noticed his presence. Near the far edge stood Ivers, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the sky like he was debating whether to even speak.

When he saw him approach, Ivers pushed off the wall and took a few steps forward. "I figured you'd be here," he said, voice even. "We need to talk."

There was no reply. Only silence—and that same look in his eyes: unreadable, calm, distant.

They walked slowly along the edge of the training grounds, far enough from the others that their voices wouldn't carry. Ivers kept glancing at him, expecting something. Anything.

"What happened back there, in the throne room?" Ivers asked, carefully. "You just… stood there. Then said you'd think about it?"

Still no response. His eyes were on the soldiers. On the swords. On the dull light casting long shadows across the stones.

Ivers frowned. "Did you mean it? About helping?"

"I said I'd think about it," he answered finally, voice flat, controlled. The words felt mechanical, deliberate. "Nothing more."

Ivers exhaled. "Right. Of course. You always give just enough, don't you."

Still silence.

The air shifted. Something… unnatural stirred. He felt it first—like a thread being pulled across his skin. A presence, faint but distinct. Watching. Hidden. Tracking.

His expression didn't change. No movement. No hint that he'd noticed.

Ivers remained oblivious, continuing his frustrated walk. "You can't just stand there forever. This war… it's coming, even if no one wants to say it."

A soundless moment cracked open like glass.

A black, bullet-like mass shot forward—fast, invisible to any normal eye. It streaked through the air, heading straight for Ivers's neck.

His body didn't move.

But the bullet stopped.

Something dense and dark slammed into the air—black mist coiling like a serpent, intercepting the strike with an unnatural hiss. A heartbeat passed.

Then he moved. Slowly, like pressing reality into motion, he raised one hand and curled his fingers as if gripping something just beyond sight.

The air shimmered—and a form materialized inside his grip.

A man—thin, masked, dressed in gray—suspended midair, choking, squirming in silence. The mist held him, compressing around his throat like liquid iron.

The boy's expression remained cold. Detached.

Ivers stared in disbelief at the floating man and the now-solidified mist. "W-wait—stop!"

He stepped forward and placed a firm hand on his wrist.

"He could be a spy," Ivers said, voice controlled but urgent. "If someone sent him to kill me… he has information. We need him alive."

For a moment, it seemed the boy would ignore him. Then, wordlessly, the pressure lifted. The man dropped like a puppet with its strings cut, gasping, unconscious but alive.

Ivers dragged the prisoner away without another word, disappearing into the main building.

The commotion had drawn attention. Soldiers and trainees abandoned their posts and circled the site of the attack. Dozens of eyes landed on him. Confused. Awed. Afraid.

He ignored them.

Their questions didn't matter. Their whispers didn't matter.

Then he saw two familiar faces among the crowd—Lindsay and Kraft. Their presence triggered a shift in his expression, subtle but present.

Someone spoke.

"What the hell just happened?"

His gaze passed over the crowd. "Magic bullet," he replied calmly, voice quiet but sharp enough to cut through the noise.

A murmur rolled through them like wind rustling leaves. Disbelief. Suspicion. Fear.

Then a louder voice rose above the others—accusatory, burning.

"You call that an explanation?!"

Felix broke from the crowd, storming forward. "You think we're just gonna nod and accept that? No answers? No truth? No accountability?"

Kraft reached out, trying to stop him. "Felix, don't—"

But Felix moved too fast—his water-based ability surged beneath his feet, propelling him forward. In a flash, he was inches away, grabbing the boy's robe, face twisted in anger.

"Say something."

Still, the boy didn't move. He looked at Felix—calm, almost pitying. Then spoke a single word:

"Move."

Felix froze. The weight behind that voice wasn't volume—it was presence. Pressure. The unmistakable warning of something ancient and lethal.

But instead of backing down, Felix clenched his fist—and attacked.

A sharp jet of water blasted toward his face—but never reached.

The mist surged before the strike could land. Like a living shield, it wrapped around Felix's body, lifted him into the air and held him suspended, choking.

Gasps filled the training ground. Chaos erupted.

"Let him go!"

"He's gonna kill him!"

Lindsay and Kraft shouted at the same time. "Stop!"

His gaze snapped to them.

And just like that—the mist dropped Felix.

He crumpled to the ground, gasping, bleeding from his left eye. Red ran down his cheek, staining the dust. No words. No cries. Just silence as he limped back toward the castle, disappearing through the gates.

Ivers returned just as Felix vanished around the corner. He paused, brow furrowing when he saw the blood.

"What happened?" he asked.

No one answered.

Kraft finally stepped forward. "Felix provoked him. Tried to attack. He defended himself. That's all."

Ivers took a breath, processing the weight of the moment. Then turned to the boy.

Before he could speak, the boy interrupted:

"I accept the King's offer."

For a heartbeat, nothing moved.

Ivers blinked. "You... what?"

"I said I accept."

It hit like thunder. Whispers erupted. The training grounds filled with buzzing speculation, confusion, even panic.

"What is he talking about?"

"Did you see the mist?"

"Who is he?"

Ivers raised a hand to calm them, but it didn't work.

So the boy moved first. Black mist flooded from his shoulders—not striking, not attacking, just… pressing. Like a dense fog that carried silence with it.

The noise stopped.

Ivers exhaled and nodded toward him. "He's accepted. That means he'll fight beside us. A war may come. And if it does—he's one of our greatest weapons."

Murmurs spread again, but quieter now.

Ivers leaned in close, voice lower. "Would you help train them? We need more than raw power. We need readiness."

The boy's eyes turned toward the crowd.

Toward Lindsay.

Toward Kraft.

Even toward Felix's fading shadow.

He didn't speak. He only nodded, slow and cold—but not uncaring.

And in that moment, the fear that filled the air gave way to something stranger.

Respect.

Or something close to it.