The Past Follows

Lyria's grip tightened on her dagger, the leather-wrapped hilt creaking. "And he's... playing with servant children."

Lord Lancaster's gaze turned distant. "After the Siege of Vorthain, when the northern armies broke against the gates like waves on stone? He spent three days in the orphanages, mending toys with his own hands." A shudder ran through him. "That's what terrifies the council. Not his strength—his whimsy. The way he switches between reaping lives and braiding a little girl's hair as if both are equally natural."

Lord Lancaster stared into his wine, the dregs swirling like old blood at the bottom of the glass. The fire had burned low, casting long, trembling shadows across the kitchen—shadows that seemed to flinch whenever the wind rattled the shutters. The scent of roses had grown thicker, clinging to the tapestries, the silverware, even the sweat-slick palms of the servants who lingered just beyond the doorway, their wide eyes reflecting the dying firelight.

"You think rank matters to a man like that?" His laugh was hollow, the sound of a sword dropped onto marble. "I am an Earl. By law, by parchment, by every tradition of Aldemire, that puts me one step above a Viscount." He set the glass down carefully, as if it might shatter from the weight of his next words. "And yet."

A log collapsed in the hearth, sending up a shower of sparks. In the sudden flare of light, Lyria saw it—the way Lancaster's fingers trembled against the table. Not from fear. From something far worse.

Recognition.

"At my investiture," he continued softly, "I knelt before the Queen herself. Received my seal from her withered hands. Three hundred guests bore witness. The choir sang hymns older than the kingdom." His thumb rubbed absently over the signet ring on his finger—a lion rampant, its mane picked out in tiny rubies that caught the firelight like flecks of dried blood. "Do you know how he earned his title?"

The silence stretched, broken only by the whisper of turning parchment as the diary in Lyria's belt shifted uneasily.

Lord Lancaster reached into his doublet and withdrew a small, yellowed scroll, its edges frayed as if it had been clutched too often by desperate hands. He unrolled it with deliberate slowness, revealing a sketch—crude but unmistakable.

A battlefield. Not the neat, heraldic kind from tapestries, but a wasteland of churned mud and broken steel. At its center stood a single figure, barely more than a boy, his greatsword planted in the earth like a standard. Around him, ten banners lay sundered—not torn, but unmade, their sigils unraveled thread by thread as if the very concept of allegiance had been cut from the fabric of the world.

"The Breaker of Ten Banners," Lancaster murmured. "That was the first title they gave him. Not granted. Taken." His finger traced the sketched carnage. "The rebellion had lasted three years. Three thousand men marched on Blackstone Pass that day. He stopped them alone."

Therion leaned in, his usual smirk absent. "Bullshit. No one takes on an army solo."

"He didn't take them on," Lancaster corrected, his voice dropping to a whisper. "He let them come. And when they broke against him like waves on stone, the Archduke's men found him afterward sitting on a pile of corpses, eating an apple like it was a picnic lunch."

The diary gave a violent shudder, its pages flipping wildly before settling on a single phrase:

"THEY MISSED THE BEST PART."

Lyria's stomach turned as Elias's handwriting continued, each letter jagged as a scar:

"HE WASN'T EATING THE APPLE. HE WAS PEELING IT. WITH HIS SWORD. WHILE SINGING."

Lord Lancaster poured himself another glass, his movements precise—the careful control of a man clinging to ritual in the face of the incomprehensible. "They offered him lands after that. A proper title. He refused." The wine sloshed, dark as a fresh bruise. "Do you know what he said?"

He didn't wait for an answer.

"'Titles are cages. I prefer the sky.'" Lancaster's smile was a grim thing. "The Viscountcy was a compromise. A way for the Crown to pretend they still held his leash."

Ardyn's golden eyes flickered, the aether-vision revealing what the others couldn't see—the way the very air in the room bent around the memory of the knight, as if space itself remembered his passing.

The Maid's Testament

The maid stepped forward, her usual timid demeanor burned away like morning mist under a merciless sun. Her dishcloth, clutched in white-knuckled hands, might as well have been a knight's pennant. "No," she interrupted, her voice trembling—not with fear, but with the fervor of a disciple speaking of a miracle.

Lord Lancaster stiffened, his lips parting to reprimand such boldness—but the maid was already continuing, her words spilling out like water through a broken dam.

"Five years ago," she said, "when the Blackthorn Bandits raided my village, he came alone at dusk." Her fingers traced a crescent-shaped scar on her wrist, the mark pale against her work-roughened skin. "Not a single drop of blood touched the wheat fields. Not one. He broke every one of their swords"—she mimed the motion, her hands twisting—"without ever drawing his own. Made them kneel in the square and apologize to each family before dragging them away to face justice."

The kitchen fell silent. Even the fire seemed to hold its breath.

Lord Lancaster cleared his throat, his discomfort palpable. "That's hardly—"

"And when Old Man Harren tried to give him a reward," the maid barreled on, her eyes alight, "he took a single apple from the market stall. Bit into it right there, grinned with juice on his teeth, and said—" She paused, her voice dropping into a rough, amused imitation of the knight's baritone: "'This'll do.'"

A beat. Then, softer: "They say when he smiles at the Archduke's court, the winter roses bloom out of season."

For a moment, no one moved. The words hung in the air, thick as honey, sweet as a promise—or a threat.

Then the maid curtsied abruptly, her burst of courage spent, and hurried from the room. But as she passed the threshold, she paused, her back still turned, and added one final, reverent whisper:

"And when he does draw his sword?" A shiver ran through her. "They say the battlefield grows so quiet, you can hear the gods hold their breath."

The door clicked shut behind her.

The Watchmen's Vigil

The manor's outer walls stood like silent sentinels under the moon's pale gaze, their ancient stones slick with dew. A dozen armored guards patrolled the battlements, their steel-shod boots scraping against the worn crenellations. Their usual banter—crude jokes and complaints about the chill—was absent tonight, replaced by a tension so thick it could be carved with a blade. The only sounds were the creak of leather harnesses and the occasional clink of a gauntlet adjusting a grip.

Sergeant Dain adjusted the weight of his halberd, the weapon's polished head catching the torchlight as he shifted. His knuckles, visible beneath the worn edges of his gauntlets, were bone-white. "Eyes sharp," he muttered to the fresh-faced recruit beside him, a boy whose cheeks still bore the softness of youth. "He's still here."

The recruit—barely eighteen and still smelling faintly of his mother's lavender soap—swallowed hard. "D'you really think he'd—?"

"Don't think," Dain snapped, his voice low but razor-edged. "Just watch."

Beyond the torchlight's reach, shadows pooled like spilled ink, shifting uneasily in the night breeze. The guards' gazes kept darting toward the main gate, where the blue-haired knight had last been seen. The iron portcullis, usually a reassuring barrier, seemed flimsy tonight—little more than a prop in a mummer's play.

"Remember Marrow's Pass?" whispered Corren, an old veteran with a scar running from brow to chin, the flesh twisted and shiny in the flickering light.

The men around him stiffened, their hands drifting unconsciously to sword hilts.

"Five years back," Corren continued, his voice barely louder than the wind. "Our scouts caught wind of a northern battalion moving through the hills. Two thousand strong. Then he arrived." His thumb rasped against the leather-wrapped hilt of his sword, a habitual gesture. "Next morning? The pass was painted red from cliff to cliff. Not a single northern soldier left breathing."

The recruit's eyes widened, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. "Just… just him?"

Corren's laugh was hollow, the sound of a man who'd seen too much. "They say he didn't even draw his sword. Just walked through them like a scythe through wheat."

A gust of wind moaned through the battlements, carrying with it the faint, incongruous scent of roses.

At the eastern tower, Captain Velsa leaned against the parapet, her sharp eyes scanning the treeline where the forest crouched like a waiting beast. The moonlight silvered the scars on her knuckles, the legacy of a lifetime of service. Her lieutenant approached, his boots scuffing against the stone, his voice barely audible.

"Captain. The southern watch reports—"

"I know." She didn't turn. "The Storm's presence here changes everything."

The lieutenant hesitated, his gloved fingers flexing nervously. "Do we… double the patrols?"

Velsa's mouth twisted into something between a smile and a grimace. "Against him? If he wanted in, no force in this kingdom could stop him." She exhaled sharply, her breath a white plume in the cold air. "No. We stand our ground. And pray he stays in a good mood."

Somewhere below, an owl hooted, the sound eerily human.

The Weight of His Shadow

Back at the main gate, the guards' whispers grew bolder, as if speaking of him might summon some measure of understanding—or at least dull the edge of their fear.

"My cousin serves in the Archduke's personal guard," murmured one, his breath fogging the air. "Says the northern kingdoms have a standing order—any scout who spots the Storm's banner is to retreat immediately. No engagement. No hesitation."

Another guard snorted, though his fingers trembled where they gripped his spear. "Smart of them."

"Last winter," a third added, his voice hushed, "when the eastern lords thought to test the Archduke's borders? The Storm rode out alone. Three days later, their warleader's head arrived at the capital gates in a velvet-lined box. With a thank-you note."

The recruit looked ill, his face pale beneath his helmet. "Why's he here, then? In some backwater lord's manor?"

Silence.

Then Dain spoke, his voice gravelly with dread:

"Because something worse is coming."

The Knight's Reprieve

As if summoned by their fear, a familiar figure emerged from the manor's side door—blue hair catching the torchlight like a shard of twilight, his greatsword strapped across his back in its worn leather scabbard. The guards froze like deer scenting a wolf, their breath held.

The knight paused at the gate, his gaze lifting to the battlements. Every guard instinctively straightened, hands hovering near weapons they knew were useless.

Then he winked at them.

And was gone, vanishing into the night like mist before dawn.

For a long moment, no one moved.

"…Gods above," the recruit finally whispered.

Dain lowered his halberd, his shoulders sagging. "Aye. And may they have mercy on whatever fool thinks to cross him tomorrow."

The Sentinel's Vigil

The other guards were summoned by Captain Velsa, They stood watch near the northern side of the Palace. The manor's outer walls like ancient sentinels under the moon's pale gaze, their sun-warmed stones still radiating faint heat against the autumn chill. Twenty armored figures moved along the battlements in tight formations, their synchronized footsteps scraping against weathered granite. The scent of oiled leather and cold steel mixed oddly with the comforting aroma of baking bread wafting from the kitchens below - a dissonant reminder of normalcy in the charged air.

Sergeant Dain adjusted his grip on the halberd, the worn leather of his gauntlets creaking with each movement. His sharp eyes, honed by thirty years of watch duty, never stopped scanning the darkness. "Eyes like you're staring down Death himself," he growled at the fresh-faced recruit beside him. The boy's Adam's apple bobbed visibly above his ill-fitting gorget, his knuckles white around his spear shaft.

A murmur rippled through the guards as a familiar blue-haired figure emerged from the servant's quarters, his imposing frame made absurd by the giggling children perched on his broad shoulders. The infamous Mournblade - the greatsword said to have shattered the Ten Banners at Blackstone Pass - was conspicuously absent, replaced by a half-eaten honeycake clutched in his scarred hand.

"Gods above," the recruit whispered, his voice cracking. "Is that really...?"

Dain's calloused hand clamped on the boy's shoulder like an iron vise. "Aye. The Storm of Vorthain. The man who broke the siege of Blackstone by collapsing the mountain pass on three hundred men." His grip tightened. "And look at him now."

The Living Contradiction

Below them, the living legend spun in a slow circle, sending the children into peals of laughter as they clung to his blue locks like reins. A kitchen maid - no older than sixteen and still wearing flour-dusted aprons - approached with a tray of sweets, her hands trembling only slightly. The knight accepted a pastry with a bow so perfect it belonged in the royal court, then promptly ruined the dignity by letting a toddler smear berry jam across his battle-scarred cheek.

Veteran Corren's voice cut through the cold air like a whetstone on steel. "Remember Marrow's Pass?" The scar running from his brow to chin gleamed in the torchlight as he spoke. "Two thousand northern soldiers turned the river crimson in a single night. They say when the Storm walked out at dawn, his armor was so drenched the blood froze into crimson plates before he reached camp."

The recruit's gaze flickered between the horror story and the scene below where the knight was now patiently kneeling in the dirt, letting a little girl braid wildflowers into his hair. "But... he's..."

"A demon?" Corren chuckled darkly. "Oh aye. But cross the one line you must never cross in his presence..." His voice dropped to a whisper that carried nonetheless. "I saw it once. Just once."

The Unforgivable Sin

At the eastern tower, Captain Velsa's sharp eyes caught the ripple of tension passing through her men. The silver eagle insignia on her pauldron - earned during the brutal Borderland Wars - glinted as she shifted her weight. She remembered too - the bandit lord who'd made the fatal mistake of holding a child hostage during negotiations.

"They found pieces of that bastard in three different kingdoms," she said quietly, her breath fogging in the cold air. Her fingers unconsciously touched the faded prayer beads wrapped around her sword hilt. "The Storm didn't just kill him. He unmade him. Took three days, and the screams..." She shook her head. "They say the Archduke himself had to order him to stop when the bandit's heart finally gave out."

Below, the knight was now letting children pile autumn leaves onto his head like some absurd crown, his usually impassive face transformed by genuine mirth. A kitchen boy no older than five tugged at his sleeve, whispering something that made the warrior throw back his head in laughter - a sound so warm it seemed impossible from the man who had once frozen an entire battlefield with a glance.

The Watch Continues

At the main gate, the guards stood straighter as the knight finally disentangled himself from the children, patting each head with surprising gentleness before turning toward the manor. His bootsteps made no sound on the gravel - a trait that had unnerved kings and commoners alike.

The recruit couldn't help himself. "Why's he like that? With the kids, I mean?"

Dain's response came slowly, each word measured like arrows in a quiver. "They say after the Siege of Vorthain - when he'd slaughtered enough men to dam the river with corpses - he spent three days in the orphanages. Mending toys. Wiping tears." The old sergeant's eyes never left the knight's back. "The same hands that can crush a man's skull like parchment will spend hours teaching a beggar's child how to hold a practice sword."

As if hearing them, the knight paused at the manor's side door and glanced up at the battlements. Moonlight caught his eyes - that impossible shade of blue that veterans swore glowed on moonless nights. He offered the guards a casual salute with the remains of his honeycake before disappearing inside.

The collective exhale from the watchmen sounded like a gale passing through dead leaves.

The Coming Storm

Captain Velsa finally broke the silence. "Triple the watch at the southern approach," she ordered, her voice carrying the weight of command. "And someone tell the kitchen staff to keep those damn children inside tomorrow."

The unspoken truth hung heavier than their armor: The Storm only visited before battles.

As the guards returned to their posts, the recruit - emboldened by survival - dared one last question. "Sergeant? What do we do if... if he turns on us?"

Dain's laughter was bleak as a winter wind. "Pray, boy. Pray whatever god you favor that you die quickly." He spat over the battlement. "And hope to hells you never see what happens when someone harms a child in front of the Storm of Vorthain."

In the courtyard below, a single forgotten flower crown lay abandoned in the dirt, its petals stirring in the gathering wind like a portent of things to come. The scent of roses - always roses - lingered long after the knight had departed.