After the funeral, nothing felt real anymore.

  Promia’s cold wind clung to their clothes as Reid and Arttu left, Morty guiding them with a somber expression. Even Morty—usually loud, chatty, always complaining—was silent the entire journey. Not a single joke. Not even a sigh. Only the rhythmic clopping of the horses filled the void.

  Arttu sat beside Reid, shoulders shrunk inward, his dragon-silver eye dimmer than ever.

  Once, he would tug at Reid’s cloak, asking questions, pointing at every creature, every tree, every cloud.

  He used to smile at the sight of mountains, used to cling to Reid’s arm in excitement at the thought of seeing the castle again.

  But now—

  nothing.

  No words.

  No spark.

  Just a boy folded into himself, holding Reid’s hand as if it were the only fragile thing keeping him from slipping into darkness.

  Reid felt that grip.

  Felt every tremor in Arttu’s fingers.

  Every tiny flinch each time someone glanced in their direction.

  And with every moment, another piece of Reid broke.

  He wanted to take Arttu into his arms and cry until his lungs gave out.

  He wanted to scream at the gods, curse fate, tear down the sky itself.

  But he couldn’t.

  He knew—painfully—that nothing in this world could fix what had been taken from them.

  When the snowy gates of Aquilonis opened, soldiers stepped aside immediately.

  Not with suspicion.

  Not with the stiff discipline given to knights.

  But with bowed heads.

  With tightened jaws.

  With eyes filled with that same, heavy understanding:

  They had lost family.

  Reid felt Arttu’s hand tighten as they walked through the courtyard, passing row after row of guards who couldn’t meet their gaze.

  Every pair of eyes felt like a weight added to Arttu’s tiny shoulders.

  Every quiet bow of respect only deepened the hollowness in him.

  Reid swallowed hard.

  He had to stay strong.

  But his throat burned, and his eyes blurred, and the grief in his chest felt like an iron spike.

  He kept walking anyway.

  Because he had to.

  They approached the entrance hall.

  Torches flickered dimly—muted in brightness out of respect.

  Banners were lowered.

  The marble floor echoed their footsteps with cold, haunting clarity.

  Every step felt louder.

  Every beat of Reid’s heart felt heavier.

  Arttu’s grip became tighter.

  And tighter.

  As if walking toward the throne room felt like walking toward judgment itself.

  Like the world waited at the end of the hall to decide their fate.

  Reid squeezed Arttu’s hand back, even as his own fingers trembled.

  Right before the entrance of the throne room stood Harven Klutz.

  He looked almost the same—broad shoulders, strong frame—but faint wrinkles etched around his eyes revealed the years. And yet, his body seemed untouched by age, still carrying that formidable aura he had always possessed.

  But his eyes…

  The cheerful, ever-energetic vice-commander who used to joke around with Reid about the silliest stuff—

  was gone.

  Harven looked at Reid with a grief so raw that words refused to leave him.

  When his gaze dropped to Arttu, the pain in his expression sharpened like a blade.

  He stepped aside silently.

  No greeting.

  No smile.

  Not even a nod.

  Just the wounded stillness of a man who had lost something too.

  Arttu pressed into Reid’s side, trembling.

  On the opposite side of the doors stood Emilia.

  Her long black dress flowed like shadowed silk, adorned with a small silver brooch of the royal crest. Her hair was tied neatly behind her, but her eyes—

  Her eyes were swollen red, filled with a sorrow she couldn’t hide.

  She met Reid’s gaze, and for a moment, everything in her expression said:

  I’m so sorry.

  I wish I could undo this.

  I wish I could help you.

  But like everyone else, she couldn’t.

  She lowered her head in a slow, aching bow.

  Her lips trembled, but no words came.

  Arttu’s grip tightened again—painfully—at the sight of her.

  He almost hid behind Reid.

  Reid swallowed, forcing himself not to break.

  The doors ahead were tall, wide, carved with the history of Aquilonis.

  They towered over them like the gates of fate.

  Two armored guards pushed them open.

  The creaking echoed like thunder through the marble hall.

  A long, cold silence spilled out from inside.

  Reid and Arttu stepped forward.

  Every step down that massive throne room felt like walking toward an execution.

  The cold air pressed against them.

  The enormous windows dimmed the winter sunlight.

  The silence was suffocating—thick, heavy, prophetic.

  Reid could feel every gaze.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  He could feel Arttu shaking.

  He could feel the King’s presence at the far end of the hall like a mountain waiting to weigh their sorrow.

  And yet they walked.

  Because they had no choice.

  Because the truth had to be told.

  Because the world had changed—and now the king had to hear it.

  Reid clenched his jaw, fighting the tears burning behind his eyes.

  Arttu’s fingers dug painfully into his.

  But they didn’t stop.

  They walked forward together…

  Two souls shattered, carrying a story soaked in blood and curses…

  …toward the throne where King Rucon waited.

  Every noble, knight, and court official watched their slow advance as if they were witnessing a tragedy already written in scripture. And in a way…they were.

  At the foot of the throne stood two identical women—Mirvana and Lunia Tenzel. One with hair the color of a winter sky, the other a brown as deep as oak bark, both in pristine military uniform, both silent but alert. Their gazes flicked to Arttu, and even Reid felt the air grow heavier.

  At the far end, sitting upon the obsidian-and-silver throne, was King Rucon, stern as ancient stone. He rose when the brothers reached the altar-like platform before him.

  Reid dropped to one knee immediately, head lowered.

  Arttu tried to imitate him, but his hand never loosened.

  “Thank you for coming,” King Rucon said, voice low and grave. “Both of you.”

  He paused. A long pause. Painful.

  Even the fire seemed to dim in anticipation.

  “Sir Corvane… I believe you understand what must follow.”

  Reid’s chest tightened as if someone had wrapped chains around his ribs. Tears already threatened at the corners of his eyes.

  The king continued, “I am sorry but—”

  “NO!”

  Reid’s voice tore out of him, raw and cracked.

  “NO—YOU CAN’T—PLEASE—KING RUCON—NO!”

  Arttu flinched violently, clutching Reid’s sleeve, burying his face in his arm as he too began to cry. The child’s fragile shoulders shook uncontrollably.

  “Your brother,” King Rucon said slowly, “possesses an immense amount of curse within him.”

  Reid’s tears overflowed, dripping onto the marble.

  “I am sorry but—”

  “NO! NO! I’LL FIND A WAY—I’LL FIX IT—PLEASE!”

  His voice broke entirely on the last word, like a sword snapping under pressure.

  Guards began stepping forward from all sides, encircling them. The moment their metal boots scraped the floor, Reid instinctively drew Genusrosa, the silver chains and its dual blades shining with the morning light reflected onto it.

  The guards froze.

  Mirvana swallowed, her breath hitching as she tried to maintain her composure. Lunia, ever cold, stepped forward and unsheathed her own sword with a precise, almost gentle motion.

  “What are you doing, Reid?” Lunia asked, her tone level, almost pitying.

  But beneath it—steel.

  Before anything could explode into violence—

  A tremor rolled through the hall.

  Every knight stiffened.

  Every candle flame bent sideways.

  And a weight like the pressure of the deep ocean settled on the room.

  Footsteps echoed—slow, deliberate, powerful.

  A mountain of a man entered the hall, wrapped in a cloak of shadowed grey, eyes sharp enough to cut steel.

  Baranor Klutz.

  The Unyielding.

  The Sovereign Knight of Aquilonis.

  Living legend.

  Reid’s breath hitched the moment he saw him.

  “Your Majesty,” Baranor said, stopping beside the throne, “may I speak?”

  King Rucon sat back down, his jaw tightening.

  “Speak, Sir Klutz.”

  Baranor’s voice was firm.

  Unshakably firm.

  “I believe this child poses no danger.”

  Gasps broke through the hall. Even the torches crackled louder, as if gossiping.

  King Rucon rose again. “Baranor, look at him. The cursed energy radiating from this boy could drown a seasoned Exorcist.”

  Arttu whimpered and pressed himself deeper against Reid, trembling like a leaf in a storm. Reid shielded him with his arm, glaring at anyone who dared look too long.

  Baranor’s face hardened.

  “My king… the young man standing in front of you is one of the most formidable knights in this kingdom’s history. At seventeen, he saved more lives than most do in a lifetime. If anyone can protect the child, it is Reid Corvane.”

  Lunia stepped forward—her tone sharp enough to cut glass.

  “I object, Your Highness. I have slain thousands from the cults. And even among them, I have never once encountered a cursed presence as concentrated as the one in that child. To allow it to live— even as a child—is to invite calamity.”

  “Silence,” King Rucon commanded.

  Both knights straightened immediately.

  Then King Rucon turned to Reid, eyes piercing yet softened by something almost like sympathy.

  “Sir Corvane… Do you truly believe you can protect your brother—even from the darkness inside him?”

  Reid answered before the question even finished leaving the king’s mouth.

  “Yes.”

  His voice cracked.

  But it never wavered.

  “With all my heart. With everything I am.”

  A faint smile touched King Rucon’s lips. Almost invisible.

  “Then he shall live.”

  Shock rippled through the court—gasps, whispers, disbelief.

  Reid’s legs nearly gave out from relief.

  Arttu clung to him, not understanding the words but feeling the shift.

  “But,” King Rucon continued, raising one finger,

  “There will be conditions.”

  Reid snapped to attention.

  “One: You will both become wandering knights. You will not live within any city until Arttu is either cured or in complete control of the curse within him.”

  Reid nodded instantly.

  “Two: You will purify him every day. Even if the progress is slow, it must be constant.”

  Another nod.

  Stronger.

  “And lastly…”

  The king’s voice grew cold, absolute.

  “…if the boy ever harms another citizen of Aquilonis… he will be executed.”

  Silence.

  A silence that echoed through every stone of the hall.

  Reid lowered his head again, not in fear—

  But in gratitude.

  “Thank you… Your Majesty. Thank you.”

  Arttu squeezed Reid’s hand, tears still drying on his cheeks.

  The judgment had been made.

  Their future was uncertain.

  Their path was exiled, harsh, dangerous.

  But they were together.

  And for Reid—

  That was enough.

  King Rucon exhaled slowly, the tension in the room settling like dust after a battle.

  “You may both leave now,” he said, his tone no longer sharp, but heavy—almost exhausted. “Lady Mirvana will inform you of your duties and your future arrangements.”

  Reid bowed deeply, his hand never leaving Arttu’s, and they turned toward the doors.

  This time, the walk didn’t crush him.

  There was still grief, still the hollow ache of three graves etched fresh into his heart—

  but layered beneath it was something he thought he’d lost only hours ago:

  Hope.

  Arttu’s tiny fingers squeezed his own, no longer trembling.

  Reid squeezed back.

  The massive doors closed behind them with a thunderous echo, sealing the judgment inside. The hallway outside was quiet, sunlight streaming through stained glass and painting their silhouettes in fragments of gold and blue.

  Emilia stood waiting.

  She wore the same black dress, her hair tied loosely behind her, but her face—her face shone with relief. When her eyes met Reid’s, the weight he’d been carrying lightened a fraction more. She gave him a small smile, soft and trembling, as if afraid to break the moment.

  Before either could speak—

  A blur of brown hair and flapping cloak slammed into them.

  Harven.

  He wrapped Reid and Arttu in a dramatic, exaggerated hug, his voice already cracking.

  “OH—I’M—SO—HAPPY—FOR—YOU—BOTH!”

  The words came out choked, half-sob, half-laughter.

  “They didn’t let me in because they said I’d ‘cause a commotion’—can you believe it?! As if I would ever!”

  Emilia’s lips twitched into a reluctant smile.

  Arttu blinked, mildly alarmed.

  Reid let out a breath that was nearly a laugh.

  A real laugh.

  Just a faint one.

  But still—something alive.

  He gently patted Harven’s shoulder. “Could you… thank Sir Baranor for us? Please?”

  Harven froze mid-sniffle, eyes suddenly serious and bright with respect.

  “Of course,” he said, voice low now. “I’ll go right away.”

  Reid nodded and stepped past him.

  But as he walked away, as the warmth of that brief reunion faded, memory flooded in—Betty’s voice echoing through the back of his mind, soft, almost teasing:

  “Love doesn’t wait.”

  Reid’s steps faltered.

  His heart pulled tight—too tight.

  He turned slightly to glance back at Emilia.

  She stood there in the sunlight, hands clasped in front of her, worry and hope tangled together on her face. When she saw him looking, she tried to smile for him. A soft, trembling smile.

  He wanted to go to her.

  To hold her.

  To cry into her shoulder.

  To tell her he loved her.

  But Arttu’s hand squeezed his, small and cold and fragile.

  His world.

  No—

  Love must wait.

  For Arttu.

  For the boy who lost everything except him.

  Reid forced a smile—gentle but clearly painful.

  “We’ll be at a tavern near the castle. I…” he swallowed hard, “I’m a bit hungry.”

  Emilia nodded, still silent, still watching him as though afraid he might disappear if she blinked.

  Harven raised a hand in a half-wave, his expression unusually soft.

  Reid turned and walked down the long stone corridor with Arttu beside him.

  The castle behind them felt impossibly large, filled with whispers and judgment and decisions no child should ever be near.

  But ahead—

  ahead was the open world.

  Uncertain. Dangerous.

  But theirs.

  Together.