"Come in."
The heavy door opened. Sir Arthur stepped inside.
"Greetings, My Lord. Greetings, Sir Jorald."
Both men were going over documents spread across the desk. But as Arthur approached, both of them paused. They felt it — a subtle, sharp shift in the air around the knight.
Sir Jorald looked up, an impressed gleam in his eye. "Oho. So you've finally broken through."
"Yes, Sir." Arthur bowed deeply. "It is entirely the result of your training and technique."
"A technique has no value," Jorald said, "unless the one wielding it has the will to use it properly."
Viscount Rudious, still looking at a document, spoke without raising his head. "Your energy field is unstable. Bring it under control."
"Yes, My Lord. I will focus on it immediately."
Rudious set his pen down and leaned back. "So. How was the journey?"
"A great experience, My Lord."
Sir Arthur gave his full report — from their arrival at Wintermarch to the assault of the Corrupted Orcs, to the victory alongside the Dragon Knights. When he finished, he stepped forward and placed a letter and a small, heavy badge on the desk.
"The Viscount of Wintermarch sent this as gratitude."
Rudious picked up both and inspected them quietly. "And the Dragon Knight's name?"
"Sir Kaelin Ashborne, My Lord."
*Ashborne.*
A faint, knowing smile touched the corner of Rudious's mouth.
He looked back up. "So... how did it feel? Seeing a dragon up close?"
Arthur answered without pausing to breathe. "Sir, it was terrifying. A massive, four-clawed creature with wings that covered the sky, scales as hard as stone, and eyes that burned like embers. It breathed a torrent of fire!" He paused. "But the other two-legged ones traveling with it... they were just chewing on corpses and screeching."
Sir Jorald and Viscount Rudious both burst out laughing.
Sir Arthur blinked — thoroughly confused.
Sir Jorald wiped a tear from his eye. "Arthur. Those two-legged creatures aren't dragons. They are called Wyverns."
"Wyverns?" Arthur repeated, tasting the word. "Ah. Wyverns."
---
Viscount Rudious composed himself. "What were our casualties?"
"Minimal, My Lord." Arthur's posture straightened. "A few men suffered heavy mental shock from the corrupted energy, but the healers stabilized everyone. No fatalities."
"Good. And?"
A proud smile broke across Arthur's face. "My Lord — they were highly impressed with the grain and winter clothing samples you sent. They are ready to establish a trade route."
"You've done excellent work."
Viscount Rudious reached into the lower drawer of his desk, pulled out a small glass vial filled with a faintly glowing liquid, and tossed it through the air.
"Catch."
Arthur caught it reflexively. He looked at the vial. "What is this, My Lord?"
"Your body is heavily damaged from the inside," Rudious said flatly. "That will help you recover."
"But, My Lord, this is—"
"You are dismissed." Rudious cut him off smoothly. "Consider it a reward."
Sir Arthur lowered his head deeply — unable to find the words — and quietly left.
---
"That technique did quite a bit of damage to him," Jorald noted, looking at the closed door.
"Hmm." Rudious nodded. "His foundation is weak."
"Still — it's remarkable that he managed to awaken despite being a commoner."
"How long has he been holding a sword?" Rudious asked.
"Nine years, My Lord."
"Nine years," Rudious repeated quietly. "And it takes a noble with proper resources fifteen years to reach that level." He paused, something else entering his mind. "And Ashborne... Ashborne."
"He was a very honest man," Jorald said, catching the reference. "It seems the Dragon Knights are in good hands."
Rudious leaned back and looked up at the ceiling.
---
The door opened again. Hans entered and bowed. "My Lord — as per your orders, production and gathering of the grain and winter clothing have begun."
"Good." Rudious sat up. "Winter is fast approaching. I want a council meeting next week. Send out the summons — ensure every member attends."
"Yes, My Lord." Hans bowed and left.
---
Jorald cleared his throat. "Ahem. My Lord... how did you know they would agree to the Northern Deal so easily?"
Rudious looked at him, amused. "Why wouldn't they?"
"Because the North values their knighthood and honor above all else. They don't do business without deep trust. Most merchants return from there with heavy losses — the Northern Lords refuse to negotiate prices at the expense of their citizens."
"Exactly," Rudious said. "And that is exactly why they agreed."
Jorald frowned. "But how?"
Rudious stood and walked to the window, looking out over the grounds. He spoke without turning around, his tone easy. "If you paid attention to things other than swordsmanship once in a while, your brain might actually sharpen."
"Huh?"
Rudious chuckled. He turned, tossed a letter onto Jorald's lap, and headed for the door. "Read this. I'll be right back."
"But—"
He was already gone.
---
Sir Jorald scratched his head.
*Look at the times we live in. A man whose brain only used to work on the battlefield is now lecturing me on wits.*
He opened the letter. It bore the seal of a Black Eagle.
He read it. Paused. Read it again.
Then a loud, booming laugh echoed through the empty office.
*"Hihaahhaaha!"*
Jorald wiped his eyes, still chuckling. "Good days are here. He's finally learned how to play the game."
---
Outside, Viscount Rudious was quietly trailing behind a group of four small figures — sneaking past the main grounds, heading straight for the abandoned training hall beside the manor.
Rudious stepped in behind them and cleared his throat.
"Ahem. And who might you be?"
One of the figures — covered head to toe in dirt — turned around.
"Hi, Father."
"Huh?" Rudious blinked. "Drake?"
"Yes, Father!" Drake smiled brightly, face smeared with mud, clothes torn at the sides.
The other three boys immediately stood at attention. "Greetings, Lord Master!"
"Not Master," Drake corrected quickly. "You call him My Lord."
One of the boys frowned. "But my papa says he is the Master. He said he taught him how to read and how to use a sword."
"Yeah!" the other two chimed in.
Rudious crossed his arms, amused. "You lot... who are you?"
The tallest, skinniest boy stepped forward. "I'm Sirus. Son of Sir Uros."
The second, shorter but sturdier, puffed out his chest. "I'm Rimon. Son of Mage Simon."
The third, slightly chubby, raised his hand. "I'm Kite. Son of Sir Kane."
Drake stood proudly in front of them all. "And I'm Draken! And these are my friends!"
Rudious laughed. "Alright. So you are the sons of our brave knights and mages." He looked at their condition — torn sleeves, faces covered in dirt, hair matted with dust. They looked like they had been rolled down a hill. "But look at yourselves. What exactly are you doing here?"
"They're strong, Father!" Drake declared. "I brought them here to teach them swordsmanship! Look how tough they are!"
Before Rudious could respond, Drake began pushing him toward the door. "Okay, Father, you can go now! Let us train! Go, go!"
"Alright, alright," Rudious said, letting himself be pushed. "Just don't hurt yourselves."
"No one will get hurt!"
Rudious stopped. He reached down, picked Drake up by the collar, and held him dangling slightly in the air.
"Hold on. Are you three doing this willingly — or did Drake drag you here by force?"
The three boys exchanged nervous glances. Then forced stiff, identical smiles.
"He... he he he."
"We came willingly!" All three — in unison.
"See? Now go, Father!" Drake squirmed.
"Alright." Rudious set him down and turned to leave.
Then stopped.
He turned back around slowly, his eyes scanning the dusty hall.
"Hmm."
A pause.
"Wait."
"Where is Veil?"
---
**[Chapter 19 — End]**