Chapter 692

Chapter 692

Despite hearing the monarch’s name, the patriarch of the house dismissed the proposal instantly—no explanation was given, only a sharp “I decline.” The recruiter didn’t argue, letting out a frustrated sigh instead. “You’re a thick-headed old man.” That was his only comment. The words were audible to everyone, but the patriarch ignored the jab, shifting his attention. It was evident from their interaction that their connection went back a long way. “Everyone has their own motives for arriving here. Ragna has already expressed his aim.” His eyes, moving on from the blunt rejection, settled on Anne, who had finished her meal. Is this… courtesy? The head of the house had remained silent until she was done eating. While his voice remained devoid of warmth, the timing hinted at a hidden consideration. Is he a man who communicates through deeds? Rather than words? Enkrid found himself pondering that possibility. The rest of the table seemed unbothered. Alexandra Zaun maintained a soft smile. She watched Anne’s expressions and movements closely, though her scrutiny lacked any venom. Anne swallowed and spoke with clarity. “I was told this region is plagued by a persistent sickness. I believe I can provide a remedy.” She made no grand promises, yet her voice was heavy with a quiet, solid confidence. She possessed more internal grit than her delicate frame implied. To intentionally consume a lethal elixir, drift into a deep slumber, and place her very existence in Ragna’s hands—that required a level of resolve beyond the ordinary. That was the conclusion Enkrid reached. “She is talking about the affliction that haunts our bloodline,” Grida intervened. The Zaun family had been burdened by a hereditary malady for generations. Lately, the symptoms had become far more severe. Still, the patriarch showed no reaction to Anne’s claim. Not even a twitch of a muscle near his eyes. Is that face even capable of a different expression? If he lost a limb, he’d probably just sit there, staring blankly. No—he wouldn’t just watch. If the battle were done, he’d tend to the wound. If the fight continued, he’d trade his missing arm for the opponent’s life. The invisible weight he radiated remained crushing. He looked like a man who could draw steel in a heartbeat, yet also like one who would impassively observe a betrayal without flinching. In short—he was a complete enigma. “A son seeking the Sunrise,” he remarked, beginning his next thought. He hesitated for a second, scanning the attendees before resuming. “A girl making grand claims about ending a plague.” “And Schmidt,” his wife chimed in, subtly nodding toward the recruiter. So the man was named Schmidt. It was undeniable now that the couple had known him for years. “Tempe, this proposal is for the benefit of you and your kin,” Schmidt said, his voice losing its professional edge. He spoke now as a peer, not a representative of the crown. “The answer remains no.” The patriarch repeated his stance with a cold finality. Though his tone was flat, his conviction was absolute. Schmidt sighed once more. “What do they call you?” Alexandra inquired, putting down her silverware and stacking her plates neatly. She looked directly at Anne. Anne followed suit and answered, “Anne. I am an alchemist, specifically a healer. Every community has someone people turn to in times of pain. That is the role I fill.” Any tight-knit village would have someone with medical knowledge. “When sickness takes hold, particularly the one we discussed, we consult Millestia. She is the godmother to these two,” Alexandra explained, indicating Ragna and Grida. She watched Anne closely—was it judgment? Or perhaps doubt? Grida had termed it a celestial curse. A punishment from the heavens. It was effectively the same as calling it a hex. Magrun had stayed silent when Anne labeled it a disease and offered a cure. He hadn’t asked her for an evaluation—he showed no spark of hope at all. He expects nothing. He had likely sought out every famous healer and exhausted every possible treatment. Or perhaps Millestia’s reputation was so great that he believed if she failed, no one else could succeed. The destination Magrun had sought upon their arrival was likely Millestia’s home. He had looked drained during the trek. In the world of alchemy, proficiency is often equated with maturity. No matter the talent, without years of practice, significant breakthroughs are rare. Anne appeared to be barely twenty. That fact alone would make it difficult for anyone to take her seriously. The logical conclusion was— The patriarch would turn her away. That was Enkrid’s calculated guess. But after a brief pause, the head of the house spoke. “If you require resources, simply ask, Anne. And even though you’ve just returned, it would be beneficial for a known face to assist. Grida.” “I’ll see to it,” Grida answered. The prediction was wrong. “Ragna, are you prepared?” the patriarch asked, his eyes fixing on the boy’s messy hair and the marks on his forehead. “Not today,” Ragna muttered. The head of the house started clearing the table, a signal that the meal was finished and it was time for rest. That was when Enkrid spoke. “Why haven’t you questioned my presence here?” Alexandra provided the answer. “Because the reason is transparent.” Transparent? Enkrid knew he wasn’t such a simple book to read. Being resolute didn’t mean being one-dimensional. He was there to safeguard Anne. He also meant to reveal the truth of their journey and stand by Ragna as a comrade. Furthermore, the dynamic within Zaun was far from straightforward. If chaos erupted, Enkrid was prepared to step in. His purpose couldn’t be summed up in a single thought. The claim that his motives were obvious felt like a blind spot. A mistake in judgment. Perhaps even a paradox. That was Enkrid’s private assessment. No matter what they claimed, he intended to prove otherwise. As he gathered his thoughts, the patriarch spoke again. “Tomorrow morning, you will duel me and my wife—one bout each.” Enkrid didn’t hesitate. “I accept.” A contest of blades. Everything else could wait. Odinkar’s absence? He had departed on his own terms. It felt more like a withdrawal than a disappearance. Ragna had done the same thing—leaving as a child and only reappearing now. If Ragna could vanish and return, why couldn’t Odinkar? And even if that wasn’t the case, don’t people sometimes require a solitary place to hide? Maybe that was the extent of it. And the attack they faced on the road? Informing the patriarch right now wouldn’t alter the facts. Someone had attempted to assassinate Anne and obstruct their arrival. That was the reality. Grida or Magrun would provide the details eventually. It wasn’t his place to be the messenger. Therefore, a duel was sufficient. Simple and direct. Even in a mess of complications, Enkrid could find a straight line. That was his nature. He found a certain internal logic in that and finished his meditation. “Then we shall meet at dawn. You are dismissed. Escort them to their quarters.” The group departed in silence—save for Schmidt, who stayed in his seat. As Enkrid left the hall, he caught Schmidt’s eye for a fleeting moment. “This way, traveler,” a neatly dressed servant said, guiding Enkrid forward. The heavy wooden door began to swing shut. Through the closing gap, Schmidt’s voice drifted out. “Is this truly the end of it?” He didn’t sound angry, just disappointed. The closing doors carved a boundary between two different worlds. The patriarch’s eyes met Enkrid’s through that final sliver of light. Were they amber? The flickering lamps made them shimmer like burning orange coals. Thud. The door shut firmly, dulling Schmidt’s persistent tone. “Say something. You aren’t doing this for my sake, are you?” It wasn’t a cold remark—it was clearly born of worry. If not for himself… Then for whom? The mystery remained, but it wasn’t for Enkrid to solve. The priority now was getting ready for the morning. He turned away from the door and walked down the hall. Being a warrior didn’t change the mundane realities of life. Swinging a blade wouldn’t clean the sweat and grime from his fae-spun garments. It wouldn’t shake the dust from his heavy traveling cloak or pry the mud and stones from the crevices of his boots. The sword was useless against filth. He thought back to a piece of advice from a veteran mercenary—a man who had survived long enough to be a legend, respected well into his elder years. “You want to survive a fight? Seventy percent is the work you do beforehand. The man who hones his edge and keeps his gear in order starts with the advantage. That’s just basic logic.” Enkrid viewed those words as a fundamental truth. I can use my dagger to clean the soles. Standing outside his room, Enkrid utilized the tip of his small blade to scrape his boots—crafted from troll hide and reinforced with Mount Pen-Hanil steel. Scuffed, but reliable. He checked for any odor—nothing offensive. Grida walked past and tossed a small leather bag his way. “Put that in your boots. It helps with the scent.” He snatched it out of the air. It was filled with white chunks—dried soap meant to soak up moisture and smells overnight. “Heading somewhere?” “It’s been a while. I thought I’d reacquaint myself with the place.” The sinking sun stretched her shadow long until it vanished as she stepped into the darkness. She moved with her usual purpose—quick and efficient. She likely had many errands to run or things to inspect. I should wash my things… Enkrid made his way to the internal well, hauled up water, and began scrubbing his tunic and cloak. A sword wouldn’t clean clothes—but the strength of a knight was useful for wringing them out. The fabric groaned under his strength. The heavy material twisted in his hands, forcing out a stream of dirty water. Soon, Ragna and Anne showed up, starting their own laundry. A few household workers approached and provided them with wooden tools for beating the fabric. The workers looked drained, their faces pale and eyes shadowed by exhaustion. “Are you feeling unwell?” Anne asked softly. “I am fine,” one of the maids answered shortly. Enkrid noticed the hilt at her side—she was armed. Even the domestic staff carried steel here. That was a good sign. He finished his maintenance, washed his clothes, and polished his short sword and his bone-handled knife. By the time he was done, the world was dark. They had arrived at the break of day, but between chores, food, and organizing, the hours had evaporated. He dropped onto a mattress filled with wool and down. Exhaustion took hold immediately. Knights aren’t tireless machines—any more than a sword can scrub a cloak. Rest is a requirement. Enkrid accepted that reality. Ragna was in the room to his left. Anne was on the other side. He didn’t have much time for reflection before he drifted off. Then his eyes opened. In a hazy vision, he saw the Ferryman. the master of the lantern and grim fascinations spoke, “Protect.” No specific target was named. Just that single command. Its true meaning was impossible to grasp.

“Schmidt, the matter is settled,” Alexandra said, shaking her head. As the staff cleared the table, the three leaders moved to a smaller sitting room. Schmidt took a sip of floral tea. His throat felt parched—he couldn’t wrap his head around their stubbornness. “Alex… your people are in desperate need of assistance.” He was frantic, but he knew he was powerless without their approval. “And yet we will not take the name of ‘Shield’ to become puppets of the crown.” Tempe Zaun, the patriarch, leaned his head on his folded hands. “Tempe—” “That is enough, Schmidt. I will not accept an imperial title.” The Empire had been trying to absorb Zaun for a long time. They wanted them to be the Shield of the East. They offered the rank of a duke—the Shield Duke. Tempe, or Tempest Zaun, had never wavered in his refusal. “You require the Empire’s resources to deal with the sickness,” Schmidt argued. The Empire didn’t give gifts for free. They were cold calculators. Schmidt genuinely wanted to help—but for that to happen, Zaun had to submit. “It isn’t necessary.” The patriarch dismissed the idea. “That is not a curse.” Schmidt tried to push further, but the man’s mouth was like a locked vault. Once he reached a decision, he rarely spoke of it again. Schmidt was well aware of this. He looked to Alex—his former stepsister—and she only reinforced the stance with a shake of her head. “Drop it, Schmidt.” “Why?” “I’ve explained this before. The head of this house doesn’t draw his sword to save a life—not for an outsider. Here in Zaun, every person uses their steel to pursue their own path.” They used the sword to fill their internal voids. They used it to chase their freedom. That was the essence of Zaun. Becoming the Empire’s shield meant the end of Zaun as they knew it. They would be absorbed. Just another weapon for the Emperor to point at his rivals. Zaun didn’t exist for that purpose. It was an impossibility. “If you all perish, what was the point of any of this?” Schmidt was drowning in frustration—but he knew he had lost the argument. There are values more significant than survival. Some call it a goal. Others call it honor. Or simple pride. The patriarch… had something like that as well.