Author's Preface
A cry cut through the ambient noise.
High and sharp. Terror in it. A woman’s voice, coming from somewhere off the path.
The group froze for a heartbeat. Then bodies moved, training overriding confusion. Students summoned their weapons. Villagers raised whatever tools they carried. Everyone converging on the sound’s source.
The forest pressed close on both sides. Undergrowth grabbed at ankles, slowing progress. Someone stumbled, caught themselves. The cry had cut off, leaving only the thunder of footsteps and labored breathing to fill the space it had occupied.
Then the trees opened.
And what came into view wasn’t a creature at all.
Two men stood perhaps fifteen steps ahead. The mercenaries from the morning - leather reinforced with metal studs, swords at their belts.
The crowd stumbled to a halt. Confusion rippled through the gathered people, weapons still raised, bodies still tensed for combat that suddenly made no sense.
Opposite one of the mercenaries stood Lior.
Sky-blue eyes wide with something beyond fear. His dagger gripped in both hands, pointed toward the man with shaking determination.
And behind him, held by the second mercenary, was his mother.
The man’s arm wrapped around her waist from behind, pinning her against his chest. His other hand gripped her wrist, twisting it at an angle that made struggle painful. She fought anyway - body writhing, feet kicking back uselessly, her wheat-blond hair tangled across her face. The herb basket lay discarded perhaps three steps away, its contents spilled across the ground.
Heat flooded Cel’s chest. Not the careful, controlled response he’d learned to maintain. Something hotter. More immediate.
‘They dare..’
Silent Moon manifested in his grip. Three moon phases lit along the spine - small crescents glowing with pale light. The blade hummed slightly in his grip, steel responding to whatever it read from him.
His feet moved. Heavy steps that carried him forward with the kind of deliberate speed that gave targets time to recognize their mistake
Lior’s father had already started forward, his weathered face transformed into something dangerous despite carrying no weapon. Cel fell in step behind him, both of them closing on the mercenaries with the particular inevitability of violence about to occur.
Then suddenly, Theron emerged from the tree line.
Brown hair slightly disheveled, armor gleaming in patches of late afternoon light. His group appeared behind him - Sylvaine’s composed neutrality, Owen’s mountain-solid presence, Cordelia’s visible unease, Percival’s readiness.
“What is going on here?” Theron’s voice carried across the space with absolute clarity. His gaze fixed on the mercenary holding Lior’s mother. “Release her. Now.”
The mercenary’s grip loosened. His arm unwrapped from her waist, hand releasing her wrist. She stumbled forward immediately, legs barely holding her weight.
And ran.
Straight into her husband’s arms. He caught her, wrapped himself around her with desperate protectiveness. Her face buried against his chest, body shaking with sobs she’d been holding back through sheer will.
Lior retreated too. Moved backward until he stood beside his parents, dagger still gripped in both hands.
The two mercenaries turned their full attention to Theron. The one who’d been facing Lior spat to the side, expression carrying contempt that went deeper than simple rudeness.
“The fuck do you want, boy? This doesn’t concern you.”
“Doesn’t concern me?” Theron’s tone sharpened. “Assaulting an innocent woman doesn’t concern me? You will apologize to her. And you will swear that nothing like this will ever happen again.”
The second man laughed. Sharp and ugly. “Swear? To who, exactly? You?” He looked Theron up and down with visible disdain. “You’re what, sixteen? Seventeen? Playing hero in your shiny armor?”
“I am not playing.” Theron’s voice dropped lower. “These people are under my protection. You will treat them with respect or face consequences.”
“Consequences…” The first mercenary drew the word out, making it sound absurd. “From a kid who probably got his first blessing last month?” He turned to his companion. “Should we be scared?”
“Terrified,” the other agreed. “Absolutely shaking. We should—”
“Enough.”
Sylvaine’s voice cut across the standoff. She stepped forward, past Theron, positioning herself before him. Her posture remained relaxed despite the tension saturating the air.
“I am Sylvaine Grovethorn, Heir to House Grovethorn of the Life Clan.” The words emerged with clinical precision. “Whatever you were doing here ends now. You will apologize to this woman and you will swear that nothing like this will occur ever again.”
Silence followed.
The mercenaries exchanged glances. Something passed between them - calculation, reassessment, the particular look of men who’d just realized the situation had changed in ways they hadn’t anticipated.
The silent exchange dragged on.
Eventually one of them turned back. His expression had hardened into something resentful, but the open contempt had faded. “Fine. We won’t do it again.”
The words came reluctant. Forced.
Theron’s face brightened immediately. “Great. I’m glad we could resolve this peacefully.” He nodded toward the mercenaries with genuine satisfaction. “You may go.”
They didn’t need to be told twice. They turned and simply walked away.
Relief washed across the assembled crowd. Conversations started up - quiet voices processing what had just happened. Several people moved toward Lior’s mother, offering comfort and checking that she was unharmed.
Cel stood frozen.
He watched the mercenaries' backs recede into the treeline. Watched the crowd's shoulders loosen, watched relief spread across faces that should have been demanding blood. Watched Theron accept a grateful nod from Lior's father as though something had actually been settled.
‘That's it?’
A few words, forced through gritted teeth, and everyone simply… moved on. As if an apology was enough.
It wasn't enough. Words weren't enough. He'd learned that a long time ago, in a cell, from a man who'd promised things too.
His grip on Silent Moon tightened, knuckles turning white.
They would do it again. Without hesitation. Without remorse.
His feet moved. One step. Then another. Silent Moon remained manifested, violet steel catching the late afternoon light.
An arm appeared before him.
Cel stopped. Turned his head.
Hestia blocked his path. Crimson eyes met his, steady and unyielding.
“Not now,” she said quietly.
“Why are you stopping me?” The words came flat. Controlled only through tremendous effort. “They deserve it.”
“Yes. But did you see their hesitation? Even after Sylvaine revealed her title?”
Cel had seen it. The glances. The calculation. The way they’d looked at each other like weighing options that should have been obvious.
“Someone is backing them,” Hestia continued. “Someone with power equal to or greater than House Grovethorn. Otherwise they would have apologized immediately and run.”
The logic was flawless. Hated, but flawless.
Cel’s jaw worked, grinding teeth together. His hand tightened further on Silent Moon’s hilt, the desire to ignore everything she’d said and chase those men down nearly overwhelmed him.
He forced himself to breathe. Once. Twice. Let the rage cycle through his body without acting on it.
Then Silent Moon dissolved, fading back into nothingness.
Hestia lowered her arm.
The crowd dispersed gradually. Workers returning to gather their abandoned tools, preparing to continue the interrupted journey back to the village. Lior’s family remained clustered together - his mother still pressed against his father’s chest, Lior standing guard beside them with his dagger finally lowered.
They walked back in near silence. The earlier conversations had died, replaced by the particular quiet that followed violence narrowly avoided.
The village gates appeared ahead. Familiar wooden walls. The well at the center. Houses arranged along intersecting roads.
The day concluded without further conflict.
Dinner passed in subdued quiet. Lior’s mother barely touched her food, hands trembling slightly whenever they moved. His father maintained careful watch, gaze cutting toward the door periodically like expecting intrusion. Lior sat pressed close to his mother’s side, the earlier joy from their new home purchase buried under fresh anxiety.
Then darkness fell. Proper and complete.
Lior’s family retreated to their sleeping room. Curtain pulled across the entrance. Quiet voices giving way to breathing that gradually deepened into sleep.
Cel sat alone at the table.
Again.
He stared at nothing. At the darkness filling the space around him. At shapes his eyes couldn’t quite perceive.
Hestia’s words circled through his thoughts. Someone backing the mercenaries. Someone with power.
But who would back thugs like them? Who would give mercenaries enough confidence to hesitate even when facing a Great Clan heir?
Only one person came to mind.
Kyros.
The same person who’d made tormenting Moon Chosen his personal mission. Who’d spent months making Lior’s life hell at the Academy.
And who’d been conspicuously absent during the journey so far.
Anger flared. Not the instant rage from earlier. Something colder. More deliberate.
Because if it was Kyros, then today’s happenings weren't random. They were deliberate. Calculated. An attack designed to hurt Lior through the people he loved, in a location where Academy rules didn’t exist.
The fury built. Pressure accumulating behind his ribs, in his jaw, in hands that wanted something to destroy.
Then he stopped.
Looked around. At the darkness. At the stillness. At nobody.
Hestia had prevented him from getting into trouble again earlier.
But now... now was night.
Nobody would notice.
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