Strike.
Rudy moved deliberately, trying not to trip over his own feet, showing Paul the water school technique he'd been struggling with the past few weeks. Slow, precise steps, torso rotations, smooth transitions into stance, a pivot — and a sudden, snapping thrust.
Clap. Clap. Clap. — Paul applauded:
"Now that's more like it. Not perfect, sure, but for a beginner — solid."
He stepped closer, mirrored the stance, repeated a few moves, commenting as he went:
"Water school's all about defense, flexibility. Those who master it can hold off stronger enemies — as long as they don't screw up. Good choice to start with. Especially for people who don't want to die young."
Paul paused, smirked, and, as usual, shifted into a story.
"Rudy, you know where all these schools even come from?" He scratched his chin, thinking. "Alright, so — long ago, three monsters met. Real monsters, not like the weaklings we've got now. And of course, it was: who beats who. But they all walked away. Not because they were weak — because each one knew the others could kill them. That's where it started: three styles, three paths."
"That's the dumbest historical recap I've ever heard," came Rowls' voice from a few paces away. "I think I felt my brain rot just listening."
Paul shrugged, unfazed:
"Shut it. Not everyone wants to be a boring bookworm. The kid gets it. I'm simplifying. That's called teaching, in case you've never heard of it."
"Teaching? You just made that word up."
"Go sort your herbs, druid-boy."
Rudy was about to ask something when wings creaked above. With a loud caw, a huge black crow landed on the fence, a scroll tube in its talons sealed with wax.
Paul went sharp instantly.
"A crow... That means news from Boreas."
Rowls stepped toward the bird, held out a hand. The crow let him take the message. He broke the seal, scanned the contents — then swore under his breath.
"It's started."
He handed the letter to Paul.
"Increase surveillance. A new boss has emerged in the Wildlands, uniting several gangs. Moving toward the border. Possible organized assault."
"It's been quiet the last ten years…" Rowls muttered. "So someone real finally showed up."
"Yeah… real nasty bastard…" Paul muttered, looking over the message again. "If even Boreas moving, it's no small thing."
***
"Lord Philip."
A guard passing through the hallway gave a curt bow and kept moving. His armor clanked in haste — he was in a hurry. That alone was unusual. This wing was normally quiet, settled into a slow, almost lazy calm.
Philip walked with a brisk, assured stride. The air felt tense: servants kept out of the way, guards exchanged clipped phrases. Something was hanging in the air. Words, fragments — "one strike, three down," "burned to the ground," "northern technique, has to be." One guard fell silent mid-sentence when he saw Philip and snapped to attention. Another quickly turned a corner and disappeared. Fear moved through the manor like a shadow — unnamed, but present in every step.
Around the corner, he spotted Ghislaine. She was leaning against a column like she was just resting — but Philip recognized that look. Half-lidded eyes, like a cat just before the pounce. She'd felt him coming long before he stepped into view.
"Father in his study?" Philip asked.
"Yep."
"What kind of mood?"
"Threw a stool. Nearly hit Captain Stane."
Philip nodded like he'd heard something completely ordinary. Wiped his brow, sighed, and kept walking.
Two guards stood at the study door. One opened it before Philip could speak.
"His Grace is expecting you."
Philip nodded and stepped inside.
The study was hazy with smoke, thick with the smell of meat and tobacco. Sauros stood behind a massive table buried under maps, reports, and empty goblets. One of the guard captains was mid-briefing:
"…if he keeps moving south, he'll cross the old border in two days. We've set up posts along the major trails, but if he really pulled together more than three gangs—"
"I know how many he pulled together!" Sauros barked. "I know what you're feeding me right now! You know what I don't know? Why the hell you're wasting my time reciting what I already read two days ago!?"
The captain shut up at once and took a step back, head lowered.
Philip quietly shut the door behind him. Sauros saw him, sighed — from irritation or relief, hard to tell — and waved a hand.
"Get out! Enough empty air. If something changes — report. If not — I'LL TOSS YOU OUT THE DAMN WINDOW!"
He exploded.
The guards gave quick bows and retreated. Only Philip and Ghislaine remained — she'd stepped into the room a moment later. She said nothing, just scanned the room like she was measuring who to kill first. Her lip curled faintly — maybe irritation, maybe boredom.
"Heard already?" Sauros said without waiting for greetings. He poured himself wine, downed half the cup, and exhaled with a grunt. "Wildlands are stirring again. I was just starting to think I'd make it to old age without more bullshit. But no. Back at it. Like flies to shit."
Philip frowned and stepped closer.
"What exactly happened?"
Sauros rolled the goblet between his fingers, not looking at his son.
"Crow came this morning. Scouts say some bastard's gathering gangs in the Wildlands. Not bottom-feeders — a swarm." He grimaced. "One boss. That means either he's got pull or he's got fear. Both are bad."
Philip stared at the map. His gaze followed the marked routes.
Sauros finished the wine.
"Thought it was just another punk at first. But a village got wiped clean, patrol went dark, and the main road's blocked. It's started."
Philip slowly shook his head.
Same as always. First everyone thinks it's just another punk puffing up a pack of lowlifes. Then villages start falling, patrols vanish, and suddenly it's too late. We step on the same damn rake every time. — The thought flicked through Philip's head.
"Some say he's using technique. Northern. Old stuff — the kind even I barely know. One of our scouts, just before he died, managed to whisper: 'Serek the Ravager is coming.'" Sauros sneered. "The Ravager, huh? Fucking hell. What does that bastard think he is?"
Philip said nothing, watching his father. The strength was still in Sauros's voice, but now it dragged through rasp, fatigue, and wine. He still barked, still snarled — but the roar no longer chilled blood.
The legends about him were still told: how he held a mountain pass alone for three days until reinforcements broke through; how he ripped a beast's heart out through its jaws, barehanded; how he led squads where only those who followed him to the end survived. Back then, his name was spoken with respect — or not at all, out of fear. He was the lion on the family crest — alive, feral, unstoppable.
Now he was a shadow. Loud, bitter, but a shadow. And the crest still hung on the wall — someone had to earn it. In Philip's head, something had already begun to click into place.
"Serek?" Ghislaine repeated.
She tilted her head slightly, brow furrowed. Her gaze went distant, like she was digging up something long buried. One of her ears twitched — subtle, but Philip knew that tell. It meant something unpleasant had surfaced.
"There was a fight," she said quietly, almost to herself. "I was injured at the time. Not in top form. He… was there."
A pause.
"I withdrew. If I'd been healthy…" — she didn't finish.
"You withdrew?!" It slipped out of Philip before he could stop himself.
Ghislaine's head snapped toward him. Her stare cut like a knife under the skin.
"You deaf or just stupid, you little shit?"
Each word slapped like a belt. She stepped forward.
"I said I withdrew, not lost." Her voice was ice held to the throat. "If I wanted him dead, he'd be dead."
Philip didn't flinch. Didn't speak. Just exhaled slowly — and clenched his fist until his knuckles popped. His eyes held firm, but the gaze slipped — to the sword by the wall, then the map, then back to Ghislaine. The one person whose strength he'd never questioned.
If she backed off — that bastard's dangerous. Too dangerous.
But that didn't matter.
What mattered was how it would sound now:
Ghislaine the Blade stepped back. Philip — stepped forward.
He let no emotion show. No movement. No word. Just clenched his jaw to keep himself from speaking.
Because if he spoke, he might say too much.
He turned away, as if tired of the conversation. Truth was, he was just afraid he'd lose control.
He already knew he would kill the man. Not for his father. Not for duty.
For the name.
Killing someone like that would carve him a place in legend. It would show everyone — Sauros, Ghislaine, the whole fucking court, his bastard brother — that he was the heir. The one who would take the title of Warden not by blood, but by right. The new lion on the crest.
"One mean fucker," Saoros grumbled, pouring himself more wine. "Even made you back off…"
That was the last thing Philip heard as he stepped out of the study.
***
P.S. Next chapter tomorrow.