They made him kneel.
Not with force. Not with blades.
With memory.
Warlord-King Albrecht Varion IV sat the obsidian throne beneath a mosaic of fallen heroes. The chamber echoed with firelight and tension. Nobles lined the carved galleries, their silken sleeves concealing blades and intentions.
Renard Valtierre stood alone in the center.
He wore a faded black coat, untouched by gold trim or family crest. Just ash, stitched with silence.
His face betrayed nothing. But within, something turned.
He hadn't set foot in the capital in years—not since they'd dragged him from the dueling yard in disgrace. Not since the title of 'baron's son' meant less than the dirt on a servant's boot.
Now they summoned him back... to stand trial for winning.
The Royal Voice began, booming across the marble floor. "Cadet-Commander Renard Valtierre. Accusations of battlefield misconduct, unsanctioned assassination doctrine use, and treasonous action against doctrine spirit have been levied—"
"By whom?" Renard asked quietly.
Gasps echoed. You weren't supposed to interrupt.
The Voice hesitated.
Then a silk-draped noble stepped forward. "House Faelin submits the charge."
Rodric's family. Of course.
"On what evidence?" Renard asked again.
The Voice looked to the court.
Silence.
Renard raised a hand and slowly opened his interface. It shimmered.
[Class Path: Phantom Tactician]
[Execution Path: Ghost Edge – Legal Classification: Sword Technique]
"I fight with what the system recognizes as valid swordsmanship. You may not understand it. But the battlefield does."
Murmurs. Some shocked. Others, impressed.
A tall woman with glacial eyes and an emerald cloak stepped forward.
Lady Nyss. Of the Strategic Command. The Crown's silent blade.
She studied Renard like one measures a rare beast.
Then she spoke. "The Crown acknowledges the ambiguity. And the results."
She turned to the throne. "The doctrine violation stands unproven. But the battle record does not."
Whispers.
"Victory at Ysera, confirmed. Use of fragmented troops to route a Caerenhold infiltration squad of 250 elite. Interrogation of captured traitors revealed internal sabotage. Prevented escalation."
"Losses?" asked another noble.
"Severe. But survivable. Enemy decimated. Their commander... arrested."
Gasps.
"Aerron Vale?"
Renard stepped forward. "He surrendered."
Lady Nyss smiled faintly. "He knelt."
That rippled through the chamber.
Even the King shifted.
Nyss continued. "I propose we elevate Renard Valtierre to Baron of the North Reach. Grant him tactical autonomy under the Black March charter, and ownership of its lands."
Gasps again.
"Black March?" a noble barked. "You would entrust him with that authority?"
A pause.
Lady Nyss met their gaze. "Who else has stopped them?"
Then, to Renard: "Your command, your doctrine, your discretion. But no more shadows. The kingdom needs ghosts who stand in the light."
She turned, stepping back into the rows.
All eyes shifted to the throne.
The King's voice rumbled like stone cracking.
"So be it. By sword, silence, and sovereign need... you are Baron Renard Valtierre, Lord of the North Reach. Rise—and carry our war forward."
Renard didn't move at first.
Then he stood.
And the silence cracked like thunder.
Later, in the courtyard gardens, moonlight glinting on damp marble, he stood alone by a silver-leaved tree.
He didn't hear the steps until they were close.
Baron Godric Valtierre.
His father. In blood. In shame.
"You didn't earn that title," Godric said. "You stole it. From the dirt."
Renard didn't turn.
"I fought for it. That makes it mine."
Godric scoffed. "You think I hated you for what you did at the Academy?"
Silence.
"I hated you the moment they handed you to me. In swaddling cloth. Said you were my heir. But I always knew the truth."
Renard's breath caught.
"You think your mother carried you for my legacy?" Godric continued. "No. She bled you into this world after a campaign to the north. After a siege that should've broken her. And when I looked at you… I saw his eyes."
Renard finally turned.
"You don't know who your father was," Godric said. "But I do. And it haunts me more than you ever could."
"What was he?"
"A phantom."
Beat.
Renard's voice was low. "Then I owe you nothing. Not your name. Not your shame."
Godric didn't flinch. But his silence was the deepest wound of all.
Renard stepped away.
And behind him, unseen—Godric trembled.
From the upper terrace, Lady Nyss watched it all.
"Baron Valtierre," she murmured.
A spy beside her shifted. "He's dangerous."
Nyss nodded.
"Yes," she whispered. "And finally ours."