My odachi met the bracers on Ten's leg, and the impact rattled down the length of my arms like I'd just tried to parry a falling tree.

The clang was deafening. My grip nearly failed.

Damn it. I know she's both a dragon-eater and can manipulate her own weight and strength, but— Damn, that hurt.

I staggered back a step, boots grinding into the practice stone. The ache surged from my wrists up to my shoulders like I'd just tried to block a charging bull with a chopstick. My arms screamed. My lungs weren't far behind.

"I… thought…" I huffed between shallow breaths, "we agreed… no Skillcubes…"

Ten stood tall, entirely unbothered. Her arms crossed casually, one ankle swinging in slow, lazy circles like she hadn't just tried to kick me into a new calendar year.

"We did," she said, her voice even. "That wasn't a cube. That was physics."

She raised one eyebrow, as if I was the unreasonable one here.

"Don't block me. Parry. Redirect. I'm an unstoppable force," she added with a smirk. "You? You're not an immovable object. Yet."

Then she jumped. No wind-up. No signal. Just moved.

The air split as her heel came screaming down in a vertical dropkick.

I didn't think. Reflex took over.

Three paper slips peeled from my robe and fanned outward in a tight arc, folding into layered barriers mid-air. My Arte pulsed. The paper shifted, became denser, reinforced like micarta.

Ten's leg crashed into it with a crunch of impact that could've cracked stone. The paper snapped, folding with the blow, angling her just enough that she passed me by.

Her foot still cut through the air an inch from my ear—close enough to sever a few hairs.

When she landed, she did it with a thud like thunder wearing shoes. Her hair swayed behind her, catching the breeze like a banner. She didn't bother hiding her grin.

"Better," she said with a grunt of approval, rolling her shoulders. "Still sloppy. But you're thinking on your feet."

I held my ground, breathing hard, sword raised but trembling. The hum of my Arte still echoed in my fingers. My aura fluttered erratically—like a flag in a storm.

She took a few slow steps forward, pacing in a wide arc, gaze on me like I was a puzzle she hadn't decided whether to solve or smash.

"But listen," she said more seriously. "If I go even thirty percent? I'll crush you. Quite literally. Your barriers will crumple, and your ribcage will follow."

She tilted her head.

"I can't spar properly with you, Alexander. Not until you stop trying to win, and start trying to survive."

Her tone wasn't cruel. It was honest. Brutally, painfully honest.

I lowered my odachi a fraction. My grip still hurt. My pride, a little more.

"…Thanks," I muttered, not sure whether I meant it.

She walked past me and tapped my shoulder lightly with the back of her hand—almost gentle.

"Don't get soft," she added. "You're improving. Just not fast enough."

And then she was gone, leaving a faint echo of chains and calloused footsteps behind.

I exhaled. My hands were shaking.

Survive, huh?

Yeah.

I could do that.

Maybe.

Yeah no. Not against that monster.

"Alright. My turn?" V asked, cracking his knuckles with a sound like dry branches breaking. He was already bouncing on the balls of his feet, clearly eager for his bout.

I was about to nod—then the door opened with a click, and Ria stepped in.

She wore her formal maid's uniform, crisp and spotless, but it was the look in her eye that made the room still. Ria rarely looked solemn unless someone was bleeding or someone important had arrived.

"Young Prince," she said, her posture straight as the spine of a ledger. "You have a guest requesting your immediate presence in the tea room. Posthaste."

The air shifted.

She used the formal voice. She used my title.

That wasn't something Ria did unless protocol demanded it. Even in front of nobles, she usually dropped the theatrics unless it was someone she considered truly important—or potentially dangerous.

"Did they give a name?" I asked, already stepping away from the sparring circle and grabbing a towel to wipe the sweat from my brow.

"Captain Wallace of Bast's Steel Battalion," she replied. "Knighted, twice decorated, and recently appointed by Lady of the Grail as military attaché to your estate. He arrived half an hour ago and has been inspecting the sheep."

"…The sheep."

"Yes," she said without a hint of irony. "All of them."

I glanced around. Fractal was stifling a laugh. Ten muttered something about wool brigades under her breath. V just shrugged and flopped down, stretching.

"Alright," I sighed. "Let's not keep our new… shepherd waiting."

***

I stepped into the tea room to find a man built like a fortress with legs.

He stood near the window, one hand behind his back, the other holding a teacup so daintily it almost made me question reality. His armor—practical, matte, Bast-standard with minimal ornamentation—had been stripped to the waist. The outer cloak with the captain's insignia had been neatly folded over the back of a chair.

His gaze met mine the moment I entered. Cool, calm, measuring.

"Alexander Duarte-Alizade," I said, extending a hand.

He nodded once and accepted the gesture with a grip that was firm without trying to prove anything. "Captain Wallace Margrave. Appointed by Lady of the Grail to serve as your tactical advisor and commander of your standing guard."

I offered him a seat. He remained standing.

"I've read your dossier," he continued. "Saw the numbers. Walker-certified, fourteen duels, three sorties, one Otherrealm incident. That's impressive for your age. But being strong isn't the same as running a defense grid. And a noble estate, especially one this exposed, needs a grid."

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"Agreed," I said, sitting down. "But I assume you didn't ride all this way just to flatter me and drink tea."

"No." He set his cup down with a delicate clink. "I came because you don't have proper defenses. You've got sheep, aura signatures all over the map, and a handful of people with more power than protocol. No barracks. No fallback positions. Not even a decent watch rotation."

"I've been a little busy trying not to die."

He gave a rare, small grin. "Fair. But now that you're alive? You're going to learn how to hold a position. Starting tomorrow, you and your crew are drilling at sunrise."

I blinked. "You're serious."

"As a war crime tribunal." He straightened his back and adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves. "And if you're half as sharp as they say, Prince, you'll thank me for it."

"I certainly will," I said, gesturing to the seat across from me. "But if you truly are to serve as my military advisor—and, possibly, my general—then allow me this: sit. We have much to discuss. And if you're half as loyal as you claim, you'll hear me out."

Wallace didn't flinch. He eyed the chair like it was a test in itself, then slowly pulled it back and lowered himself into it with the discipline of a man trained to follow only order and necessity. The armor barely made a sound as he settled.

"Very well… Star-writer," he said, the nickname rolling off his tongue like a challenge. "Speak. What is there to discuss?"

"First—your Arte," I said plainly. "I don't require your skillcube profile. Unless you're a Walker, that's private domain. I assume you'll have mine within the next few weeks anyway, once my first three anchor cubes of the second shell settle into place."

"Barrier Creation, Your Grace," he said, hands folded on the table with immaculate posture. "I serve on the front line, as a Warden-class archetype. Defense. Formation control. Retaliation. Most of my cubes focus on protection—anchoring a formation or shielding an asset. I'll withhold specific details, but that should tell you enough for now."

I nodded slowly, impressed. I reached for my teacup—poured earlier by one of the new maids—and took a sip. Subtle, floral, with a bit of honey.

I really do need to learn their names. They've been nothing but polite, and I've been too lost in training and paperwork.

"Tell me, then, Sir Wallace," I continued, setting the cup down gently, "your previous rank. I'm not yet fluent in the insignias of Bastian military dress, though I assume that's a naval badge on your pauldron."

"Captain," Wallace replied crisply. "Admiral Class. Bastian Sandship Royal Navy. Former commanding officer of Iron Maiden's Grave. Personal assignment from the Western Archipelago Commandant."

I blinked.

That explained the weight behind his stance. The formality. The edge in his tone.

"I see," I said. "And me? I've no titles of merit—at least not yet. I suspect that's going to change soon. Something about how I'm being folded into the household of the Scarlet Spear?"

Wallace froze. His back straightened even more, if that were possible. Then—he choked. His breath caught mid-sip, and he coughed violently into the crook of his elbow.

"The—The Scarlet Spear?!" he sputtered, eyes wide.

"Yes. I'm told that name carries weight?"

He coughed once more, then slammed his palm flat against the table, as if to steady himself.

"You're being raised into the lineage of the Crimson Lance? The same one who burned through three fortified Otherrealms in twelve days with a five-man squad? You're being adopted into that line?"

"That's what the papers said," I offered with a shrug.

Wallace stared at me. Then stared through me. A man reevaluating his entire understanding of fate, duty, and cosmic irony.

"I was told two other officers declined this post," he said, voice rising. "Two. Cowards, the both of them. And they didn't tell me this wasn't just some cushy sheep-guarding noble brat gig—they didn't tell me I'd be serving under the Crimson Lance's heir!"

I gave him a faint smile.

"Well," I said, lifting my teacup again, "you did say you wanted a meaningful post."

Wallace leaned back slowly in his chair, shaking his head. Then he began to laugh.

Quiet at first. Then louder. Not mocking, but more… relieved. Challenged.

"Oh, this is going to be fun," he muttered. "Moons help me—I'm going to forge you into something terrifying, Your Grace."

"You'll have help," I said, and finished the tea.

Wallace set his elbows on the table, already mentally drawing battle lines in the air.

"Then let's get to work."

***

Moonlight dripped through the cracks of the carriage‑house rafters, pooling in pale streaks across half‑mended carts and forgotten tools. A single lantern burned low near the rear wall, its flame hooded to keep the glow from spilling outside. In that dim ellipse of amber stood two figures:

Barbra—tail flicking, arms folded, careworn uniform exchanged for a dark traveling cloak—watched the other presence as if it were smoke that might vanish if she blinked. Across from her lounged Leraje, the Green Archer, boots propped on an overturned barrel, longbow slanted casually against his shoulder. He wore a half‑mask of verdant lacquer, the carved wood catching lamplight like a leaf's underside in dawn.

"You sent the summons Barbra," Leraje said, voice a low drawl that echoed faintly in the timbered loft. "I assumed it was urgent."

"It is, Barbatos," Barbra corrected, using her Dominion title to remind him she knew protocol. "And I won't waste either of our time: I heard the conclave. I know you plan to be Alexander's next sigil. I came to say—formally—that I object."

The archer's brow arched behind the mask. "Object? Truly? I thought you'd welcome another hunter on the roster."

"This isn't about adding a bow," she said, tail lashing once, precisely. "It's about balance. The boy already flirts with Seraphic mana. He survived an angelic call by the width of a whisker. He doesn't need the Archer of Heaven's Breath stirring that melody again."

Leraje eased a foot off the barrel and leaned forward, elbows on knees. "You think my contract would push him toward the Song?"

"I know it." She held his gaze unblinking. "Your path sings of high altitude, star‑bright wind, and clean, lawful trajectories. It wouldn't take much to tip his new bloodline from Red Sun to full Seraphic radiance."

"Barbatos," he replied, using her name like a peace‑offering, "I rejected the Song a long time ago. You know that. I left the Choir. I choose my own hunts now."

"That's not how resonance works, Archer." Her claws clicked once against her bracer. "Your mana still carries trace chords. A single contract would resonate—subtly, perhaps, but inevitably—with Alexander's nascent line. He's rootless. He'd follow that harmonic like a newborn beast follows scent."

Leraje shrugged, but his smile faltered. "And you would rather he sign with… whom? Andromalius? Baal? Vassago?" He spread gloved hands. "You'd trust Chaos and Vice over a disciplined hunter who at least understands restraint?"

"I would trust whatever keeps him mortal long enough to forge an identity." She paced once, cloak sweeping the dusty floorboards. "We already fight off Titania's scouts. Industria sniffed his Star mana the moment he awakened. The Copper Choir wants him singing in their ranks by his next ascension. If the Archer who once stood on their flank steps forward now, they will read it as a call‑and‑response."

The lantern flickered. A draft crept through the siding, stirring stray straw into tiny spirals.

Leraje rested his bow upright, palm atop the limb. "You fear Heaven as much as Hell."

"I fear imbalance," she corrected. "I watched an Archon's feathers turn black because some self‑proclaimed protector couldn't accept a mortal interval."

Silence stretched—long enough to hear sheep bleating a distant, restless chorus outside the carriage house.

When Leraje finally spoke, the playful veneer had slipped. "I met him once, you know. Briefly. Before all of this. He was in Myne, knee‑deep in relief crates, skin like parchment, eyes burning to do something right. He asked smart questions. Listened to the answers. I thought—here is someone who might shoot straighter than his pedigree."

Barbra's tail slowed. "Then why tether him to the heavens he can't yet stand beneath?"

"Because," Leraje said softly, "every hunter needs a horizon." He tapped the bow. "And because the Choir already hears him whether I'm knotted to him or not. At least if the resonance passes through me, I can mute it. Redirect it."

Barbra mulled that, ears angling back. "You want to place yourself between him and the summons."

"Exactly," he answered. "Let me absorb the surge when the next benediction strikes. I know how to ground it. But if some seraph with a sword for a tongue claims him first? He'll burn bright and clean straight through his tether."

She hissed softly through her teeth. "You're asking me to trust your resistance over my caution."

"I'm asking you to trust my aim," Leraje replied. He stood, rolling his shoulders so the longbow settled at his back. "I never miss what I swear to protect."

Barbra turned away, gaze sliding toward the lantern's hooded flame. After a heartbeat, she spoke. "If I allow this—and it is still if, Archer—then we do it my way. Slow. Conditional. I interview him. You sign limited terms. One shell after his ascension. No direct mana infusion unless he requests it three times in sober clarity."

Leraje considered, then offered a two‑finger salute from brow to heart. "One shell after. Three requests. I can accept those odds."

"And if the Choir presses?" she asked.

"Then I remind them I took no vow to return," he said, and a faint green shimmer flared along his bowstring. "I left my wings on the altar."

Barbra's posture eased—not relaxed, but resigned. "Fine. I'll draft the clauses," she said, sliding a taloned finger through the air to summon faint golden sigils. "But if his bloodline so much as flickers white, I rescind the pact myself."

"Understood." Leraje's grin returned, subdued but genuine. "I'll keep him in the shade, Panther‑Queen."

She rolled her eyes at the title. "Just keep him alive, Archer."

He turned toward the loft's ladder, boots silent on old beams. "That was the plan from the start."

The lantern guttered as he slipped into shadow, leaving Barbra alone with drifting dust motes and a single thought she dared not voice aloud:

May your aim be true, Leraje—for both our sakes.

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