The dogs padded silently between tree roots, their sharp ears twitching with every rustle in the underbrush. Further ahead, Marcus walked with the confidence of a seasoned hunter, his fur-lined coat dragging slightly across the damp undergrowth.
"You did well today," Marcus said without looking back. "Did I scare you, sweetheart?"
Eliot didn't answer. His fingers still tingled from the bowstring. The image of the deer—twitching, choking—still lingered behind his eyelids.
Marcus slowed, glancing back at the boy who trailed behind like a leaf caught in his storm. "This is for your own good," he said more gently. "I know my brother didn't teach you any swordsmanship... frankly, I doubt he taught you much at all."
He glanced at Eliot's slim arms and narrowed shoulders, and a faint frown tugged at the corners of his mouth.
"You're too soft. When I first held your hand, you felt like a maiden. Softer even than my sister's fingers." He chuckled darkly. "But worry not. This uncle of yours will not only teach you to hunt—he'll teach you how to use this."
From the saddlebag of a waiting horse, Marcus pulled out a peculiar weapon—refined, elegant, and distinctly foreign. A short-barreled gun, unlike any Eliot had ever seen. Sleek silver with brass etchings and a deep hollow at the top—something was missing from it.
Eliot's eyes widened as Marcus handed it to him.
"This one's yours. Designed it myself. Smaller grip. Lighter weight. It fits your hand, doesn't it?"
Eliot gripped it. It was cool to the touch. His thumb brushed the trigger. Not heavy at all. Something flickered in his chest—excitement.
"Will it work on... wild boars?" Eliot asked quietly.
Marcus arched a brow, amused. "Thinking big already?"
"What about wolves?" Eliot's eyes sparkled. "The kind that lives deeper in the forest... The ones with glowing eyes?"
Marcus scoffed, clearly entertained. "Those aren't just wolves, my sweet. Those beasts are born of old magic. You'd need more than steel to kill one. A bite from them could take your arm. Or worse, your whole leg. Tear your flesh right off the bone."
Eliot smiled faintly, as if testing the weight of that idea.
The knights traveling with them gave them distance. One of them, Gabriel, stooped to pick up wild ferns and mushrooms, tucking them carefully into a leather pouch. The horses had been left behind hours ago—they were too loud for this terrain.
Eliot fell back, watching the German shepherds up ahead. They darted between trees like shadows.
He gripped the short gun tighter.
He raised it—aimed.
Click.
The barrel made a hollow sound, and nothing fired. He tried again. Click. Still nothing. His excitement crumbled.
He pointed it to the side, toward an empty clearing, a tree trunk in the distance.
Click. Click. Nothing.
Confused, he looked down at the weapon. No smoke. No spark. No recoil.
One of the dogs trotted toward him, tongue lolling. Eliot tilted his head—and slowly, deliberately, placed the barrel to its head.
"Your Highness." A voice interrupted him.
Gabriel had approached quietly. "You need a core for it to work."
"Huh?" Eliot blinked. The cold curiosity in his eyes vanished, replaced by a blank innocence that startled the knight.
Gabriel hesitated—then smiled faintly, almost respectfully.
From his ring, Gabriel pulled out something small and gleaming—a rounded, crystalline gem that glowed faintly with inner light. "This is a magic core," he explained, showing it to Eliot. "Every knight in the field carries one. See these?" He lifted his ring. "These are all embedded with cores. Each one channels power into our weapons."
He leaned down, fitting the jewel into the round slot at the top of Eliot's short gun. It clicked in place—like a magnet snapping into metal.
"Watch," Gabriel said.
He raised the gun, pointed it toward a distant oak.
BOOM.
A gust of wind surged as the tree split clean in half. Bark and splinters flew. Where once stood a trunk, only smoking roots remained.
Eliot's mouth opened slightly.
Gabriel removed the core again and reattached it to his ring. "The stronger the core, the more powerful the shot. It forms bullets by itself—formed from magic, not metal."
"I wanna try," Eliot whispered.
A few knights chuckled from a distance.
"Oh? And what're you going to shoot?" one sneered.
"Couldn't even kill a fawn," another added, laughing.
Eliot flushed. His grip tightened on the gun.
Marcus's voice sliced through the noise like a blade.
"Enough."
The laughter died instantly.
He turned to Eliot, his expression unreadable. "Come here, sweetheart. Run toward me."
The boy obeyed, holding the short gun with both hands.
Marcus crouched low, smiling.
"You want to shoot something? Then shoot where I tell you."
***Note***
[If Clarity decided to get his title back, his status would be greater than Marcus since he stepped down from the throne]
[Though right now, both held an equal status, they shared same situation- didn't claimed their ownership]