The sun had only begun to rise above the jagged peaks surrounding Darkstar territory, its golden rays slicing through morning mist like the blades of a thousand warriors.
And yet, the castle grounds echoed with the sharp thud-thud-thud of determined footsteps.
Naomi ran.
One lap.
Two laps.
Three.
Mud clung to his boots. Sweat drenched his thin shirt. His breathing grew ragged — but his pace did not falter.
Beside him, Seraphina kept a steady stride, her silver armor catching the dawn light like a mirror to the heavens.
"My lord," she said at last, her voice almost pleading, "you must rest. You've been at this since first light."
Naomi didn't stop.
He clenched his jaw, eyes narrowed in focus. "I can rest later. Right now, I need to be faster. Stronger."
"But... why?" Seraphina asked gently. "Why push yourself this hard?"
Naomi slowed only slightly, just enough to speak without choking on his breath. "I'll be eighteen soon. When that time comes, I'll enter the Royal Academy."
He paused at the end of the courtyard, glaring up at the towering walls of Darkstar Castle.
"I don't plan to be bullied ever again."
Seraphina's eyes widened — just for a moment. The boy who once trembled under his own shadow was gone. In his place was someone who spoke with steel in his throat.
"I understand, my lord," she said softly.
Naomi looked at her — truly looked.
She had not left his side once. She trained him. Protected him. Believed in him.
He remembered his past life — a world of isolation, pain, and silence.
But now… in this cruel world, he was not alone.
He had her.
And that was enough — for now.
Without another word, he broke into a run again.
Above, nestled in the high tower balcony, a man sipped his tea with curious eyes.
The Duke's personal butler — the ever-silent watcher of the estate — stroked his long beard as he observed the young master from afar.
"Hmm," he muttered, the steam from his cup swirling like smoke around his face. "So the rumors are true."
The weakling.
The worm.
The burden.
No longer.
He set the teacup down with a soft click, disappearing into the shadows with the grace of a ghost.
"I must inform the Duke."
Naomi lay sprawled across the training ground, chest heaving, breath ragged. The sun hung high and unrelenting, casting long shadows across his sweat-soaked body. Dirt clung to his black uniform, and his hands trembled from overexertion.
"This pathetic body..." he muttered between gasps. "Doesn't even have stamina to stand."
Seraphina, ever silent, knelt beside him. She uncorked a leather water pouch and offered it with practiced grace. Naomi drank deeply, water spilling slightly down his chin as life returned to his limbs.
"I'm alive… barely," he groaned.
Nearby, two young soldiers whispered, not as quietly as they thought.
"Are they dating?" one snickered. "I mean… Seraphina's cute, y'know? But she's always clinging to that deadweight Nel."
"Yeah," the other replied with a grin. "Sword Saint Seraphina and the half-alive master. What a joke."
Naomi slowly turned his head toward them, eyes narrow, dark with fury.
"I can hear you, you little bastards," he said flatly.
The two paled and quickly scurried off, pretending to return to their duties.
He looked back at Seraphina, expecting her usual stoic silence — and there it was. Cold eyes. Blank expression. She hadn't even flinched at the insult.
"Why don't you ever try laughing?" he asked, wiping sweat from his brow.
She blinked, almost surprised by the question. "I don't laugh, my lord. You know that."
"Why?"
A pause. Then, her voice dropped to something softer — fragile, even.
"Because of my past," she said. "I lost the ability to laugh long ago."
Without hesitation, Naomi leaned forward and wrapped his arms around her.
"Then don't laugh," he whispered. "Just stay with me."
She didn't move. Didn't breathe. But for the first time in years, something shifted. Not on her face — that remained a mask. But deep within, the smallest flicker of warmth stirred.
And then — a smile. Just a sliver. Barely there.
Naomi didn't see it. His head was against her shoulder, eyes closed, too tired to notice.
But she smiled.
Even if only for a moment.
Then he pulled away and straightened himself weakly. "Teach me the sword, Seraphina."
She stood, her pale hair catching the light like silver fire. Her face returned to stone, but her voice… her voice was lighter now.
"As you command, my lord."
And so, the sword lessons began — not between master and servant, but between two wounded souls, slowly stitching themselves back together under the weight of a cruel world.
Duke Private chamber
Deep within the towering keep of Darkstar Castle, a heavy silence blanketed the Duke's private hall. The air here was colder — thinner — as though the walls themselves refused to breathe without permission.
Duke Arcturus Darkstar sat upon his obsidian throne, forged from enchanted volcanic stone — a relic of the last great war. He said nothing. He never needed to.
Beside him, runes etched into the floor glowed faintly, feeding off his latent aura. His presence was commanding, grim, and impossibly still — like a statue carved by death itself.
A creak echoed through the hall.
The personal butler — Garron — stepped in with silent reverence, bowing his head so low his forehead nearly touched the ground.
"My lord," he said calmly. "I bring news of the fourth son."
Arcturus opened his eyes — pale silver, sharp as blades.
"Speak."
Garron rose slowly. "Young Master Nel — he trains."
There was a pause. Arcturus said nothing.
Garron continued, "He rose at dawn. Ran the outer wall three times. Refused rest. His determination borders on desperation. And Seraphina remains at his side — loyal, unwavering."
Arcturus' gaze drifted to the window, where fog clung to the cold glass like frostbite.
"He lives," the Duke said at last, voice like cracked stone. "Even after what Murin did."
"Yes, my lord," Garron said. "He survives. But more than that… he is changing."
Another long silence stretched across the chamber. Then the Duke turned, eyes narrowing slightly.
"Have him watched," he ordered.
Garron bowed. "Of course."
"And if he becomes more than what he was..."
Arcturus' voice dropped to a whisper colder than winter.
"...then I want to know whether it is still Nel who walks in that body."
Garron hesitated. He had served the Duke long enough to know what that meant.
"…Understood."
As the butler vanished into shadow once more, Duke Arcturus sat alone in his icy throne room.
He did not fear war.
He did not fear kings.
But even the heart of a wolf stirs when the runt bares its fangs.
To be continue....