The conversation between the two men ended just as the study door creaked open, and Enzo stepped inside.
"Father. Brother Xavier." He offered a polite smile to Oaken and Xavier before turning his gaze to the third figure—a silent, ironclad presence in the corner. "Uncle Talon."
The hulking Talon gave a wordless nod, his face unreadable.
"You've arrived, Enzo." Oaken's stern features softened imperceptibly at the sight of his only son, a rare flicker of warmth crossing his expression. "How fares your recovery?"
"The physicians' draughts were most effective. I feel fully restored." Enzo replied smoothly.
Ten days had passed since his transmigration, and the memories of his predecessor now settled seamlessly within him. Though confident in his performance, Enzo remained cautious—words measured, gestures deliberate—to avoid suspicion.
"Good. Sit." Oaken gestured to a chair, satisfaction lacing his tone.
Enzo obeyed, lowering himself into the seat as the lord resumed his war council.
"Winter approaches. Our feud with the Frostfang Clan must end before the first snows." Oaken's piercing gaze returned to Xavier. "At dawn, the frozen war thaws anew. I shall lead the assault on Clawhold and Skull Village, while you harry Wolfsgrave's forces. Keep the Golden Scythe and Aurum dynasties at bay—ensure no blade strikes our flank."
The strategy had long been decided; now, they honed its edges. Talon stood motionless as a gargoyle, and Enzo listened in silence, absorbing every word.
Soon, the discussion concluded.
"Adapt as the battlefield demands," Oaken said finally, clasping Xavier's shoulder. Then, turning to Enzo, his voice hardened: "Talon remains in Khaien to guard you. This time, you will not stray."
"Understood." Enzo dipped his head, wry amusement in his tone. "I'll be the model of obedience."
Oaken's lips twitched. Moving to an ironbound cabinet, he withdrew a flask of shimmering silver liquid.
"Frostfang Alpha's blood," he intoned, offering the vial. "Consume it during martial training—it quickens the pulse, sharpens the spirit. By war's end, you will rise as a true knight."
Xavier's eyes flashed with something unreadable before he schooled his expression.
"My gratitude, Father." Enzo accepted the relic, fingers tightening around its chill surface. "Your faith shall be rewarded."
"Dawn comes early. Rest." Oaken's pride was palpable as he watched his son depart.
Next Dawn
Pale light crept across the horizon as Enzo stood at his chamber window, watching the army assemble below.
Oaken, a shadow in obsidian plate astride his midnight stallion, addressed the ranks. Xavier's cavalry joined the formation like a steel tide. With a final command, the host marched north—the Nightshade and Frostfang banners clashing in the wind as war reignited.
"My lord, breakfast?" A timid voice interrupted his thoughts. The maid—Daisy, his memory supplied—hovered at the door.
"Bring it."
The meal was lavish: saffron-kissed bread, fruits glazed in honey, and spiced goat's milk. A commoner's yearly wages, consumed in minutes.
Tossing the napkin aside, Enzo strode out. "I'll take air."
After days confined to the castle, the city's pulse called to him. Talon granted curt permission, and soon Enzo walked the merchant's quarter, guards flanking him like wolves.
The streets thrived despite the cold. Peddlers hawked wares, but crowds scattered before the lordling's approach, bowing deeply. Here, the name Nightshade commanded fear.
Then—a crack of whips. A gathered mob.
"What's this?" Enzo tilted his head.
"Slave auction, milord," grunted Captain Barret. "Raiders from the Bloodsteppes profited from ghoul attacks. Golden City scum, no doubt."
The crowd parted like wheat before a scythe, revealing chained figures in the mud. One prisoner's eyes met Enzo's—golden, burning with defiance.