The training ground was empty. The sand, churned by hundreds of boots over the days, had settled into uneven waves beneath the cold morning air. Sparring dummies, planted like mutilated sentinels, swayed slightly in the gusts, creaking on their stakes. The scent of damp leather and worn wood still lingered, mingling with the distant aroma of kitchen fires.
Caelum stood about ten paces from Barion. The space between them felt wider than it truly was. The knight, motionless, hands clasped behind his back, watched with a gaze heavier than armor.
Caelum inhaled slowly. Since Barion had offered to take him as a disciple, he had let the question mature, like a pebble turned over and over in one's fingers. He had weighed the advantages, the dangers, the sacrifices it would demand.
He had thought of his years of solitude, of progress wrested from sweat, cold, and pain. But also of all he still didn't know—and that only a master could teach him. Barion wasn't offering a shortcut, but a path. And that path, even lined with thorns, was worth more than standing still.
Yet he knew he couldn't leap in blindly. The shadow of his father reminded him that a single decision, made too hastily, could break—or reshape—the fate of an entire lineage. Part of him whispered that with the System, he could survive alone, that he needed no one to face this world. But the other, more clear-eyed, knew that a guide was a weapon as precious as a well-forged blade. And Barion… Barion was nothing like the men quick to betray. His integrity seemed etched into his bones, poured into his blood. Every gesture, every word breathed that knightly code no lie could imitate. Perhaps that, more than anything, tipped the balance.
He looked up.
"I accept," he said simply, voice low but firm.
A faint glimmer passed through the knight's eyes. Caelum, drawing another breath, prepared to speak the word he had never addressed to anyone before:
"Mas—"
"Not yet," Barion cut in, sharp and clear like a blade drawn from its sheath.
Caelum held his breath, surprised.
"Before you can call me that, you must be released from Baron Yllar's authority," the knight explained. "It's an old rule, and it exists for a reason. The Baron must give his approval, or the bond would be void. And then… comes the ceremony of master and disciple. Without it, the title of 'master' is just an empty word."
Caelum bowed his head.
"Then let's go see him."
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The corridor leading to the officers' wing echoed beneath their steps, the steady rhythm of their boots softened by worn carpets. Tall windows let in a pale light that carved icy rectangles across the grey stone. The air smelled of polished wood and cold dust, with occasional hints of leather or metal drifting in from the nearby armories.
Barion walked ahead, his figure upright and compact, as if carved from discipline itself. Caelum followed with measured steps, his back straight, feeling the invisible weight of what was about to unfold.
In front of the double doors of dark oak, a guard in green livery straightened, clicked his heels, and bowed slightly toward Barion.
"Sir Barion, what do you require?"
"An audience with Baron Yllar," the knight replied, clear and without hesitation.
The guard nodded, knocked twice on the door, then slipped inside. Behind the panel, a brief exchange of muffled voices could be heard. A few seconds later, he reappeared and stepped aside.
"The Baron will receive you. Enter."
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The interior of the private audience chamber stood in stark contrast to the grandeur of the great hall: no tapestries, no gilding. Only a massive desk with worn edges, a map of the duchy pinned to the wall, and a few carefully bound volumes. A low fireplace cast flickering light across the stone, and the scent of burning wood mingled with the drier smell of old parchment.
Yllar stood behind the desk, his hands flat on the wood. His eyes, a pale, almost metallic grey, seemed to slice through every movement and breath.
"Barion," he said in a low voice, "I'm listening."
The knight bowed slightly. "My lord, Caelum Velmire has proven more than skill in archery or endurance. He has shown a rare determination, one I do not even find in some knights. I wish to make him my disciple."
The baron inclined his head, studying Caelum as one might assess an unshaped blade. "You know what that entails, Barion. A disciple bears your name, your reputation… and your failure, if you are mistaken."
"I know. And I accept that responsibility."
Yllar then turned to Caelum. "And you, Velmire… if you follow this man, it won't be to polish his boots. You will follow him onto the battlefield. You will see blood and death, and you will carry the weight of every command he gives you. Are you prepared for that?"
Caelum held his gaze, his voice clear despite the tension tightening his chest. "Yes, my lord. I wish to forge myself in fire and steel. To restore my family's lost honor… and perhaps, one day, end my father's exile since the defeat at Veyrun."
A faint, unreadable flicker passed at the corners of the baron's lips. "Then I have no objection. Barion, he is yours. But remember: I do not tolerate disciples who lose their way."
"Nor do I," the knight replied.
He gestured to Caelum.
"Come."
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They left the audience chamber, retracing the narrow corridor that led toward the officers' wing. The torches fixed to the walls cast elongated shadows across the dark wood paneling, and each step echoed in the silence like a deep note.
After a few turns, Barion pushed open a low, stone-arched door. The air that escaped carried the mingled scent of leather, oiled metal, and burnt wood. They entered a modest room, yet one heavy with presence: a desk covered in maps and documents, a low fireplace where the last embers glowed, and a threadbare rug that muffled their steps.
Barion closed the door behind them, the latch clicking softly. "Here," he said, "we will seal what concerns only us."
He walked over to an oak chest resting on a low shelf and retrieved a dagger with a hilt polished by years of use, and a tarnished silver cup. The blade caught a brief glint from the embers, as if it came alive for a moment.
Barion turned to Caelum. "Tell me, do you know the disciple's oath?"
Caelum met his gaze, a flicker of pride and nostalgia crossing his features. "Yes. My father taught it to me when I was a child. In my youth, I knew both the privileges and duties of noble education. That oath… I heard it many times around the family table, long before I understood its full meaning."
Barion gave a brief nod, seemingly satisfied.
"Then you know this ritual is not mere words. It binds, and it judges."
He gestured to the cup. "Come forward."
Caelum stepped closer, feeling the warmth of the hearth against his neck.
Without a word, Barion made a shallow cut in his palm. Three dark drops of blood fell into the cup, mixing with a base of black wine already resting there. Then he handed the dagger to Caelum.
"Your turn."
The cold metal bit into his skin. A thin red line formed, and the blood flowed, joining Barion's. The metallic scent rose instantly, mingling with the bitterness of the wine.
Barion raised the cup, holding it between them like a sacred object.
"By this mingled blood, I take you as my student. Your blade, your breath, your will… I will forge them until they cannot break. If you betray this oath, may this blood consume you in shame."
He drank a sip, then offered the cup to Caelum. "And you?"
Caelum's fingers closed around the cold silver. He held the knight's gaze.
"By this mingled blood, I become your disciple. My blade will follow your hand, my step your path. If I betray you, may this blood choke me."
He brought the cup to his lips and drank. The acrid, warm taste of wine mixed with iron tightened his throat.
Barion slowly set the cup down on the desk, then placed his bandaged hand on Caelum's shoulder. His grip was firm, almost heavy. "From this moment on… you are no longer alone. But remember: I will spare you nothing."
The wood crackled softly in the hearth, and the room seemed to close in around them. The oath had been sealed, and Caelum knew there was no turning back.
Suddenly, a sharp, clear beep echoed inside his skull, accompanied by a fleeting flash of light in his field of vision. His heart skipped a beat. A notification had just appeared in the System…