The first light of dawn did not arrive gently.
It pressed itself against the horizon like a blade being drawn, slashing pale grey across the night-soaked sky. The Rosenfeld estate, usually so imposing beneath the sun, seemed quieter beneath that dim, colorless light—like an ancient beast still half-asleep.
Frost clung to the tiled roofs.
Mist hung low, coiling along the stone paths and courtyards, erasing edges, softening shapes.
And through that cold, muted world…
Three figures walked.
A Morning That Should Have Been Ordinary
Kel fastened the last buckle of his dark travel coat with steady fingers.
The coat was simpler than the banquet attire, but no less precise—stitched from thick black fabric reinforced along the inner seams. Its hem fell just below his knees, the inside lined with muted grey. His boots were polished but practical, meant for road dust rather than marble floors. A thin, high-collared inner shirt sat close against his skin, hiding the slight hollows at his collarbones.
His gloves were new.
Soft, dark leather.
No crest.
No sigil.
His hair, still slightly damp from the brief wash he'd allowed himself, was combed back neatly, a few strands falling where they wished along his forehead.
He stood in his room for a moment, letting his gaze sweep across it one last time.
The neatly arranged desk.
The shelf of books.
The bed, made with military precision.
The window, thin frost at its edges, the world beyond beginning to brighten.
It looked the same as yesterday.
It would look the same tomorrow.
Only he would not be here.
Kel drew in a quiet breath.
No nostalgia swelled in his chest.
No sentiment.
Only a faint awareness—like pressing fingertips against the outline of a scar that no longer hurt, but remembered.
From today… I will be somewhere the estate cannot see.
His lips did not move.
But his eyes deepened.
He turned from the room.
Took his prepared travel satchel—lean, efficient, holding only what he deemed indispensable—and slung it over his shoulder.
Then he reached for the door.
The latch clicked softly.
And the quiet life of Kel von Rosenfeld, the cursed heir who never left his radius of stone and frost, began to peel away.
Waiting at the Side Gate
The main gates of Rosenfeld Manor were immense, armored in black metal and engraved with the house crest—the ash-wreathed sword—like a warning to all who approached.
Kel did not go there.
He walked through the inner corridors with sure steps, past still-sleeping chambers and muted alcoves. The few servants awake at such an early hour were occupied with stoves and buckets, their footsteps swift and preoccupied.
They did not look up.
No one stopped him.
He had chosen this hour precisely for that reason.
He turned down a quieter passage near the eastern wing, one rarely used except by certain staff and knights. The air here was colder, the walls older, the stone showing faint lines of age like wrinkles on a long-lived face.
Ahead, a small iron-bound door waited, inset into the wall.
Not secret.
But forgotten enough.
A side gate—used for moving supplies in and out without disturbing the grand flow of servants and carriages.
And standing by that door, breaths rising faint and white in the morning chill…
Were Reina Asheville and Landon Vire.
Reina wore a reinforced navy travel cloak over her standard Rosenfeld trainee uniform. The cloak was clipped high at her neck, pulling her posture even straighter. Her hair was tied back severely, not a strand loose. A sword, standard issue, hung at her hip in a plain sheath—well-maintained, no ornamentation.
Her expression was calm.
Eyes sharp.
Hands gloved, folded neatly in front of her as if she were standing formal watch rather than waiting to leave everything she knew.
Landon stood beside her, taller, shoulders broad beneath a dark brown travel coat that had seen more wear than Kel's. It bore a few scuffs from previous duties, thread repaired at the cuffs. His sword sat a little lower on his hip, as if carried by habit rather than vanity. His jaw was clenched just enough to show tension.
His fingers flexed at his sides when he spotted Kel approaching.
He steadied them.
Kel walked up to them without rushing.
His footsteps made no unnecessary sound.
The mist curled lazily around the three of them.
He stopped just within arm's length.
Three Quiet Vows
Their eyes met in turn.
Reina first.
Then Landon.
Kel's gaze was the same as ever—storm-grey, clear, composed. But there was a subtle shift when he looked at them now. Not cordial distance.
Acknowledgment.
"You both came," he said quietly.
Reina's reply was simple.
"You asked me to walk."
Her chin lifted barely a fraction.
"I do not retract my steps."
Landon exhaled through his nose, a visible cloud escaping in the cold.
"You said it would be dangerous," he muttered. "If I'm going to be bruised either way, I'd rather it be somewhere that matters."
His mouth twitched—an attempt at humor, crushed halfway by sincerity.
"So… I will go."
Kel's gaze lingered on them a beat longer.
He gave a single, shallow nod.
"Then from this moment," he said, voice low but firm, "we move as three."
His hand rested briefly over his chest—an unconscious gesture, as if acknowledging the cursed core inside that might fail him at any time.
"Not as master and servants. Not as heir and knights."
His eyes hardened ever so slightly.
"But as travelers bound by the same road."
The words hung in the frosted air.
No one refuted them.
No one bowed.
Not here.
Not for this.
Kel turned slightly toward the side gate door.
He reached for the iron latch.
Above Them – The Duke's Window
Across the estate, high in the private wing where only a few dared tread, a window overlooked the eastern grounds.
Within that chamber, the curtains were parted just enough for one figure to stand unseen.
Duke Arcturus Rosenfeld, still dressed in the dark robe he favored upon waking, stood in the shadow beside the window. He had not returned to sleep.
He rarely needed much, but today, he had not sought any.
He had felt dawn spreading its fingers across the world and had risen to stand here.
To look out.
To see.
He watched the mist.
The wall.
The small, iron-bound side gate.
From this distance, the three figures below were small, almost indistinct against the pale stones and creeping frost—but he knew them.
The slim, neat outline of his son.
The girl who had placed first.
The boy who had placed third.
His eyes, sharp even at this hour, did not soften.
But something in his chest tightened, ever so slightly.
So, you truly leave this way.
Like a thief, not of coin, but of your own destiny from the world's expectations.
He watched as Kel raised his hand.
Watched as his son, curse-bound and iron-willed, placed it upon the side gate's latch.
Watched as the two youths beside him stood—not behind.
Beside.
Not as shield.
As presence.
Arcturus exhaled slowly, the faintest ghost of breath fogging the glass.
He would not call out.
He would not summon Kel back for a final word.
If he did, the boy might turn.
And in turning, drag chains that had just been cut back onto his shoulders.
No.
This departure had to be clean.
No witnesses.
No dramatic farewells.
He had agreed.
He would not falter.
Still.
His hand lifted slightly, palm resting against the cold inner sill.
The side gate door creaked.
Kel stepped through first.
Reina followed.
Landon last.
In the quiet between heartbeats, Arcturus Rosenfeld—Duke, war-general, living blade of the Empire's northern flank—looked upon his son's back…
And, for the first time in many years, felt something akin to prayer brush against his thoughts.
Walk sharply.
Do not break before you are seen.
He said nothing aloud.
The window kept his secrets.
Below, the gate closed.
Beyond the Wall
On the other side, the world sounded different.
Not the softened hush of restricted courtyards and cushioned steps.
The air carried the faint voices of distant workers, the clatter of carts beginning their day, the muted roar of a nearby town slowly waking. The outer road stretched ahead—a ribbon of packed earth edged in frost, disappearing into the lightening horizon.
No banners flew here.
No crest stood to mark his passage.
For everyone within Rosenfeld estate, Kel was in "closed seclusion".
Training.
Hidden.
Unseen.
But reality said otherwise.
Kel drew in his first breath as not Kel von Rosenfeld, cursed heir locked inside cold stone—
But as a nameless traveler standing on the edge of the Empire's vast, indifferent body.
Reina adjusted the strap of the pack across her shoulder, checking the tying of her scabbard. Her eyes swept the road, noting exits, vantage points, possible ambush sites, as if such evaluation was as natural as breathing.
Landon rolled his shoulder slowly, testing the pain there.
It protested.
He grinned faintly at the discomfort.
Still workable.
Kel stepped forward.
The frost crunched softly beneath his boots.
The sound, small and almost fragile, cut through the morning stillness like the first stroke of a blade upon unmarked steel.
"We will not be using my name," Kel said, still facing the road.
Reina and Landon looked at him.
"To the world," he continued, "I am no longer a Rosenfeld heir. Just another minor noble's son traveling with his hired swords, or a wandering student learning through the road."
His profile in the cold light looked older.
Sharper.
"If anyone asks," he added, "you are my guards, or simply fellow travelers. Decide what suits you best in the moment."
He didn't ask if they accepted.
He assumed.
Reina's tone was quiet, unwavering.
"Names can be used as chains."
Her gaze fixed forward.
"Roads do not care what we are called."
Landon huffed softly.
"Fine by me," he said. "As long as commands are clear and no one expects me to bow to fools."
Kel's lips moved.
Not quite into a smile.
But into a faint curve—like the memory of one.
"Good."
He took another step.
Then another.
And the three of them began to move.
Away from the estate.
Away from the walls.
Into a world that would not welcome them, but might recognize them, someday, by the marks they carved into its unfeeling skin.
From the Window, One Last Glance
Arcturus watched until the three figures became smudges against the light, then points, then nothing the human eye could properly track.
He did not realize how tightly his hand had clenched at the windowsill until a faint ache ran through his fingers.
He loosened them.
Slowly.
Turned away.
The room behind him was dim, still heavy with the remnants of night.
He stood there for a few breaths more, letting his thoughts quiet.
You wanted the consequences to belong only to you, Kel.
He walked back toward the interior of his chamber, the morning slowly spreading its pale light across the floor.
But do not forget—
What you do out there will eventually ripple back here.
He sat at the small table by his bed and reached for a document he had left unopened.
For a moment, he did not read.
He simply listened—to the silence.
To the absence.
To the faint new weight pressing against his chest where no armor lay.
"Helena will ask soon," he murmured. "The estate will move. The world will turn."
His eyes hardened.
"Walk well, son. Because whether you intend it or not, you drag my name into the world with every breath you take."
He opened the document at last.
But part of his mind remained outside, on a narrow road where three young figures walked away from the only fortress that had ever known them as more than passing silhouettes.
First Steps of a Ghost and Two Blades
On the road, the cold bit more sharply.
Distant crows cried in hoarse voices from bare-branched trees. The ground alternated between packed dirt and patches of thin ice that cracked beneath their weight.
No carriage carried them.
No escort flanked them.
Reina walked on Kel's right side, a half-step behind, gaze sweeping in quiet vigilance.
Landon walked on his left, a hand resting lightly near his sword, eyes occasionally flicking toward Kel as if memorizing his breathing pattern without realizing.
Kel's expression remained unchanged.
But inside—
A quiet realization took root.
I have truly left.
For the first time since waking in this world, he was not moving within planned routes, predictable events, or scripted rails of the game he once knew.
Each step from here was new.
Live.
If he miscalculated… people might die.
Not faceless NPCs on a screen.
Not strangers in digital taverns.
These two.
Beside him.
By their own choice.
He exhaled softly.
Then I have no right to be weak.
The wind picked up, carrying with it the smell of distant hearthfires and something older beneath it—dirt, iron, and possibility.
Kel tightened his grip on the strap of his satchel.
"Let's go," he said quietly.
And for the first time—
Kel von Rosenfeld, Reina Asheville, and Landon Vire left no trace behind the Rosenfeld estate walls…
Except for the empty space they once occupied.
And a Duke by a window, watching three shadows merge with the horizon.