There came a night when Rodrik Vanhart stopped looking at sunrises.
When Elira's refusal arrived in that thin envelope, he didn't rage—he simply folded the hope that once filled him and left it behind, like armor shed after a war only he remembered. From that day forward, he accepted something quietly, without ceremony.
That happiness was never meant for him.
That life was reserved for others. Softer ones. Those not tempered by steel and silence.
Rodrik would not chase dawn again.
Instead—
He would become the wall upon which dawns for others could rise.
The Shift
After that banquet season, his demeanor changed.
He returned to the battlefield more a commander than a man. Those under his command said his efficiency sharpened. His orders became clearer, his strategies colder and more effective. He no longer stayed behind after victory to tend to wounded hands or listen to a soldier's fear.
He took care of his troops, yes—but as assets, not as lives he hoped would survive.
He rode with them, but ahead of them. Spoke with them, but from above them.
And when he returned home, he did not entertain hopes.
He retired instead to the small military chamber in the Vanhart estate rather than his lordly quarters. That hardwood room felt austere—just maps, armaments, reports, and the quiet hum of the night.
He would sit beside the lantern, listening to the crackling wick, pretending that it drowned out the echo of footsteps he once thought he'd hear twice.
No laughter.
No waiting.
Just papers.
Ink.
Orders.
Duty.
Displacing Life with Responsibility
When younger knights visited him for advice, they would leave disturbed. He offered wise counsel—but no longer spoke of honor or safety. Only results.
When asked about his health, he answered, "Irrelevant."
When asked about joy, he answered nothing.
His younger brother, Vance Vanhart—soon to be the next Count—tried once to speak to him.
"You have changed, brother," Vance had said quietly.
Rodrik glanced at him over a map.
"No," he replied. "I have become what I must."
Vance looked at the man he once admired and realized something painfully simple.
He had not broken.
He had calcified.
Years Later – News of the Duel
Time flowed like river ice: slow, cold, suffocating.
Elira Malloren was married within two years—to a merchant-noble eligible via family alliance. Rodrik did not attend. He declined invitation. Instead, he oversaw defensive wall reinforcement on the northern border.
He watched the courier arrive but did not read the wedding announcement.
At least, not fully.
He did not need to.
He already knew.
The paper burned halfway through the first unread line.
Not by fire.
But beneath his fingers.
His aura flared one breath too long.
Five Years After the Banquet
He had reached thirty-one winters.
The day had begun overcast, frost layering the barracks, weapons racks glittering in muted silver.
He sat reviewing deployment figures when a servant informed him:
"Commander Rodrik, your niece, Lady Sera, will take part in a demonstration bout to welcome Viscount Malloren's family. The younger daughter of House Malloren is also participating."
He froze.
Not visibly—but inwardly, like the air itself was suddenly held captive.
A duel between Sera…
…and Lysenne Malloren.
The daughter of Elira's brother.
His fingers tightened imperceptibly on the paper.
A muscle in his jaw moved once.
He spoke calmly.
"Who approved this match?"
"It was suggested by the Count and agreed upon by Viscount Malloren himself—both deemed it a symbolic gesture of goodwill."
Rodrik stood.
Forged steel will coated his posture.
"Goodwill," he repeated slowly.
He gave no further reaction.
The Resurgence of a Dead Flame
He stepped into the snow outside, letting cold burn his lungs. In the courtyard ahead, children from two noble houses were preparing to spar—naïve, unaware that history walked behind them.
Rodrik watched from the northern terrace, arms crossed behind his back.
His niece, Sera—just nine—warmed up with steady movements taught under his own care. She was strong. And on the opposite end, Lysenne Malloren—calm, delicate, poised.
His mind flickered.
Two children standing in a ring of winter.
The echo of younger versions.
That should have been Elira's child.
My child.
The thought burned for one second.
And then Rodrik crushed it.
No.
It was no longer his place to feel.
Only to calculate.
He told himself it didn't matter.
The past was buried.
The family life he once pictured no longer existed.
So why… did the cold bite deeper that day?
Why did his heart tremble ever so slightly when Lysenne—Elira's niece—smiled with the same gentle angle at which Elira once did?
A Choice Made in Shadow
That was the day he made his decision.
He did not intend to cripple a child.
He did not walk into the room with evil.
But he was already hollow.
That night, in the marketplace, walking alone, he met a cloaked figure who whispered of power. Seated at a tavern corner, Rodrik listened—more out of frustration than ambition.
The stranger's words gnawed at him:
"You want control, don't you? To ensure victory. To never fail in front of eyes you once hoped to impress."
Rodrik's eyes narrowed.
But he didn't refute it.
The stranger offered him a potion.
"Give your niece an edge. Let your house stand unchallenged. If you give this to her, she will win with glory. She will never be hurt. Your name will be whispered as the man who trains legends."
Rodrik stared at the vial, sickly red under lamplight.
He didn't think of consequences.
He thought of control.
He could not win love.
But perhaps…
He could still win respect.
He took it.
And with that single choice—
He accepted the curse beneath the power.
Beneath Duty, What Remained
Now, recollecting years later from his dim watchtower, sitting beside the crackling brazier, Rodrik's breath left him slowly.
He realized:
It wasn't rage that handed Sera that potion—
It was despair wearing the mask of duty.
A refusal to accept powerlessness.
A man unable to harm others at first—
harmed them by desiring to never feel weak again.
He buried his humanity amidst discipline.
And later, buried his atonement beneath ambition.
The snow rained against the window slits.
Soft.
Merciless.
Rodrik lowered his gaze.
"I wanted to build a future," he murmured to the cold. "When that shattered… I chose to control what remained."
His hand clenched.
Not in anger.
But in apology—to someone long gone.
And to someone he doomed despite wanting to protect.