A long silence hung between them.
Bastian did not move. He sat upright, back straight, hands resting loosely on his thighs, as if what he had just said was not a confession that could cost him his head at any moment. He waited for the smallest change on Edgar Valobry's face. A twitch at the corner of his eye. A slightly deeper breath. Anything.
But there was nothing.
Edgar's black gaze remained as cold as steel plunged into water. His face showed no anger, no shock, no grief. He looked like a statue of a general carved from unyielding stone. Strangely enough, that lack of reaction made Bastian feel a faint sense of disappointment.
Behind that calm exterior, however, Edgar was weighing his thoughts. Was the man before him provoking him? Mocking him with reckless audacity? Or perhaps both?
Yet from the way Bastian sat, from the absence of fear or arrogance that usually clung to the faces of lesser nobles, Edgar saw something far more dangerous: sincerity. This man was serious. He had not killed Kaelen out of rebellion or blind vengeance, but as a deliberate decision, one whose consequences he had already accepted.
At last, Edgar spoke.
"You really are bold," he said calmly, his voice flat but heavy. "Just as they say."
The corner of Bastian's lips lifted slightly, a thin smile that made the scars on his face look even more unsettling. "I'll take that as a compliment, Your Grace."
One of Edgar's brows shifted almost imperceptibly.
"And rude as well," he continued. "I imagine you have often been told that your parents never taught you proper manners."
Bastian did not take offense. If anything, he seemed mildly amused. "How would you know that, Your Grace? Are you a fortune teller now?"
Silence fell again, heavier this time.
Edgar leaned back in his chair, studying Bastian more closely. The man before him was dressed plainly: a black shirt with sleeves rolled up without care, practical combat trousers, dark leather boots made for function rather than display. No noble insignia. No unnecessary ornament. His black hair was unkempt, falling over his brow and temples, making it clear that Bastian rarely cared about his appearance as long as he could still fight.
But his face… his face was a map of war.
Scars cut across his cheek and jaw. Some had faded with time, others were still rough, like the marks of a beast's claws. A terrifying face, some might call it. Yet those wounds only reinforced his presence, something impossible to ignore and impossible to forget.
Bastian.
The Smiling Knight.
The name had long echoed across the battlefield, whispered with a mix of awe and fear. Before this great war, it had been almost unknown. Now, in a short span of time, he had amassed remarkable achievements and planted dread deep in the hearts of Iskandrite's enemies. To them, he was an omen of death. To allies, a hero. To nobles, a problem.
Edgar looked at him for a long moment, then said, "Do you know what mistake you made?"
"I'm not sure what you mean, Your Grace," Bastian replied calmly.
"Answer me seriously."
"I am serious," Bastian said without hesitation. "I don't believe I made any mistake. I only killed a traitor."
He paused, then added, "But I know what you mean. I killed your brother without following procedure."
"Correct," Edgar said. "So you are aware of it. You are not as insane as the rumors suggest."
His gaze sharpened. "Tell me. Why did you kill my brother… like that?"
Bastian took a slow breath. When he spoke again, there was no smile, no hint of humor in his tone.
"Because he kept sending me and my men on suicidal missions," he said. "To places where survival was almost impossible. I nearly died countless times. And every time I came back, my unit was reduced to scraps. Sometimes I was the only one left alive, just like what happened recently."
Edgar remained silent, letting each word settle.
"You said there was a better way," Bastian continued. "And you're right. There was. I could have reported him, waited for an investigation, maybe he would have been put on trial. But if I did that, he wouldn't die by my hand. He might die at someone else's hands. Or worse, he might receive a light sentence because of his connections. I didn't want that."
His voice hardened. "I wanted to make sure he suffered. By my own hands."
Edgar listened without interrupting. A brief thought crossed his mind: He really is a mad dog. But it was an acknowledgment, not an insult.
Edgar's expression grew stiffer, colder, as if the temperature in the room itself had dropped.
"You truly irritate me, Sir Bastian," he said. "You should not have killed my brother in that manner."
The atmosphere froze.
Yet Bastian did not seem disturbed in the slightest. He remained calm, as though those words were not a threat at all.
Edgar let out a long breath. The tension that had coiled between them slowly loosened, transforming into something heavier: exhaustion.
"The truth is," Edgar said at last, his voice lower as he clenched his fist on the table, "I should have been the one to kill him. He disgraced me. He betrayed his oath, our family name, and the Queen's trust. And the most humiliating part is that I failed to see it."
He stared at a single point in the distance before continuing. "Now everything makes sense. The assassination attempt on the Queen five years ago. How Mordune forces kept infiltrating undetected. Why this war dragged on for so long. Why we were always one step behind."
His jaw tightened. "I never imagined that the traitor I had been hunting all this time was my own brother."
Bastian listened without interrupting.
Edgar looked back at him.
"That is why I summoned you here," he said firmly. "To thank you. And to congratulate you on this achievement, Sir Bastian. You have done something extraordinary. You have rendered great service to the kingdom, and the kingdom will remember it. You will receive a reward worthy of your deeds."
Bastian fell silent. The sudden shift in the conversation threw him off balance for a moment, though it did not show on his face.
"In that case," he said after a few seconds, "is there anything else you require of me, Your Grace? If not, I will take my leave."
"You may go," Edgar replied.
Bastian stood, gave a short nod, and turned to leave. Just as his hand touched the door handle, Edgar's voice stopped him.
"Sir Bastian."
Bastian turned, half his body already facing the door.
"A bit of advice… and a warning," Edgar said. "Fix the way you speak. Or at least learn when to hold your tongue. Otherwise, you will make many enemies. I do not particularly care about that. But the nobles do. Especially given your current standing."
He continued, "There is no doubt you will be elevated to nobility after this war. From my observations, ninety percent of the nobles I keep an eye on dislike you, Sir Bastian. Thirty percent of them hate you. And about ten percent seem very eager to see you dead."
The numbers did not surprise Bastian. He had long lived with the awareness that he was surrounded by people who wished for his downfall. He was not afraid. Any fear he once had was buried alongside the corpses on the battlefield.
"That's fair," he said.
"Fair?" Edgar repeated.
Bastian turned halfway back, a thin smile returning to his face. "I also dislike ninety percent of the nobles. I genuinely hate thirty percent of them."
His eyes narrowed coldly. "And I truly wish I could kill ten percent of them."
Then he turned fully and walked away, leaving Edgar alone in the room that still held the shadows of blood and his brother's betrayal.