That morning, Loxra did not greet Eiran and Ruen with silence.
It greeted them with voices.
"Hey—look, it's them!"
"The crazy kids!"
"The wolf hunters!"
The calls came from every direction. From vegetable sellers raising their hands with a laugh, from gate guards pretending to complain while shaking their heads, from children running past and pointing without fear.
Eiran lifted a hand in brief acknowledgment.
Ruen snorted.
"If killing a monster makes people this friendly," Ruen said, "I should've started years ago."
"Don't," Eiran replied. "You'd get arrogant."
The looks they received were warm. Not exaggerated admiration. Not fear.
The looks of people who knew them—along with their mischief, their flaws, and all the small stories tied to their names.
"Hey!"
An old bread seller raised his wooden tray high.
Eiran turned.
"Don't think that just because you killed a monster wolf," the man said, pointing at him,
"you're suddenly allowed to steal my bread."
Laughter rippled through the street.
Eiran raised both hands. "I wasn't planning to—"
The bread seller grinned.
"Good," he said.
"Because your strongest enemy… is me."
Ruen snorted beside him.
"I told you," he said casually,
"your strongest enemy would be the bread seller."
The laughter grew louder.
Eiran sighed. "Then I surrender."
The old man stepped closer and handed him a small loaf.
"But remember," he said more quietly,
"the wolf died because it dared to attack."
He tapped his cart.
"I'm alive because I know when to get angry."
Eiran accepted the bread and bowed slightly.
"Thank you."
"Go on," the man said.
"And don't let this city run out of bread."
The warmth of the morning slowly faded.
Not because of Eiran or Ruen.
But because of the sound coming from the western gate.
Hooves.
Many of them.
Not one.
Not two.
Twelve riders entered the city in tight formation. Light dark armor, swords hanging low, faces that didn't seek attention—yet commanded it all the same.
A full unit.
An elite unit.
Conversations on the main street stopped. People stepped aside without being told.
"Twelve…" someone whispered.
"That's a full force."
But what truly silenced Loxra wasn't their number.
Behind the mounted formation—walking instead of riding—was a man.
His long coat was plain, faded by travel. His blond hair was loosely tied back. His steps were light—too light for someone carrying a sword at his side.
Whispers spread like sparks.
"That's him…"
"The White Blade of Valenor."
"The one who traveled all the way north?"
"To the lands of the elves?"
"They say he's one of the Key Bearers."
"What key?"
"A blessing. A covenant."
Several people swallowed.
"They say he returned faster than the wind itself."
"Elves don't grant blessings lightly."
Kael stopped in front of Eiran and Ruen.
He looked them over—not judging muscle, but breathing, posture, the way they stood after surviving a long day.
Then he laughed softly.
Both of Kael's hands rose.
One landed on Eiran's head.
The other grabbed Ruen's.
He ruffled their hair mercilessly.
"Hey, kids," he said casually.
"It's been a while."
"Captain—!" Ruen protested.
"Hey!" Eiran tried to dodge.
"Still training?" Kael continued, completely ignoring them.
Eiran winced. "We—"
"The correct answer," Kael cut in lightly,
"isn't 'yes' or 'no.'"
He tapped their heads one last time before letting go.
"The correct answer is," he said with a grin,
"'We're not dead yet.'"
Laughter erupted from the unit behind him.
"If that's your training standard," Bram called out loudly,
"no wonder your students turned out like this."
"One smells like a bar," Eldric added calmly.
"The other smells like trouble."
Ruen sighed. "I told you."
Kael placed a hand on both of their shoulders—gentler this time.
"I hear you made the city nervous," he said.
"Good."
"Good?" Eiran asked.
"It means you're still alive," Kael replied,
"and the world hasn't figured out how to kill you properly yet."
They moved toward the edge of the city.
The unit spread out without orders. Twelve people moving as one. Kael crouched near dried blood and pressed two fingers into the soil.
"The monster was injured before it met you," he said.
"How do you know?" Eiran asked.
"The wound was old," Kael replied. "Its movement was erratic. It was running."
"From what?" Ruen asked.
Kael stood slowly.
"From something deeper."
The wind from the Forest of Auren felt colder after that.
By nightfall, they returned to the bar.
Kael's unit entered one by one. Twelve people. Armor dusty. Swords uncleaned. The room felt smaller.
"Heh."
Bram slapped the bar table.
"Helder," he said with a grin,
"this place hasn't changed."
Helder lifted his head, staring at Bram for a long moment.
"Yeah," he said at last.
"The same home it was when you were here."
Bram chuckled. "Thought you'd replace this table."
"And erase that crack?" Helder pointed to the corner.
"That's a memory."
"A bad one," Bram replied.
"A living one," Helder said.
Eiran froze.
"Wait," he said, turning quickly.
"You were here too?"
Bram glanced at him and smiled broadly.
"Yeah. And I was a stupid kid back then, too."
Kael laughed quietly.
"Some of us learned to fight on battlefields."
He glanced around the bar.
"Some learned how to live in places like this."
Helder slid a glass across the counter.
"And some never stop owing."
Bram lifted the glass. "And some always come back."
Kael turned to Eiran.
"I'll be staying for a while," he said.
"Patrols will increase. My unit stays on alert."
"And us?" Eiran asked.
Kael looked at him for a long moment.
"You train."
Ruen swallowed. "What kind of training?"
"The kind that makes you hate me," Kael replied cheerfully.
Night settled over Loxra.
Kael stood outside the bar, eyes fixed on the Forest of Auren.
"If you're still out there," he murmured,
"I won't be late this time."
Inside the bar, Eiran sat in silence.
He knew it now—
today wasn't the beginning of something small.
And whatever was moving inside the forest…
had finally drawn the attention of
The White Blade of Valenor.