A Blade That Refused
While Victor and the others were descending into the buried heart of the village, far away in the western district of Fantom city, another storm was brewing.
The western district did not welcome nobles.
Its streets were narrow and damp, lit only by crooked lanterns that burned with a sickly yellow glow. Shadows overlapped like tangled webs between the buildings. The air carried the scent of metal, oil, and something faintly rotten.
A cloaked boy moved from alley to alley, his boots careful against the uneven stones.
Albion Saulon.
The heir of House Saulon.
The one Victor had defeated publicly—humiliatingly.
Even now, days later, Albion could still feel it. The memory pressed against his ribs like a bruise. Victor's golden eyes looking down at him. That calm expression. That silence.
He clenched his jaw.
A servant had already rushed back to the Saulon estate to report the disgrace. Albion knew what would follow. His father would not tolerate such shame.
