Lore had been confined to his chambers for seven days.
Seven long, grinding days after his debacle with the Demon Snow Lion—seven days of silence, unanswered questions, and waiting. He paced the length of his room until the pattern of his own footsteps became unbearable.
How long will they keep me here?
Can they truly not see the value in what I did?
The questions chased each other in endless circles, offering no answers. Worse still was the absence of his gear. No word. No updates. Just emptiness.
One day became two. Two became three. Three became a week.
By the seventh night, Lore decided he was done waiting.
His gear had to be finished by now. And if it wasn't, he would hear it directly—from Garron. Permission be damned.
Late that night, when Windas slept beneath its glass-lit glow, Lore slipped quietly from his chambers. He moved through the halls with practiced ease, keeping to shadows, until the distant thunder of steel guided him toward the Hall of Arms.
The forge was alive.
Hammers rang against anvils in rhythmic violence, sparks bursting like miniature suns. Water hissed and screamed as glowing metal met its embrace, steam rolling thick through the chamber. Heat clung to Lore's skin the moment he stepped inside.
A forge hand spotted him weaving through the maze of kilns and worktables.
"Oi!" the man shouted. "Ain't you on house arrest?!"
Lore stopped and fixed him with a cold, unwavering stare.
The forge hand flinched and quickly lowered his head.
"Coulda just said no like a goddamn regular person…"
Lore moved on without a word.
At the back of the forge, Garron worked alone, surrounded by chaos only a master could understand. Demon Snow Lion pelt lay stretched across racks, carefully treated. Chipped fangs and shards of bone rested in neat arrangements. And on the central table—
Lore's sword.
Cracked. Warped. Worse than when he had left it.
Lore stepped forward. "Is my gear done yet?" His eyes narrowed. "Why does my sword look worse than when I brought it in?"
Garron didn't look up at first. When he did, there was no irritation in his eyes—only focus.
"There was a crack in the blade," Garron said calmly. "Small. Easy to miss. Another solid strike and it would've failed you when you needed it most."
He gestured to the damaged steel. "Steel's like people. Looks whole right up until it breaks."
Lore clenched his jaw. "…I didn't realize the damage ran that deep. How much longer?"
Garron sighed, resting his hands on the table. "I don't know. What I'm doing here isn't quick work." He paused. "I'll give you a loaner. Not because you deserve special treatment—but because a warrior without a blade is just waiting to die."
He met Lore's gaze. "When I'm done, this sword will carry more than weight and edge. It'll carry intent. But you have to trust me."
Lore exhaled slowly. "I do. I just… hate waiting."
"I know," Garron said. "You faced something that shouldn't exist and walked away. That kind of thing changes a man." His voice hardened—not cruelly, but firmly. "Just don't let it convince you you're above the rest. Strength without humility rots fast."
Lore stiffened, then relaxed.
"You're a Head Squire," Garron continued. "Eyes are always on you—even when you think no one's watching. If your people see pride, they'll mirror it. If they see resolve, they'll follow it."
Lore swallowed. "…If I were in their place, I'd resent a superior acting the way I have."
A faint smile crossed Garron's face. "Exactly. A leader doesn't stand higher—he lifts others until they can stand beside him."
He placed a heavy hand on Lore's shoulder. "You've got more potential than you realize. But potential means nothing if you don't master what's in here." He tapped Lore's chest. "Sharpen the mind. Steady the heart. The blade will follow."
Garron extended his hand. "You're walking a hard road, kid—but it's one worth walking."
Lore clasped it firmly.
When Lore stepped back into the streets of Windas, the city glowed around him. Glass murals reflected the warm inner light of every home, casting prismatic shadows across the streets. He pulled his hood low.
Two guards rounded the corner.
Lore turned away and quickened his pace.
"Head Squire," one called. "We know it's you. Return to your quarters at once. This is your only warning before more aggressive action is taken."
Lore stopped, sighed, and raised his hands. "Come on, guys. Let's forget this happened. I'll head back—I'm just going stir-crazy in—"
"Ah-ah-ah," the guard interrupted. "You're on house arrest. Either you come with us, or we haul you to a cell and make sure you really can't go anywhere."
Lore muttered under his breath and followed them.
Back in his chambers, he turned to speak—but the door slammed shut behind him.
"Hey—come on—" Lore huffed and collapsed onto his bed.
Sleep came in fragments.
The mountain returned.
Cold gnawed at his bones as the Demon Snow Lion loomed above him, its massive form blotting out the sky. Its breath steamed in the frozen air, saliva dripping from its jaws and splashing against stone.
Prey.
The word never left its mouth—but Lore felt it coil in his chest.
The dream lurched.
He was fighting again. His body felt heavy, slow, wrong. Claws tore through flesh. Pain flared, then dulled into something distant. Fear burned hot and constant.
Yet he kept moving.
Not because he was fearless—but because stopping meant dying.
The scene shifted.
The Lion lay still, broken in the snow. Steam rose from its fur. Lore stood over it, chest heaving, blood soaking into the frozen ground beneath his boots.
Silence pressed in.
Then his own voice spoke—low, calm, and far too close.
You barely survived.
Lore turned. Nothing stood behind him.
You call this strength? One second slower and you would've died forgotten on that mountain.
Cracks splintered through the snow beneath his feet.
This was luck, the voice whispered. And luck always runs out.
Lore tightened his grip on his sword as doubt weighed heavier than any wound.
You're not done being hunted, the voice said softly. You just don't know what's chasing you yet.
Lore jolted awake with a sharp gasp.
Sweat drenched him. His hands were clenched so tightly in the sheets that the fabric had torn beneath his fingers. He lay there, staring into the darkness, heart hammering.
No beast watched him.
Only the road ahead—and the fear of what it might demand.