"Ahh, you managed to fit yourself into that armor after all," Gradion remarked with a grin, eyeing Vincent up and down. "I thought it'd be hanging off you like a pot on a pole."
The older man chuckled, his heavy boots clinking beside Vincent's as they marched toward the castle gates. The boy gave a dry smile.
"It's actually a bit tight," Vincent muttered, adjusting the dark steel chestplate. The polished armor caught the morning sun, its crimson accents glowing faintly under the light.
At the gate, his dark horse awaited, already saddled. Vincent mounted swiftly, his white hair catching the breeze as it swept across the courtyard. His eyes—red as blood—glimmered under the rising sun, almost unnatural in their vividness.
The others were already assembled. Arthur, mounted and quiet as ever. Darius, joking with Rynard. Aurel, serene atop a tall silver stallion, his elven eyes ever watchful.
The company set off.
Their path wound from the marble terraces of the Upper City, through the bustling avenues of the Middle, and down into the dense stone alleys of the Lower City. Crowds parted as the hunting knights passed, cloaks fluttering, banners swaying.
And at last, they reached the gates of Triton.
Massive. Ancient. Crafted of stone and steel, reinforced a hundred times over through the centuries. The gateway to the Empire beyond.
It had taken hours to descend through the capital—but that was the nature of the Imperial City. A world stacked upon itself, as vast and deep as the empire it ruled.
Today, Vincent would ride past those gates.
Into the forest.
Into the wild.
The gates groaned like a waking giant as they began to open. Metal gears clanked and screeched in rhythm, echoing across the stone walls. It was the same sound Vincent had heard on his first arrival in Triton—the deep, mechanical hum that had filled him with both dread and wonder.
Back then, he was dazed and barely breathing. Now, he sat atop a horse, armored and aware.
He craned his neck, gazing up at the towering iron slabs. They were carved with faded sigils, worn from centuries of storms and war, yet still proud and unyielding. The sheer scale of it made him feel like a mere ant beneath a titan's gate.
"We'll take the road through Haltor, then veer off where the trees begin to thicken," Arthur said from the front, raising a gloved hand. "To Scardjigan."
And with that, they rode.
Their hooves thundered gently over the cobbled path, a steady rhythm of unity. As they passed beyond the gates, the land unfolded before them like a painting come to life.
The outskirts of Triton were nothing like the dense heart of the capital. Here, the air was cleaner. Freer. Vincent took it all in—the endless green fields waving in the breeze, dotted with wildflowers that swayed like dancers. Rivers shimmered like melted glass under the sun, winding their way through valleys like silver veins.
The sight stole his breath.
It was beautiful.
Far more beautiful than anything he had ever known in the world he'd left behind. The polluted skyline, the concrete, the noise—it all felt like a distant dream, as if that life had belonged to someone else.
Now, he was riding beneath the sun, clad in armor, sword at his side.
And for a brief moment, the fear inside him quieted.
As their journey continued, the group passed by a variety of travelers—merchants hauling goods in creaking wagons, cloaked wanderers leading pack animals, and families of immigrants with tired eyes and hopeful steps. Some paused as the knights rode by, their attention drawn to Vincent.
He noticed the glances.
Some were fleeting. Others lingered.
A few faces even showed surprise, as if they recognized something in him—or someone.
Is it because of how I look? he wondered, touching the pale strands of his hair that danced in the wind. Or was it the red eyes? The armor?
He wasn't sure.
So he pushed the thought away and focused instead on the road ahead. Their mission.
Eventually, they reached a crossroads, where a moss-covered sign stood crookedly at the edge of the trail. The word etched into the old wood was barely legible, but still clear enough to read.
[Scardjigan]
The name stood stark and quiet against the chirping of birds and rustling leaves.
They had arrived.
The path ahead wound into a dense forest, the trees growing close and tall, their canopies knitting together to blot out much of the sky. Shadows stretched long across the ground, and the air grew cooler, heavier.
After hours of trotting, the sun was dipping toward the horizon behind them. Their journey had taken most of the day, and now, at the mouth of the forest, it truly began.
"The sun's slowly hiding," Gradion muttered, glancing up at the forest canopy where streaks of orange and amber light filtered through the leaves. "We need to find a place to camp before dusk swallows the path."
The others gave nods of agreement, and they pressed on, the sounds of hooves muffled by fallen leaves and damp soil. The Scardjigan Forest had grown thicker, the trees older and the shadows deeper.
Eventually, they came upon a small clearing—just wide enough for a fire and a ring of tents. The trees encircled them like ancient watchers, silent and still.
"This will do," Arthur said, dismounting from his horse with the ease of a seasoned rider.
They moved quickly. Gradion gathered firewood, Rynard unpacked the food rations, Aurel stood at the perimeter muttering faint arcane words that shimmered faintly in the air—wards of protection, Vincent guessed.
Vincent, still adjusting to the weight of his armor, helped pitch the tents. As the fire came alive with a low crackle, warmth pushed back the creeping chill of nightfall.
They sat around the flames, the forest beyond now cloaked in dusk. Chirps, rustles, and distant howls whispered through the trees.
"We rest tonight," Arthur said, his voice steady but quiet. "Tomorrow, we hunt."
Vincent nodded silently, watching the firelight flicker across the faces of the knights.
***
A cry—soft but laced with anguish—echoed through the chamber. It was the cry of a mother: deep, longing, unrelenting. Marianne sat at the edge of the ornate bed, her trembling hands clutching a piece of cloth so tightly that her knuckles turned white.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, soaking into the fabric that she held close—her son's tunic.
There came a gentle knock on the door. It creaked open slowly, yet she did not look up. Her sobbing did not cease.
"My boy..." she whispered through the cloth, her voice broken.
A man stepped inside. Quietly, he walked to her side and sat beside her, his presence heavy with grief.
"Darling..." he murmured, trying to reach her, to draw her back from the weight of sorrow. She didn't answer. Her grip on the cloth only tightened.
"Marianne..." he called again, softer this time, almost as if the name itself might shatter.
Then he said it—what neither of them wanted to face.
"Tomorrow... we retrieve Vincent."
The words pierced her like a blade.
"Please... dear, say something," he pleaded.
Finally, she spoke, her voice brittle and raw. "You... you want me to look at our boy... lying in a coffin?" Her eyes still refused to meet his. "How much pain do you expect me to bear?"
"Darling, that's not what I meant," he replied quickly, his own voice cracking under the weight of sorrow.
But the truth hung heavy between them.
They would see their son again—but not in the way they had ever dreamed.
With a soft, deliberate movement, he wrapped his arms around her. She collapsed into his chest, her cries muffled against him, her tears soaking through the fabric of his clothes.
And there they stayed—in silence, in sorrow—mourning, grieving, longing for what had been lost.
At last, he closed his eyes, eyes as red as spilled wine. A single tear traced the line of his cheek.
The night stretched on.
They fell asleep in each other's arms, knowing that the morning would bring with it a cruel reminder of reality—a day filled with sorrow and unbearable pain.
The dawn broke gently through the high windows. The couple rose early, wordless and composed, already dressed and prepared for the road ahead. Their movements were slow, deliberate, as if weighed down by the knowledge of what awaited them.
He helped her up into the carriage, careful and steady.
Just as the horses stirred and the coach began to creak under motion, the coachman turned toward them.
"My lord," he said cautiously, "I've received a report. A beast is said to be running amok along the Bresslewalk Road. I'm afraid we'll need to divert through Scardjigan."
The Duke's voice came low, deep, and unwavering. "Very well."
The horses stirred. The wheels rolled.
And so they set forth—toward Triton.
Toward their son.
Toward heartbreak.
For a fleeting moment, the estate faded into the distance, swallowed by the horizon.
Inside the ornate carriage, silence hung heavy—thick as mourning cloth.
"Darling...~" the Duke spoke softly.
But the Duchess did not waver. Her eyes remained fixed on the window, watching the trees and green fields blur past, refusing to meet her husband's gaze.
"Marianne, are you still angry with me?" he asked, his voice low, strained—more plea than question.
She didn't respond at first. The wheels turned. The silence deepened.
Then her voice came, cold and sharp, like steel drawn from its sheath.
"You were the one who let him go to war. How could I ever forgive you?"
The Duke turned his eyes away, struck. Her words had carved deep—clean and unforgiving.
"If only you had listened to me... If only you had stopped him..."
She paused, but her voice didn't waver.
"He would still be alive."
The Duke could only look down, his eyes heavy with regret. Deep inside, he knew—this was his fault. If only he hadn't allowed Vincent to join the war... his son might still be alive.
He opened his mouth to speak.
"Marianne... Darling, forgi—"
But his words were cut short as the carriage jolted to a sudden stop.
The horses outside neighed in distress.
"Whoaa!!" the coachman shouted.
The Duke leaned out slightly, brow furrowed.
"Waltkins, what's happening?"
"M-My Lord!" the coachman stammered, eyes wide. "A young boy just came flying onto the road! Thrown from the trees, it seems!"
---
"Strike it on the leg!" Gradion shouted, veins bulging as he held the taut rope.
The beast—massive, with hooves like stones—roared and thrashed, but Gradion held his ground like a mountain.
"Lien mehi~!" Aurel chanted. A radiant burst of magic struck the beast, weakening its limbs. Still, it stood firm, chained on all sides—Gradion, Rynard, Arthur, and Darius each holding a rope fast to its flailing limbs.
"Alright, boy! Now!!" Arthur barked.
Vincent sprang forward, sword gleaming, eyes locked on the creature's skull. He leapt, aiming to drive the blade straight down—
But the beast roared—louder than thunder—and snapped the rope around its head. In one brutal motion, it whipped around and struck Vincent midair.
He was hurled through the trees—crashing down hard on the dirt road.
"Arrghh...~~" Vincent groaned as he tried to push himself off the ground, his vision still spinning. He could hear the hurried clatter of boots drawing closer through the haze.
"Young knight! Are... are you alright?" a voice called out.
It was the coachman, eyes wide with concern. Vincent, still clutching his forehead, let out a sharp breath. His helmet had been flung off by the blow, and now his white hair spilled freely across his bruised face.
"I... I'm fine," Vincent muttered. "Y-You should get out of here, sir. There's a beast on the loose... it's still dangerous."
He lowered his hand, blood trailing down the side of his temple as he looked up at the man. The coachman froze. His breath caught in his throat, and a wave of recognition crashed over him.
His eyes widened.
"Master... Vincent?" the coachman whispered—his voice trembling with disbelief.
Vincent blinked. Confusion knit across his brow.
"...How do you know me?" he asked, slowly rising to his feet, one hand still pressed against his bleeding head.
Mr. Waltkins stepped back, stunned, mouth agape.
"It... it cannot be... You're... you're supposed to be..."
The words wouldn't come. He stared at the boy—no, the young man—standing before him like a ghost from the past.
"Your... hair... your eyes... wh–what happened to you..." Waltkins stammered, his voice trembling as he stepped closer, eyes never leaving Vincent's blood-streaked face.
Before the boy could answer, a new voice rang out—stern, deep, and commanding.
"Waltkins... what are you doing?"
Both heads turned toward the source.
From behind the carriage, a tall man stepped forward. His presence was commanding—every movement deliberate, his dark coat trailing slightly in the wind. His crimson eyes—sharp and weary—locked onto the coachman first, then shifted to Vincent.
And then, they widened.