Tyron looked around the empty shop with quiet satisfaction.
"We got the place cheap," Amice muttered, stepping beside him. The short, bald man rubbed the back of his neck with a grin.
"Aye, we did," Thyron replied, his eyes still roaming the bare walls.
Just then, Ellis—broad-shouldered and balding—entered with a grunt. "It's getting dark."
Thyron looked out toward the red sun dipping low on the horizon. "We should head back."
The three men stepped out onto the smooth stone-paved road, only to be stopped by a woman standing at the edge of the square.
She looked to be in her thirties, dressed modestly, a polite smile on her lips.
"Did the shop meet your expectations, Master Thyron?" she asked.
"It did. Thank you for the generous offer, Miss Tiffany."
She was the one who had sold it to them.
"Think nothing of it. You're refugees under the cathedral's protection—it's only right."
They exchanged farewells and walked on.
"Having the holy cathedral as your backer—there's no better blessing in this city," Amice said.
"That's the truth," Ellis agreed.
"We owe thanks to the Goddess herself," Thyron said, voice firm with reverence.
Ellis clapped his back. "And your boy—on the path to being a Holy Knight now."
He paused. "I knew there was something in him that day in the trenches of Silveria."
"Aye," Amice joined in, animated. "I remember him standing alone against forty men—each one a full head taller, each one howling for blood."
"Four spears and two swords, broken by the end," Ellis said. "He killed them all. Brought us out of the encirclement."
"It was the greatest fight I've ever seen," Amice added. "And I've served in five armies."
Thyron said nothing, walking just a step ahead.
There was pride in his eyes—but also something else.
By the time they reached the cathedral gates, the red sky had deepened.
"Let's meet again tomorrow," Thyron said quietly.
"Aye. We'll check in with Ambell and Eldous, see if they've sorted the wares for the shop," Ellis replied.
They parted at the entrance.
Inside, Thyron walked down a corridor to a small stone room to the left and sat cross-legged on the straw mat.
Then came the knock.
He stood, opened the wooden door—and froze.
A tall, muscular man stood there, dressed in the green of the trainee uniform, with a red cape over one shoulder.
And slung across the man's shoulder was Alric, limp and unconscious.
The man stepped inside.
"Bryan," he said simply. "Captain of the Third Cohort. The one your son's been chosen into."
He laid Alric gently on the mat.
Thyron's eyes narrowed. "What happened to him?"
The captain stood half a head taller, but Thyron met him squarely. He had looked worse men in the eye—and survived.
"He underwent his divine awakening," Bryan explained. "Mother Reverend conducted it herself. He's not hurt—just drained."
There was something in his tone. Thyron caught it—a flicker of jealousy, buried under formal calm.
He pressed. "Is he injured?"
"He's healed," Bryan said. "By her own hand. No one could've done better."
He turned to leave, pausing at the door.
"Let him rest. He'll wake a new man by morning."
With a faint smirk, he closed the door behind him.
Thyron stood in the silence.
He knew his thoughts were foolish. What was he doing, measuring a holy captain?
He'd be crushed like a fly.
But even so—he would die for his son. Without question.
Thyron stood there in silence, staring down at his unconscious son lying face-down on the straw mat.
The green collar of Alric's uniform was stretched slightly, and where the fabric parted, Thyron caught a glimpse of skin—a pale scar etched across dark flesh, like a wound that had tried to heal but never could.
He remembered.
Ellis and Amice had spoken of glory—of the day Alric stood alone against forty soldiers.
But Thyron—he remembered everything else.
He remembered his son's breathing, ragged and shallow. The way his boy had clutched that spear with both hands, chest heaving, every ounce of strength spent. No divine power then. Just muscle, madness, and desperation.
He remembered the cut after cut, how they opened like split fruit along Alric's arms and legs, staining his blue tunic deep red.
And he remembered the moment it almost ended.
One of them—a soldier with murder in his eyes—had slipped behind Alric, sword raised.
Thyron had seen it.
He had shouted.
But the man moved too fast.
The blade came down hard, and lodged in Alric's back.
The scream never left Thyron's throat.
But Alric turned—turned with the blade still stuck in him—and drove his spear through the man's chest in one violent motion.
The dying soldier grabbed the shaft and snapped it, the spear shattering beneath his fingers.
But Alric didn't stop.
He lunged forward, stabbing the broken handle into the man's chest. The wood split flesh and bone until a wet, gurgling hole opened where the heart used to be.
That was his fourth spear.
There were no more weapons.
Alric turned, grabbed the sword lodged in his own back, and ripped it free.
The wound it left was deep—so deep Thyron had seen white bone flash through the blood.
Still, Alric fought on.
Slower. Sluggish. But unstoppable.
Ten more men.
He broke two more swords.
Took a dozen new wounds.
But he fought. Until the final enemy stood. And then—
He drove the broken hilt of a sword into the man's skull with both hands, the sound of splintering bone echoing through the field.
And then he collapsed.
Alric had fallen among the bodies, silent, unmoving, chest barely rising.
And Thyron had thought—this is how my son dies.
That night had never left him.
It haunted him more than anything he'd seen in all his years of war.
It was the night he decided to leave.
He brought his family south—to the Kingdom of Abundance. To peace. To safety. Or so he thought.
When he heard that Alric had been chosen by the Cathedral, chosen as a knight of the Goddess herself—he rejoiced.
But now, as he stood over his unconscious son once again, bloodless but still pale, he couldn't help the question forming in his heart.
Had he made the right choice?
Or had he simply led his son from one battlefield into another kind of hell?