Rain drummed on de Stalvart mansion roof—steadily, mercilessly, as if nature reminded of past debts. In twilight when day yields to night, I, Sholn de Lorens, went to meet youth's ghosts.
Floorboards creaked under boots like old minstrel forgetting melody. My name once echoed legends whispered by campfires. Now smelled of sulfur and disappointment.
Library met with scent of parchment and wax—aroma of knowledge warming with illusion of understanding. Esten de Stalvart sat by fireplace, carved from stone of unyielding. He tolerated no empty words—even when we were brothers in laughter and dreams.
— What are you doing here? —voice cut air like thrown gauntlet.
I inhaled stale air soaked with leather and iron:
— Arrived by Marshal's order.
Confidence rang in tone, but somewhere deep slipped doubt's shadow. Esten narrowed eyes.
— Urgent? Could send another. Marshal has dozen hounds politer than you.
Words pricked like thorns by abandoned roads. I stepped closer, candlelight brushed face with gold.
— World absurd, Esten. —Voice softer, like wind before storm. — We live in kingdom where justice sold by gold weight, honor cheaper than good wine. Yet we chose path. Freedom not in escaping absurdity, but being together despite differences.
Words hung in air with scent of flowers from fields where blood not yet spilled. Esten slammed book shut with bang.
— Philosophizing? —Metal grated in voice. — Then roll to hell with your high matters.