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Morning did not feel new.
It felt like a continuation of something unfinished.
Mist clung low to the ground behind the Strauss house, thin and pale, stretching itself across the training yard like a warning that hadn't decided what shape to take yet. The stone wall bore fresh marks—shallow gouges from wooden blades, footprints pressed deep into damp earth.
Rexor stood at one end of the yard, shoulders squared, breath steadying.
Voryn stood opposite him.
No signal was given.
They moved at the same time.
Wood struck wood with a dull crack, the sound sharp enough to scatter the birds perched along the wall. Rexor pressed forward immediately, closing distance instead of circling. His stance was tighter than it had been weeks ago—less reach, more control. His blade didn't sing through the air; it cut it.
Voryn retreated one step.
Then another.
He blocked cleanly, redirecting rather than stopping force, his movements economical to the point of discomfort. Where Rexor fought to dominate space, Voryn fought to deny it.
Their blades met again.
Rexor shifted mid-strike, altering the angle just before impact. Voryn adjusted instantly, but the change forced him half a step off balance.
Maxmilian watched from the edge of the yard.
He said nothing.
The duel continued.
Rexor's attacks came in short sequences now—two strikes, a pause, then a third from a different line. He tested reactions instead of committing to rhythm. Every time Voryn slipped into a familiar pattern, Rexor broke it.
Not perfectly.
But deliberately.
Voryn countered once, stepping inside Rexor's guard with a movement so fast it looked accidental. His blade stopped just short of Rexor's shoulder.
A warning.
Rexor didn't retreat.
He adjusted his footing instead, narrowing his stance, lowering his center of gravity. When Voryn tried the same entry again, Rexor pivoted, forcing contact along the flat of the blade instead of the edge.
The impact rattled Rexor's arms.
He held.
Voryn stepped back.
For the first time, his eyes changed—not widening, not hardening, but sharpening. Like a hunter realizing the terrain had shifted.
They circled.
Rexor advanced again, slower now. He waited. Let Voryn move first.
Voryn didn't.
Silence stretched between them, broken only by breath and the distant noise of the waking city.
Then Voryn lunged.
Rexor was ready.
He didn't meet the strike head-on. He slid past it, turning his shoulder, letting the force carry through empty space. His blade came up from below—not fast, not brutal, but correct.
It tapped Voryn's chest.
The sound was light.
Final.
They froze.
Rexor didn't smile.
His chest rose and fell hard, sweat darkening his shirt, arms trembling from restraint rather than exhaustion. He held the position for a second longer than necessary—then stepped back and lowered his blade.
Voryn looked down at where the strike had landed.
Then he nodded.
"You learned," he said.
Rexor swallowed. "I had to."
Voryn lowered his own weapon and stepped away. "You didn't chase the win."
Rexor exhaled slowly. "You didn't either."
That earned a faint pause.
Then Voryn said, "No."
The duel ended without ceremony.
They sat a short distance apart, backs against opposite stones, letting the heat drain from their bodies. The yard returned to stillness, as if the ground itself was catching its breath.
Maxmilian approached at last.
"You won," he said to Rexor.
Rexor nodded once. Not proudly. Thoughtfully.
"You didn't overextend," Maxmilian continued. "And you didn't hesitate."
Rexor looked down at his hands. "I almost did."
"But you didn't."
Voryn said nothing.
He was already alert again, eyes drifting toward the wall, the alley beyond it, the city sounds filtering in layers. Rest for him was a posture, not a state.
They remained there for several minutes.
Then Maxmilian spoke again.
"Where is Aurélia?"
The question landed softly.
Rexor answered without looking up. "She went out early."
Maxmilian waited.
"To see the Saintess," Rexor added.
The air shifted.
Not dramatically.
Subtly.
Maxmilian's gaze lifted. "Which one?"
Rexor frowned slightly. "There's only one people mean when they say it like that."
Maxmilian said nothing.
Rexor continued, unaware—or pretending to be. "They say she's the contractor of God. That if anyone can bless the shop, protect us… it's her."
Silence stretched again.
Voryn had gone still.
Not frozen—controlled.
His eyes lowered, fixed on the ground between his feet, expression unreadable. His grip tightened around the staff resting beside him, knuckles paling just slightly.
Maxmilian noticed.
He did not comment.
"When did she leave?" Maxmilian asked.
"Before dawn," Rexor said. "She said it wouldn't take long."
Maxmilian nodded once.
That was all.
Rexor glanced up, confused by the lack of response. "Is that… a problem?"
Maxmilian didn't answer immediately.
"No," he said finally. "Just a question."
Rexor accepted that, though uncertainty lingered in his eyes.
Voryn did not look up.
He looked like he knew something about.
Contractor of God.
He kept his face neutral.
He did not react.
He acted as though the words had passed over him like wind.
But inside, something had begun counting.
The house felt quieter without Aurélia.
Too orderly.
Too still.
Rexor washed and changed, then sat at the table, turning his wooden sword slowly in his hands. The victory from earlier had not settled into satisfaction. Instead, it gnawed at him—questions rising faster than answers.
Maxmilian stood near the window, watching the street.
Voryn remained near the doorway.
"Father," Rexor said after a while. "Do you believe in gods?"
Maxmilian didn't turn. "I believe in consequences."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one that matters."
Rexor frowned. "The knights say faith strengthens resolve."
"The knights say many things."
Rexor leaned back slightly. "Then why let Mother go?"
Maxmilian turned then.
"Because she chose to."
Rexor held his gaze. "And if she comes back different?"
Maxmilian's expression did not change. "Then we adapt."
Voryn listened.
He always did.
Time passed slowly.
Outside, the city moved on—vendors calling, patrols passing, bells ringing faintly from distant districts. Normal life, uninterrupted.
Too normal.
It was near midday when the door finally opened.
Aurélia stepped inside.
She looked the same.
That was the problem.
No visible mark. No change in posture. No strange light or tremor. Her smile was tired but genuine, her steps steady.
"You're back early," Rexor said, standing.
Aurélia nodded.
"You know what?" she said, setting the basket down more carefully than necessary. "She's just the same age as Rexor."
The words landed wrong.
Too light for what they implied.
Maxmilian's eyes narrowed a fraction. "A child," he said.
Aurélia looked up at him. "Young doesn't mean powerless."
"No," Maxmilian replied. "It means chosen early."
Silence followed.
Rexor shifted, uncomfortable. "She didn't seem strange or anything," he said quickly. "Just… calm."
Aurélia nodded again. "Too calm."
Maxmilian studied her face—searching for signs that weren't there. No tremor. No lingering glow. No exhaustion beyond what a long walk would explain.
"She said she was expecting me," Aurélia continued. "As if I'd already decided."
"For whom?" Maxmilian asked.
"For all of us," Aurélia replied.
Voryn lifted his gaze then.
Just briefly.
Their eyes met.
Aurélia smiled at him—warm, ordinary, unchanged.
Voryn looked away first.
That was worse.
That night, Rexor slept easily.
The duel had settled something inside him. His body ached in the way that promised progress, his thoughts filled with adjustments, improvements, futures.
He dreamed of maps again.
Voryn did not sleep.
He listened to Aurélia's breathing.
To Maxmilian's pacing.
To the city beyond the walls.
He marked the time.
Contracts, he knew, were never immediate.
They were patient.
And gods—
Gods always collected later.
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