(Before the Baron rode to the battlefield)
Steel rang softly in the quiet chamber.
Augurt Valierous stood before the mirror, fastening the straps of his armor. The metal was worn, scratched by decades of war. Each buckle clicked into place with the weight of memory.
Outside the walls, the estate trembled faintly.
The battle had already begun.
He reached for his sword—
And stopped.
"Father."
Augurt did not turn.
Leon Valierous stood by the doorway.
No armor.
No weapon.
No urgency.
His eyes were half-lidded, uninterested, as though he had stepped into a room where nothing important was happening.
"…Leon," Augurt said slowly. "You shouldn't be here."
Leon's gaze drifted over the armor, the sword, the scars carved into stone long ago.
"You're going out," Leon said.
It wasn't a question.
"Yes," Augurt replied. "And you're staying inside."
Leon hummed softly, thinking.
Then—
"Lend me your horse."
Augurt turned sharply.
"…What?"
"Your warhorse," Leon repeated calmly. "The black one."
Silence swallowed the room.
That horse had carried Augurt through wars that decided borders and crowns. It was not a mount—it was a companion.
"You don't even ride," Augurt said.
Leon tilted his head. "I know how."
That answer disturbed him more than it should have.
"…Why do you need it?" Augurt asked.
Leon shrugged.
"Walking would be inefficient."
No resolve.
No passion.
No declaration.
Just certainty.
Augurt stared at his son, searching for something—fear, excitement, hesitation.
There was nothing.
"…Take him," Augurt said at last.
Leon blinked once. "You're quicker than usual."
"This isn't permission," Augurt said firmly. "It's trust."
Leon smiled faintly.
"I won't break it."
The first plate slid into place without sound.
Leon fastened the dark armor slowly, methodically, as if dressing for a walk rather than a battlefield. The metal was cold against his skin, grounding.
The butler stood by the table, hands clenched.
"…Young master," he said at last, "I thought you were going to rest."
Leon tightened a strap.
"I was."
The maid looked up sharply. "T-then why—"
"Someone interrupted it."
Leon reached for the chest plate.
The butler swallowed. "The battle?"
Leon paused.
"For now."
The maid stepped closer, voice trembling. "You never cared about what people said. You never cared about the knights. So why now?"
Leon fitted the chest plate into place.
Because they're dying?
Because it's your home?
No.
He shook his head slightly.
"They're being loud," Leon said.
The butler stared. "Loud…?"
Leon rolled his shoulder, testing the fit.
"They're shouting orders they can't fulfill. Swinging swords they don't understand. Making noise while failing."
He sounded… annoyed.
Not angry.
Annoyed.
"I don't like inefficiency," Leon continued. "And I dislike repetition."
The maid's voice broke. "This isn't like you."
Leon turned.
For the first time, he looked directly at her.
"It is exactly like me," he said calmly. "You just haven't seen this part."
The butler took a step forward. "Young master… you don't owe this estate anything."
Leon nodded. "I know."
"Then why go?"
Leon picked up his gauntlet.
"Because if I don't," he said, slipping it on, "they'll keep failing. And if they keep failing, Father will die."
The words landed heavily.
The maid gasped softly.
"…You care," she whispered.
Leon paused.
Then scoffed quietly.
"Don't misunderstand," he said. "I don't intend to save anyone."
He strapped the second gauntlet.
"I just don't like losing things that belong to me."
The butler's eyes widened.
"Belong… to you?"
Leon glanced toward the distant walls, faintly glowing with firelight.
"This house," he said. "My peace. My naps."
A faint frown crossed his face.
"They're disrupting it."
Silence filled the room.
The maid whispered, "You're going to the battlefield…"
Leon nodded.
"Yes."
Leon pulled the cloak over his armor.
The maid's eyes brimmed with tears.
"Please… come back."
Leon paused at the door.
"I don't make promises,"
Then, after a moment—
"But I also don't lose."
He stepped out.
The door closed.
The clash dragged on.
Steel rang until arms went numb. Shields shattered. Men fought with teeth clenched and lungs burning—not because they believed they could win, but because stopping meant dying.
The elite skeletons pressed harder.
Step by step.
The line bent again.
Then—
Hoofbeats echoed.
Slow.
Heavy.
Out of place.
The gates behind the defenders opened.
Not with urgency.
Not with alarm.
They opened slowly.
Several knights glanced back, confused.
"…Horses?"
"At a time like—"
The warhorse stepped through first.
Black as midnight, massive, scarred—its armor worn, not ceremonial. The beast did not shy from blood or bone. Its hooves struck the stone with a sound older than the battle itself.
The Baron's warhorse.
Upon it sat a single rider.
Leon Valierous.
No banner.
No escort.
Black armor swallowed the firelight. A dark cloak rested loosely over his shoulders, fluttering faintly with each step of the horse. He sat casually in the saddle, one hand on the reins, posture relaxed—almost bored.
He rode forward.
Straight through the gap in the line.
No one stopped him.
Not because they recognized him—
But because every instinct screamed that stepping in his way was a mistake.
A knight opened his mouth to shout.
No sound came out.
Leon passed between them, the warhorse walking calmly through chaos as if the battlefield were nothing more than a road he disliked.
The Baron saw him.
His breath caught.
So that's why you asked for the horse…
His grip tightened around his sword.
Not fear.
Relief.
The elite skeletons reacted next.
Not all at once.
One skeleton faltered mid-step.
Another turned its skull slightly.
A third raised its shield too late.
The Dullahan stopped.
Its sword, raised to command, froze in the air.
The frost creeping from the blade halted.
Slowly—
Deliberately—
The headless knight turned.
Not toward the defenders.
Toward the rider.
The warhorse snorted softly, stamping the ground once—but did not retreat.
Leon reined it in ten paces away.
He looked down at the Dullahan from the saddle, eyes half-lidded, studying it with mild irritation.
"…You're the reason everyone's shouting," Leon said.
His voice carried.
Calm. Flat. Unimpressed.
Aurelia felt the air change.
Pressure descended—heavy, sharp, suffocating. Knights staggered, some dropping to one knee without knowing why.
It senses him, she realized.
No—
It recognizes him.
The elite skeletons instinctively shifted, tightening around their commander. Not disciplined.
Protective.
Leon sighed.
"I knew it," he muttered. "Taking the horse just made things obvious."
He swung down from the saddle in one smooth motion.
The warhorse did not move.
It stood behind him like a monument.
The Dullahan lowered its sword slightly.
Not to attack.
To acknowledge.
The Baron closed his eyes for a brief moment.
Don't make this ugly, he thought.
Please… don't.
Leon rolled his shoulder once, loosening it.
"Alright," he said casually, looking at the headless knight.
"Let's end this. I'm tired."
The battlefield went silent.
Not from fear.
From anticipation.