One week had passed since the end of the invasion.

  — Lukas, Lukas… how are you? — Aníbal and Amélia were waiting outside the castle, since he did not have permission to enter.

  — Fine, Aníbal. Thank you.

  — Aníbal, with stars in his eyes: — You were incredible! We heard about many things. The lower part of Sorriso is in an uproar. The commoners of Sorriso are really different, they almost look like nobles. Sorriso truly is an incredible city, if you adapt to it. We were coming from there and they only talk about you.

  — Amélia smiled: — It’s good that you’re well.

  — Thanks for the concern, don’t worry so much… but what is all this movement? Didn’t the festival end?

  Amélia answered:

  — You didn’t know? This year there will also be the Ceremony of the Matriarchs. Since the festival was interrupted this year and there was no proper ending, by decision of the Patriarchs of the Seasons and with the approval of your father, he agreed to anticipate the ceremony.

  Lukas thought: Ceremony of the Matriarchs?

  César commented:

  — Amélia always well-informed, as always… Young legionary, there are more things out of alignment, and it seems there is still more to come. I don’t know why I still get surprised by these things.

  Morgana replied:

  — And that makes everything more exciting… but I still haven’t found the error. My spell and the proportion were correct.

  César, calm and cynical:

  — Uhum… too correct… like the calculation of someone who never entered a math class.

  — Soldier boy, instead of criticizing — Morgana provoked — why don’t you find this error, since you’re so good at mathematics?

  — Shameless witch, you have the gift of irritating me — César replied. — You know very well that you can’t mess with a spell of this scale whenever you want. If you could, do you think we’d be having this conversation?

  Lukas sighed:

  — Guys, calm down. There’s no point in complaining now. Sorriso is still standing, we saved a lot of people. And whatever different thing comes, we’ll go over it. You’re with me, so it’s fine.

  — Young legionary, I will be at your—

  — Cut this speech, soldier boy! — Morgana shouted. — We’re together, chocolatinho!

  Her eyes burned with purple hearts.

  — Shameless witch doesn’t understand the honor of a speech.

  — Just blah blah blah blah, soldier boy. Just blah blah.

  The discussion settled inside Lukas’ mind.

  — I give up.

  — Hey, Aníbal, Amélia… let’s walk around to see this turmoil.

  — Let’s go… — Aníbal replied.

  Sorriso was rebuilding itself. The walls were being discussed, thinking about how they would be reinforced, and the festival — previously interrupted by war — now returned, transformed into a celebration of victory.

  The party was twice as big. With the help of the mages, and with the Gath cleaning the city, Sorriso was not yet in its splendor, but the laughter and sounds of joy were its greatest beauty.

  But, in the shadows of the festival, Dariam Fernandes still bathed in a glory that did not belong to him.

  Surrounded by nobles and ladies of Bragan?a, he drank and smiled with the arrogance of those who believe their own lie. Stories about his “bravery” ran through the streets and improvised stalls — about how he had defeated the Disaster, closed the portals, and saved the Empire through his strategies and continental defense. And he delighted in every false word.

  The bells announced the end of the Festival of the Seasons.

  It was the most awaited moment: the Ceremony of the Matriarchs.

  The children lined up before their mothers, offering gifts and vows. The air smelled of incense, flowers, and polished iron.

  The families of the Houses were all there. The mothers — matriarchs, warriors, counselors — seated side by side under the banner of the South, the Black Sun flag. Before them, the children, with gifts in their hands.

  But there was an empty chair.

  And before it, Lukas Fernandes, motionless.

  He didn’t even know what he was doing there.

  Hours earlier, Luiz had found him on the way.

  It had been Luiz, the smiling brother, who pulled him toward the courtyard.

  — Let’s go, Lukinhas. The ceremony is about to start.

  — I’m not going.

  — Shut up. There’s no such thing as not going. You’re a Fernandes, after all.

  Now I’m a Fernandes, huh? Funny…

  I thought I was the shame of the family.

  — You’re very sentimental today. Let’s go.

  Luiz left carrying him.

  — I’ll bring him back later… — Aníbal shouted. — He still needs care, Luiz!

  — Don’t be sad, I’ll bring him back whole!

  A crimson aura erupted, and they vanished.

  — This bastard… whether in this life or the past one, he’s always dragging me around without caring about my opinion — Lukas grumbled.

  Stolen story; please report.

  — Hey, Copas, you don’t deal well with “no,” did you know being insistent is ugly?

  — You’re talking too much, huh, Lukinhas?

  — Shut up and do what everyone does — Luiz said, winking. — It’s just a tribute, skinny guy. No need to invent anything.

  And in the current moment of the hero of the South…

  Twenty minutes later, in the ceremony wing improvised by the Gath in the central square.

  Lukas watched the others. The brothers knelt with swords forward as a sign of honor; the sisters offered swords, cloaks, and jewels. The sound of blessings echoed.

  Before the tenth empty chair, he simply stood still.

  The murmurs began.

  — Look at the incubator kid.

  — Doesn’t even have a mother.

  — I bet the hero of the South is Dariam, not him.

  — Loser, shorty… that’s what they call him in some noble corners.

  — Not even his mother is proud, hahaha.

  Another crowd reacted:

  — Idiots! Cowardly nobles, how dare you say that?

  — While you were shaking waiting for someone to save your asses, he was fighting!

  — Don’t talk like that about Chocolatinho! He’s the son of the Patriarch of the South, and you’re on our land!

  — You only know how to talk, while he bled for our land!

  The nobles ground their teeth.

  — How dare you talk like that, rat scum? You are commoners! Don’t think you’re nobles just because you live with luxury here in the South! Rats will always be rats, period.

  — You need discipline. Just because he’s Dariam’s brother doesn’t mean you can rise against us. Did you forget what class you’re talking to? You should lose your tongues for such an affront!

  Lukas kept his gaze firm, but the silence cut like a knife.

  Then, a shadow covered the ground.

  — Silence, all of you!

  Kyros José Fernandes, the Patriarch of the South, crossed the courtyard. His steps made the murmurs cease. The matriarchs bowed, the children fell silent.

  But Kyros did not go to the main throne.

  He stopped before the tenth empty chair.

  And sat down.

  Kyros planted his sword on the ground and looked at Lukas.

  His voice echoed firm:

  — What is it, my son? Aren’t you going to honor your old father?

  Lukas hesitated, not understanding.

  But then he knelt.

  His gaze serious, his voice firm and low.

  — I have nothing of value that mirrors your greatness, sir. But I offer you what I have that is most precious — my Moon Shield, forged of obsidian and adamantium.

  The nobles stirred.

  — Lies! No blacksmith can mold adamantium!

  — A metal like that weighs more than a horse!

  — He’s lying!

  Kyros closed his hand.

  Thunder in his voice:

  — Speak one more word… and you will lose your tongue!

  The courtyard fell silent.

  The Patriarch’s authority made the ground tremble.

  — I have tolerated enough! Since the beginning of this festival, you mock my son! None of you will dare insult a heir of House Fernandes again! Understood?!

  The nobles bowed, pale.

  — Forgive us, Lord Kyros.

  The Patriarch remembered the shield Lukas spoke of.

  The metal pulsed, alive, like a heartbeat echoing within.

  Kyros smiled, moved.

  — Keep it, Lukas. That shield has already fulfilled its role. You gave me something greater than iron or glory. You gave me a warrior.

  His heavy hand rested on his son’s head.

  — A true warrior of the South.

  César spoke softly inside the boy’s mind, his voice vibrating with pride:

  — Raise your head, young one. This is honor, not glory. And honor is not asked for, it is conquered. Different from the poison and the disgusting glory of that groomed Dariam. This is real glory.

  The Patriarch’s seat remained empty for a brief moment.

  It was enough.

  — Hey… — someone murmured among the nobles. — The throne…

  Before any Patriarch could move, heavy steps echoed.

  Silvio advanced.

  Without hurry.

  Without asking permission.

  The black coat swayed, the symbol of the G of Gath visible on his back.

  He sat on the throne of the South as if occupying something that had never belonged to surface nobles.

  — Get out of there! — a irritated voice hissed among the aristocrats. — That seat is—

  Silvio rested his elbow on the arm of the throne and yawned, bored.

  — I don’t feel like it.

  The ground trembled.

  The Gath, spread across the perimeter, stomped their feet in unison.

  HAA!

  Perfect formation.

  Fists clenched.

  Columns aligned.

  Salute.

  The sound echoed like contained war.

  All nobles knew the Gath’s motto: the same mana that saves also kills if necessary.

  It was not just support or cleaning, it was military discipline.

  The nobles felt a chill crawl up their spines. Teeth clenched.

  There, before them, was the naked truth of the South:

  They did not rule there.

  They never did.

  A man from the underground of Gath City occupied the Patriarch’s throne — and no one dared remove him.

  Silvio smiled sideways.

  Good, Kyros…

  I expected no less from you.

  You cut the poison at the root.

  Without shouting.

  Without accusing.

  From above, Dariam felt it.

  The air grew heavy.

  For a second, the world seemed to narrow — and then he saw it.

  Not with his eyes.

  A white tiger.

  Still.

  Watching.

  — Shit… — he thought, swallowing dryly. — That bastard…

  Dariam’s mother opened her mouth to speak — and froze.

  Her heart raced for no apparent reason.

  A chill ran down her neck.

  What presence is this…?

  Inelegant… oppressive…

  There was something more.

  A strange heat.

  A discomfort she did not want to name.

  Silvio did not look at her.

  To him, that was just poison.

  In formation, Ravia clenched her fist, eyes shining.

  — Father… — she thought, proud. — You are incredible. The underground being seen like this…

  The old man would be proud.

  I will be like this one day. You can bet.

  Tariq smiled sideways.

  — Good one, brother.

  Nanda nodded slowly.

  — Kyros being Kyros… proper even between the lines.

  Besouro thought, with a half-smile:

  — That’s it, cousin.

  Akemi watched in silence.

  I will watch him from now on.

  This man… has my respect.

  Silvio crossed his arms on the throne, satisfied.

  The South was exactly where it should be.

  Morgana laughed, provocative:

  — And look at this audience, docinho… even the sun seems to find you delicious. Maybe I would kneel too.

  — Don’t ruin the moment — Lukas replied in thought, almost smiling.

  César sighed.

  — She is incapable of respecting solemnity.

  — I respect what is beautiful — Morgana retorted, her voice feline. — And today the South shone beautifully.

  For a moment, Kyros’ gaze was lost on the horizon — and something inside him seemed to break and reform.

  — She would be very proud of you — he murmured, low, without saying the name. — You are her reflection. And stronger than I ever was.

  He thought:

  He is like you, Andromeda.

  You would be proud of our boy.

  He will become someone incalculable, just like you.

  Who knows if he won’t become one of them…

  If only you were here.

  The Patriarchs and the people bowed, in silence.

  Then Kyros stepped forward, raised his hand, and proclaimed with a thunderous voice:

  — Behold, people of the South! Today the Tenth House Fernandes is born — forged in steel, blood, and war! The lineage of the Legionaries of the South!

  The roar of the crowd was deafening.

  The Matriarchs stood.

  The Patriarchs of the Seasons watched.

  The capoeiristas of Palmares struck their staffs on the drums in reverence.

  The monks of the Black Sun lowered their heads.

  Right fist to the chest.

  Pure jiu-jitsu discipline.

  Leli, emotional, clasped her hands and whispered, smiling:

  — He did it…

  Valquíria smiled from afar.

  Luiz laughed, proud.

  Alex nodded in respect.

  Selene merely observed, with a curious gleam in her eyes.

  Marcos crossed his arms and said, with a half-smile:

  — Finally, the South roared again.

  The twins watched in silence, remembering the pressure they felt.

  I hope he does not hold grudges.

  And Dariam Fernandes watched in silence.

  Fists clenched.

  Cold gaze.

  Blood boiling beneath the sound of applause.

  — No… this should have been mine.

  Anger was a slow poison.

  — He stole the glory.

  But I will steal the world.

  The people applauded, shouting the name that would echo for centuries:

  — LEGENDARY FAILURE! HURRAAA!

  Lukas turned red.

  Who spread my phrase… how embarrassing.

  Morgana laughed:

  — Oh, how cute, chocolatinho… you being embarrassed makes me want to—

  CENSURE seal recycled, by César.

  — Mercy, shameless fox. Respect, at least once.

  — You should just enjoy it and stop these antics — Morgana retorted.

  — These antics — César replied — are what save the LEGIONARY’s mind from the profane contamination you speak of.

  Chaos in the mind.

  And there, under the golden sun that bathed the courtyard, the Tenth House Fernandes was born.

  Not from privilege.

  But from sacrifice.

  Not from inheritance.

  But from will.

  The Sun of the South, Kyros José Fernandes, raised his arm and declared:

  — Let the world know: from the ruins of Sorriso rises the House of the Legionaries of the South — the home of the warrior who made hell retreat!

  Inside the mind, César murmured, proud:

  — Look at the face of that poisonous Dariam…

  The Patriarch just gave glory to the one who truly deserves it.

  My legionary.

  Take that, jealous one.

  — And Legionaries… — César continued — a worthy name for the Tenth House.

  Morgana completed, softly, almost maternal:

  — And an heir worthy of the hell that forged him.

  End of Chapter 21