The palace yard didn’t feel like a place meant for sunlight.

  Stone drank the warmth and gave nothing back. The air smelled like polished metal and discipline. Guards stood in clean lines, not because anyone told them to, but because the palace trained people the way mills trained grain.

  Garn stood near the edge of it all with his arms folded, trying to look less tired than he felt.

  His body still remembered the road.

  His lungs still remembered the mist.

  Zamora stood a few paces away, staff planted, posture straight. Karen paced like a caged thing—quiet steps, tight jaw, anger contained only because there were too many eyes.

  Princess Diane arrived like the yard belonged to her.

  Not loud. Not careless. Just certain—like she’d been raised in rooms where confidence was trained into posture.

  Her eyes moved over the soldiers, the banners, the weapons—then drifted to Garn like he was a choice she hadn’t regretted yet.

  Karen noticed and muttered without looking at him, “Don’t.”

  Garn didn’t ask what she meant.

  He didn’t need to.

  Bootsteps approached behind them—measured, clean, professional.

  A White Knight stepped into view with a small group of guards at her back. Her cloak was pale against the stone, her armor kept in the disciplined kind of clean. She carried herself like rules were a language she spoke fluently.

  Yona.

  Her eyes found Garn first.

  Garn felt the memory of steel and accusation flare hot in his chest.

  Yona didn’t soften. Didn’t harden.

  She did something worse.

  She looked at him like he was a problem the kingdom hadn’t decided what to do with yet.

  Then she turned to Diane and bowed.

  “My Princess.”

  Diane nodded like it was her due.

  Yona’s gaze swept the yard once—counting bodies, assessing readiness, looking for what was missing.

  “He’s late,” Yona said flatly.

  Karen’s mouth tightened. “Of course he is.”

  Zamora’s eyes narrowed. “Who.”

  Yona answered without looking at her.

  “The knight we’re borrowing.”

  Garn watched the far gate.

  He expected banners. A convoy. Some formal entrance.

  Instead—

  The shadow of the wall shifted.

  A figure appeared on the stone ledge above the yard like he’d been there the whole time and only now remembered to be seen.

  No announcement.

  No permission.

  Just a man perched on a parapet with one boot hanging off the edge like the palace had become furniture.

  He dropped.

  Not with grace.

  With a lazy disregard for gravity.

  He landed on one knee, palm touching stone, then rose like he’d merely stepped over a puddle.

  And only then did the yard really notice the weapon.

  A greatsword.

  Wide-framed. Heavy-looking. The kind of blade meant to end arguments, not win duels.

  Except it didn’t look like a normal greatsword.

  The spine had seams.

  Too many seams.

  Metal that should’ve been solid had joints the way armor did.

  Built wrong.

  Built wrong on purpose.

  The man carrying it didn’t wear full plate. Dark layers. A half-cloak. Straps that looked repaired twice. A Valemont crest half-hidden like he couldn’t be bothered to display it properly.

  His hair was dark enough to disappear at a glance.

  His eyes were bright—too bright one moment, dull the next. Like a lantern someone couldn’t decide to cover.

  He glanced at the soldiers, the princess, the knights… then yawned like he’d arrived at a lecture.

  Diane’s brows twitched.

  Yona’s mouth tightened.

  The man didn’t bow.

  Didn’t salute.

  Didn’t pretend to care where he was.

  He stared up at the sky like checking if it was worth being outside.

  Then spoke.

  “Where’s the job.”

  Yona stepped forward half a pace, voice cold.

  “Denis.”

  Denis looked at her like he’d forgotten he had a name.

  Then his gaze slid to Diane.

  Diane lifted her chin, waiting for acknowledgement like it was air.

  Denis’ eyes flicked over her and moved on.

  Like she was a decorative vase someone had placed in the yard by mistake.

  Diane’s expression sharpened.

  “Excuse me,” she said.

  Denis didn’t respond.

  He adjusted the strap on his greatsword like he hadn’t heard a word.

  Diane’s voice rose slightly—still controlled, but edged.

  “Knight,” she said. “Are you ignoring me?”

  Denis finally looked at her.

  For a heartbeat his stare was blank.

  Then a grin appeared—fast, crooked, gone.

  “Sometimes,” he said.

  And then he looked away again.

  Diane’s cheeks flushed—anger, not embarrassment.

  Karen’s mouth twitched like she enjoyed that more than she wanted to admit.

  Zamora stared at Denis like she was deciding whether to break him in half or learn from him.

  Garn watched the sword.

  Something about it made his skin itch.

  Not mana.

  Not Vyse.

  Just… instinct.

  Yona stepped forward another pace. Her voice sharpened into command.

  “You will show respect,” she said. “You are in a royal yard.”

  Denis’ gaze slid back to her.

  He blinked once.

  Then his expression changed.

  A switch.

  Like the air inside him decided whether today was a joke or a fight.

  “Respect,” Denis echoed, tasting the word like it was new.

  He tapped the sword’s flat with two fingers.

  Then gave the shallowest bow anyone had ever dared to give a princess and live.

  It was almost parody.

  Yona’s eyes hardened.

  “That,” she said, “was insolence.”

  Denis shrugged. “It was effort.”

  Diane snapped, “Father should’ve sent someone else.”

  Yona didn’t take her eyes off Denis. “He did. He sent me.”

  Denis smiled again. “Unlucky.”

  Yona moved.

  Fast.

  Not a killing strike. A lesson strike—the kind knights used on squires when they needed humility installed.

  But it was still Yona.

  Her blade flashed.

  Denis didn’t draw his greatsword.

  He didn’t even lift it.

  He stepped sideways, like avoiding her was an afterthought.

  Yona’s strike cut air.

  Her second strike came immediately—cleaner, sharper, more intent behind it.

  Denis ducked under it.

  Then—still not drawing—he lifted one hand and tapped her wrist just enough to ruin the angle.

  Yona’s third strike came like a promise.

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  Denis sighed, bored or annoyed or amused—Garn couldn’t tell which, because Denis couldn’t decide either.

  “Alright.”

  His hand closed around the greatsword’s grip.

  He didn’t swing it like a heavy weapon.

  He swung it like it weighed nothing.

  Yona’s eyes widened—just a fraction—as the blade came at her.

  She pivoted to parry—

  And the greatsword changed.

  There was a click like a latch releasing.

  The long, wide frame segmented mid-motion, the steel breaking into linked sections that moved like a spine.

  Not falling apart.

  Unfolding.

  The weapon snapped forward with whip-speed.

  The flat of it cracked across Yona’s shoulder with a sound like a banner pole striking stone.

  Yona staggered half a step.

  Shock flashed across her face before pride could cover it.

  Denis didn’t chase.

  He let the segmented blade recoil, the links pulling back like a living thing returning to rest.

  Another click.

  The weapon re-locked into a solid greatsword.

  Denis rested it on his shoulder as if he’d only swatted a fly.

  The yard went quiet.

  Not fear quiet.

  Respect quiet.

  Yona straightened slowly.

  Pain moved through her posture and she refused to acknowledge it.

  Her eyes locked on Denis with the kind of hatred only disciplined people could produce.

  Denis looked at her like she was a problem someone else was supposed to solve.

  Then he spoke, suddenly casual again, like a man explaining a tool.

  “Before you do that again,” Denis said, “you should know my sword is a little special.”

  Yona didn’t blink. “I noticed.”

  Denis smiled faintly.

  “It’s called Telero,” he said, and patted the weapon like it was a pet that bit strangers. “It protects me.”

  Yona’s gaze sharpened. “A warded weapon.”

  Denis shrugged. “More like… it doesn’t like watching me die.”

  He lifted the greatsword off his shoulder and turned it slightly so the seams caught the light. Not a show. A hint.

  “Piece of my soul in it,” Denis said, like he was talking about a coin in his pocket. “Infused. Bound. Makes it listen.”

  Karen’s eyes narrowed. Zamora’s grip tightened on her staff.

  Garn stared harder.

  Denis continued, voice drifting between pride and boredom with no warning.

  “Crafted from a basilisk from Belicos,” he said. “Good bones. Good hide. Good hate. Put it together right and it remembers.”

  He looked at Yona again as if to finish the lesson.

  “Telero reacts,” Denis said. “Blocks what it needs to. Bends when it has to. Doesn’t ask me first.”

  He tapped the hilt once.

  “It does not enjoy being told what to do,” he added.

  Yona’s jaw flexed. “Neither do I.”

  Denis’ gaze slid past her—past Diane, past the soldiers—and landed on Garn.

  It stuck there.

  Like the world narrowed into one point.

  Denis smiled, slow.

  Then he said, almost cheerfully—

  “My sword really hates you.”

  The sentence landed strange.

  Garn felt it in his stomach before his mind caught up.

  Telero wasn’t a living beast.

  But it was a thing with a soul-thread in it.

  And it had looked at Garn like it recognized something it wanted to bite.

  Akash stirred inside Garn’s ribs.

  Not amused now.

  Interested. Alert.

  “You might be in trouble,” she murmured, too casual for how serious it felt. “I’m not going to allow you to use my power until you awaken Vyse.”

  Garn’s jaw tightened.

  “So watch who you fight,” Akash added, voice smooth as a threat dressed as advice.

  Garn didn’t answer out loud.

  He didn’t need to.

  Yona did.

  Her voice dropped, cold enough to frost stone.

  “Enough,” she said.

  Denis blinked at her like he’d forgotten she was still angry.

  Then his mood shifted again—faint irritation cutting through the humor.

  “You hit first,” Denis said, almost sulky.

  Yona’s eyes narrowed to slits.

  “No,” she said. “I corrected you.”

  Then she moved.

  This time it wasn’t a lesson strike.

  The air around her changed.

  Not mana.

  Not spellwork.

  A pressure—clean, sharp, disciplined.

  Vyse.

  Her killing intent bled into her stance, and the soldiers nearest her stiffened without understanding why.

  Diane’s breath caught.

  Karen’s hand twitched.

  Zamora leaned forward a fraction.

  Garn’s skin tightened.

  Yona went for Denis like she meant to end the conversation permanently.

  Telero moved.

  Not Denis.

  The sword.

  It snapped up between them with a speed that didn’t match its weight. The seams flared—segments loosening just enough to angle the blade in a way a solid greatsword shouldn’t have been able to.

  Yona’s strike hit steel.

  Sparks skittered.

  Her eyes widened—just a fraction—because the block wasn’t human.

  It was automatic.

  Protective.

  Hungry.

  Denis sighed like he was disappointed.

  “You’re going to get yourself hurt,” he said.

  Yona pushed harder.

  Denis didn’t bother dodging.

  He didn’t need to.

  Telero kept catching the blade like it was swatting away a bee.

  Yona’s pride snapped.

  She surged in again—faster—rage sharpening into something reckless.

  Denis’ expression went empty for a beat.

  Then he stepped in.

  Not with the sword.

  With his body.

  He closed distance like a street fighter, not a knight. His hand came up.

  A fist.

  He punched.

  It wasn’t a clean knightly strike.

  It was blunt. Direct. Real.

  His knuckles clipped Yona’s cheek and her head snapped sideways—

  Then her feet left the ground.

  She hit the dirt hard enough to throw dust, armor rattling.

  Silence.

  A half-breath of stunned disbelief.

  Yona didn’t move.

  Not dead.

  Not broken.

  Just knocked out cold, pride cut clean off at the root.

  Diane stared like she’d just watched someone spit on the law.

  Karen’s eyes were wide.

  Zamora’s grip tightened like she wanted to hit Denis back on principle.

  Garn’s pulse thudded.

  Denis looked down at Yona, then up at the yard, and yawned again.

  “Oops,” he said, and didn’t sound sorry.

  Then—

  Something landed.

  A presence hit the yard like a door slamming.

  Stone vibrated.

  Air thickened.

  A figure dropped between Denis and the unconscious White Knight with the calm of a storm choosing to stand still.

  Maldon.

  His voice was quiet.

  Too quiet.

  “You guys haven’t left yet,” he said.

  Then his gaze flicked down.

  Saw Yona.

  The world changed.

  Killing intent rolled out of Maldon like winter.

  Not loud.

  Not flashy.

  Absolute.

  It hit the soldiers first—knees trembling, hands tightening on spears as if spears could matter.

  Diane’s breath went sharp. Panic flashed in her eyes.

  Even Karen’s posture stiffened—like her body remembered what a Crown stage meant.

  Zamora’s teeth clenched.

  Denis lifted his chin slowly.

  And smiled.

  Not because it was funny.

  Because it was interesting.

  Denis answered Maldon’s killing intent with his own.

  It wasn’t equal.

  But it was fearless.

  It pushed back like a wild dog snarling at a lion—not because it thought it would win, but because it wanted to see how close it could get without dying.

  Maldon’s eyes narrowed.

  “How dare you,” he said, voice flat.

  Then he flexed Vyse.

  The pressure in the yard doubled.

  Stone felt heavier.

  Breathing felt slower.

  Denis’ grin widened.

  And he returned the favor.

  Darkness licked at the edges of his presence—thin, warped, incoherent—like a shadow trying to burn.

  Even without flame showing, the idea of it pressed into the air.

  Denis’ eyes shone.

  He looked happy.

  Not stable-happy.

  Challenge-happy.

  Even though he knew.

  Even though everyone knew.

  He could not win against Maldon.

  He just wanted to see how long he could last before Maldon made him regret being born.

  Akash stirred in Garn’s ribs again—amused, intrigued.

  “Huh,” she murmured. “Let me help a lil.”

  Before Garn could protest, a crimson pressure flared through him.

  Not flame.

  Not heat.

  Presence.

  A heavy, ancient “look at me” that didn’t belong in a palace yard.

  For half a heartbeat the air turned wrong—like the world remembered what it felt like to be prey.

  Maldon froze.

  Denis froze.

  Both of them snapped their attention toward Garn at the same time.

  Diane did too.

  And the soldiers—

  The soldiers felt it and didn’t understand, and that made them even more afraid.

  Garn’s eyes widened, jaw tightening.

  He hadn’t chosen that.

  But he could use it.

  Now.

  He stepped forward one pace.

  Just one.

  And said, voice rough but clear—

  “Now,” Garn said. “Let’s stop this.”

  For a moment, the yard didn’t breathe.

  Diane stared at him like he’d just walked into a storybook and decided to be the hero anyway.

  Like her hero.

  Maldon looked at Garn with a cold, uncaring expression—like Garn was still a variable, not a person.

  Denis looked at Garn like something in him had clicked.

  Like Garn was not just interesting.

  Like Garn was a doorway.

  A key.

  A way to reach something higher.

  Denis’ smile sharpened.

  Fixated.

  And that was somehow worse than the violence.

  Maldon’s attention snapped back to the problem on the ground.

  He walked to Yona, grabbed her by the collar and belt like she weighed nothing, and carried her toward the princess’s carriage.

  Diane flinched when Maldon came near, even though he didn’t look at her.

  Maldon tossed Yona into the carriage with blunt efficiency.

  Not cruel.

  Just careless with anything that wasn’t the kingdom.

  He turned back to the yard, voice cold enough to make the soldiers straighten.

  “Everyone stays alert,” Maldon said. “Make sure nothing happens to the princess.”

  Then he looked at Denis like he was deciding whether to execute him now or later.

  And decided later.

  Maldon walked back toward the palace doors without another word.

  The pressure faded as he left, but not completely.

  Like the yard remembered it had been threatened.

  Diane swallowed hard, then looked at Garn again, eyes wide with a kind of shaken admiration.

  Karen stared at Denis like she wanted to hate him and couldn’t decide if she respected him more.

  Zamora’s grip stayed tight on her staff.

  Denis rolled his shoulders and glanced at Garn again—still smiling.

  Telero shifted on his shoulder with a faint metallic click, like it agreed.

  Akash’s voice brushed Garn’s thoughts, quieter now.

  “See?” she murmured. “Watch who you fight.”

  Garn didn’t answer.

  Because he was starting to understand that in this kingdom, battles didn’t begin with swords.

  They began with attention.

  And Denis Valemont had just decided to pay him a lot of it.