Chapter 5 — The Cost of Refusing to Kneel
The knock came before dawn.
It was not polite.
It was not patient.
It was the kind of knock meant to remind someone of their place.
Adrian opened his eyes slowly, already awake. His body screamed in protest as he shifted, the bandaged shoulder throbbing dully beneath linen and dried blood. Every muscle felt heavier than the night before, as if gravity itself had increased its claim on him.
That was new.
He rose from the bed anyway.
The knock came again—harder.
"Enter," Adrian said.
The door swung open without hesitation.
Four men stepped inside.
They wore the dark red-and-black uniforms of House Falkenrath guards, steel breastplates polished to a dull sheen. At their head stood a man Adrian did not recognize at first glance.
He was tall and lean, with dark brown hair tied tightly behind his head and narrow gray eyes that held no warmth whatsoever. His face was clean-shaven, sharp-featured, with a long scar running from the corner of his mouth to his jaw.
This was Sergeant Ulric Kestel.
One of his father's most trusted enforcers.
"Lord Adrian," Ulric said flatly. "You are to present yourself immediately."
"For what reason?" Adrian asked calmly.
Ulric's gaze flicked briefly to the bloodstained bandage on Adrian's shoulder. "You know the reason."
Adrian nodded. "Give me a moment."
Ulric did not respond. He did not leave.
Adrian dressed under their watchful eyes.
As he pulled on his coat, he caught his reflection in the mirror again. Pale. Bruised. Silver-eyed. His expression was calm—but something deeper sat behind it now.
Resolve.
When he turned back to them, Ulric stepped aside.
"Follow."
The family hall felt colder than it had before.
The torches burned brighter, casting sharp shadows across the carved stone walls. The banners of House Falkenrath hung heavy, their falcon sigils seeming to watch him as he walked.
This time, there were more people present.
Duke Reinhard Falkenrath sat at the head of the obsidian table, his posture as rigid and commanding as ever. His gray eyes were colder than stone.
Duchess Margarethe sat beside him, elegant and silent, hands folded neatly, green eyes unreadable.
Eldric stood to the Duke's right.
He looked immaculate—golden-brown hair tied back, noble attire flawless. His blue eyes were bright, alert, fixed on Adrian with open interest.
Mathias lounged against the far end of the table, arms crossed, gray eyes glinting with barely concealed amusement.
And standing near the wall, clad in white and gold, was a new presence.
A woman.
She was tall and slender, with long ash-blonde hair braided tightly down her back. Her face was severe—high cheekbones, thin lips, pale skin untouched by blemish. Her eyes were a piercing, unnatural gold, and her expression was one of pure, sanctified displeasure.
This was Inquisitor Verena Holt.
One of the Church's internal judges.
Adrian felt it the moment he saw her.
Pressure.
Not intimidation.
Correction.
Something about her presence felt like a weight pressing down on his existence, as if the world itself were urging him to lower his head.
He did not.
"You have caused a problem," Duke Reinhard said without preamble.
Adrian inclined his head slightly. "I defended myself."
"You crippled a knight of the Church," Eldric corrected smoothly.
"He challenged me," Adrian replied. "Steel was drawn. Blood followed."
Verena Holt's golden eyes sharpened. "A knight chosen by fate does not bleed so easily."
Adrian met her gaze.
"And yet he did."
The air changed.
For a heartbeat, Adrian felt it clearly—something unseen tightening, recoiling, recalculating.
Verena's fingers twitched.
Mathias smiled.
"That tongue of yours," Mathias said lightly. "Always getting you into trouble."
Duke Reinhard slammed his palm against the table.
The sound echoed like thunder.
"Enough," he said coldly. "Your actions have consequences."
Adrian stood straight, hands at his sides. "I expected as much."
"You will be confined to the western wing," the Duke continued. "No visitors. No training. No weapons."
Eldric frowned. "Father—"
"This is not negotiable," Reinhard said sharply. "The Church demands a gesture of control."
Verena nodded once. "Your son's existence is already… strained. Further deviation will not be tolerated."
Adrian understood immediately.
This was not punishment.
It was isolation.
They intended to weaken him again.
He inclined his head. "As you command."
Clara gasped softly.
Adrian turned.
She stood near the doorway, having clearly been brought in without warning. Her face was pale, her hands clenched tightly in front of her.
"Father," she said quietly, "he's injured—"
Margarethe spoke for the first time.
"Clara," she said calmly. "Do not interfere."
Clara fell silent.
Adrian looked back at the Duke. "May I speak?"
Reinhard studied him for a long moment.
"Briefly."
"I accept confinement," Adrian said. "But I request one thing."
Mathias laughed softly. "Still bargaining?"
"I request my sister be exempt from any association with my punishment," Adrian continued evenly. "She has done nothing."
Clara's eyes widened.
Verena tilted her head slightly, studying him as if he were a specimen.
"An interesting request," she said. "Why?"
Adrian did not hesitate.
"Because I am the villain," he said. "Not her."
The words settled heavily in the room.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Duke Reinhard's jaw tightened.
"…Very well," he said at last. "Clara is uninvolved."
Clara's breath caught.
Adrian bowed his head once.
"Thank you."
Verena's golden eyes lingered on him as the guards stepped forward.
"You are dangerous," she said quietly. "Not because of strength. Because you refuse to understand your place."
Adrian met her gaze calmly.
"My place," he said, "is wherever I'm standing."
For the first time, Verena frowned.
The western wing was a tomb.
Cold stone corridors stretched endlessly, their windows narrow and barred. The air smelled faintly of dust and old moisture. Servants avoided the area, leaving meals at the door and retreating quickly.
Adrian was alone.
Or so they believed.
He sat on the edge of the narrow bed, staring at the wall, listening to the silence. His body hurt. His head ached. Something unseen pressed against him constantly, a dull resistance that had not been there before.
Fate was reacting.
Testing.
He closed his eyes.
And thought.
No training yard.
No weapons.
No allies.
Fine.
They were still underestimating him.
A soft sound came from the wall behind his bed.
Adrian opened his eyes instantly.
Another sound—three gentle taps.
Clara's signal.
He rose quietly and moved the bed aside, revealing a narrow service passage hidden behind the stone panel.
Clara slipped through moments later, cloak wrapped tightly around her, eyes wide but determined.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I shouldn't have come, but—"
"Thank you," Adrian interrupted gently.
She froze. "…You're welcome."
She handed him a small bundle—bread, dried meat, and something wrapped in cloth.
When he opened it, his breath stilled.
A dagger.
Old. Plain. Well-balanced.
"I found it in storage," Clara whispered. "They forgot it was there."
Adrian closed his fingers around the hilt.
The metal felt right.
"Clara," he said softly. "If anyone asks—"
"I know," she said quickly. "I know nothing."
He nodded.
She hesitated at the passage entrance. "Brother… are you going to be okay?"
Adrian looked at her.
At the only family member who had chosen him.
"I will be," he said. "I promise."
She smiled weakly, then vanished back into the wall.
Adrian sat back down, dagger resting across his palms.
The pressure in the air intensified for a moment—as if something unseen had noticed.
He smiled faintly.
"They can lock me away," he murmured. "They can take my sword."
He lifted the dagger, silver eyes cold and focused.
"But they can't make me kneel."
Far away, within the sanctified halls of the Church, Inquisitor Verena Holt paused mid-step.
Her brow furrowed.
"Strange," she whispered.
For the first time, confinement had failed.
And the villain had chosen his path.