Emon's grey hair was dishevelled even though he had been sent on an official duty.
His hands trembled a little before giving the woman a newly sewn uniform.
"The Emperor thanks you for your leal service," Emon said as he placed the uniform on the woman's wet hands.
That was the sixth uniform the Heir had to return to weeping citizens. The uniforms were new, and in truth represented no true emotional closure for the families of the deceased.
"The King has also, in honour of your son, granted you one hectare of farmland," Emon said before exiting.
Just before leaving, a young child—not more than five years old—held Emon's leg.
"When will my papa be coming home?" the wee lad said.
Emon removed the now-defunct half of the tracking instrument he had with him and gave it to the child.
"You will see him again," Emon said with a smile.
The eyes of the child glistened and he released his hold on Emon's leg.
Emon briskly walked out of the house. The atmosphere was heavy with emotion and his own duty—a very suffocating place to be.
"Onto the next, right?" Derek asked as he opened the door of the carriage.
Emon looked back to take another glance at the stone-built bungalow, a staple of the middle class in Damattis. Spies, in particular, were well-to-do due to their relatively high allowances.
And thankfully for Emon, they were in the Firehawk's Nest. The land was granted to the military for the purpose of residential buildings. That decision had greatly shortened Emon's journey.
After about five minutes, the chariot made its final stop.
"High Prince Emon Clovis summons the custodian of this house," a soldier said as he knocked fiercely on the door.
After about a minute, a woman in her early twenties opened the door and bowed.
"Greetings, High Prince," the beautiful dark woman said.
Emon's contingent of guards and servants were taken aback by her. She was a rarity in Vermachor, after all.
Emon signalled for her to straighten herself as he walked towards her.
"May I come in?" the High Prince asked as he held the hilt of his sword.
Emon cast a wandering gaze on the interior, and his disappointment could not have gone unnoticed.
"Did you all use the same architect?" Emon complained.
The lady's face didn't change even after she saw the uniform. Her deadpan look surprised Emon; after all, she was the first one not to cry.
"So my kidnapper is dead?" the dark woman said flatly.
Emon stretched out the uniform towards her and said, "Yes, I'm sorry for your loss."
Finally, her rigid charade broke and she let out a small tear that wet her left cheek.
"Well, he did take care of me," she said as she finally burst into tears.
"Our next expedition to Negrichor will be in years. You might have to stay here for a while," Emon said as she finally took the uniform.
She subsequently took the letter containing the Emperor's gift. She was a voluptuous woman despite her slender figure. Even a spy of the Clovis was taken by her charm.
"You do not have the money nor the brawn to manage the farm. Do you have any skills I might need?" Emon asked as he stretched his hands towards her.
After considering his offer for a few seconds, she said, "I can cook, embroider, sing, dance—w..." before Emon cut her off.
"That will be good enough. You will work in service to my wife," Emon said with a smile.
His servants and guards whispered; perhaps his days as the Lecher Prince had not ended in their eyes. His offer could be seen as a subtle move to keep someone so beautiful and rare in his household.
----------
Emon was the last of the imperial family to arrive for the official state burial of the fallen soldiers.
It is not every day Central Velecor soldiers die. The kingdoms closest to the south are usually the ones that absorb the most losses.
This public ceremony was perhaps a signal to the Empire—most especially to those at central Velecor. War was coming, and they should prepare for it.
That was what it was all about.
The imperial family was dressed in their ceremonial military uniform: black and gold military peak caps, red shirts with black designs, and black trousers lined with gold.
For their rank design, it was the Clovis Dragon, Phoenix, and Firehawk in a vertical line. Daemon, however, had a crown at the top of the three.
Emon quickly joined the others atop the Damattis Imperial Hall. His father, who was preparing to give a speech, gave him a dissatisfied look before stepping onto the podium.
The Emperor's musical honours played, and all soldiers in the vicinity came to attention.
Daemon's eyes wandered about, and he held a confident countenance as he began his speech.
"My people, we have come today to celebrate the lives and deaths of our heroes—our sons and brothers who have been taken away by the cruelty of the south.
These terrorists now style themselves the Unfettered Four."
Daemon spread his arms wide.
"They claim our good brothers from the north are in chains—but they are wrong.
We are bound by chains far stronger—chains of love and brotherhood, chains of commerce, philosophy… and blood shed by those very same men."
The crowd listened in silence.
"For decades, we have extended our hands in brotherhood.
And at every turn, they have slapped them away—taking pleasure in spilling our blood."
A murmur spread through the gathering.
"No longer."
The breeze carried his voice across the hall.
"We must now see them for what they are—a threat worth subduing.
I have instructed the army to prepare."
Emon looked weary. Caster's expression remained unchanged.
"Our northern brothers have mobilised as well—proof of our shared bond.
And for every drop of Velecor's blood spilled…"
Daemon paused.
"Three of theirs will answer for it."
The crowd stirred.
"Even now, I pray they see reason.
But I leave that choice… to you."
He drew a breath.
"Should Velecor sleep while its sons die…
or should we show them the error of their ways?"
The crowd erupted.
Daemon's speech was heart-wrenching, filled with emotion and gesture—enough to move the crowd.
The resulting shouts were in different words but carried the same meaning—war.
Daemon's performance was eye-catching. Had their attention been on Emon or Caster, his spirit-lifting words would not have been so effective.
He completely outshined their sun of disapproval with that performance.
Daemon was clearly pleased—until he felt the presence of a familiar man, one he had shared part of his childhood with.
Oswald Blaran, King of Dornwick and the Commander-in-Chief of the army that had slain Daemon's men.
The two men sized each other up until Oswald gave a bow.
"Most High, I am sorry for the loss of your men," the king of Dornwick said.
"Our joint task force was killed. You need not take the blame for the work of those terrorists," Daemon said as he approached him.
Daemon gave Oswald a hug.
"I've missed you. But why did you do it?" Daemon asked earnestly.
Oswald looked at the sky for a few seconds before responding.
"Let's take this somewhere. Let's settle it today," the thirty-three-year-old friend to the Emperor declared solemnly.
Daemon placed his hand on his chin.
"You've finally grown a pair to challenge me. We've been too far apart for me to wallow in despair over your death. Are you sure?"
Daemon placed his hands on Oswald's shoulders.
Oswald's hands and legs fidgeted, but the king steadied himself.
"You might just be the one to hand me my first defeat," Oswald said, removing Daemon's hand from his shoulder.
The man who had never lost—the Fierce Coward.
Against the man who had never truly won—the Sovereign of Flames.
One knew the ability of the other in detail.
While the other—as an act of cowardice—had never revealed what made him undefeated.
A battle not for mere personal power or profit.
It was a battle for the future of their people—a battle that would even bring the victor to tears.
--------
Daemon and Oswald took their bout to a plain field about three kilometers away from the castle.
The two stood face to face with absolute focus. Even the dust particles drifting into their eyes could not break their resolve.
Candor stood by as a witness. He was not to interfere under any circumstance—even if Daemon stood on the verge of death.
Daemon unsheathed his sword, Gyrdius—another weapon forged from Gyteris' bones. Oswald drew his own blade—nothing remarkable about it.
Daemon unsheathed his sword, Gyrdius—another weapon forged from Gyteris' bones. Oswald drew his own blade—nothing remarkable about it.
The afternoon breeze stirred, and Oswald's hair danced lightly in the wind.
Daemon seized the opportunity. With Oswald's dangling hair obstructing his vision, he launched the first attack.
His movement was swift and precise. In a single strike, he shattered Oswald's sword, the scattering fragments piercing Oswald's hand.
Oswald quickly retreated about ten meters. For some reason, Daemon did not pursue.
Oswald drew a dagger from his boot and moved to cut his hair. Daemon denied him, hurling daggers in quick succession.
Yet Oswald dodged masterfully and, in the same motion, severed his hair mid-air. The wind carried the strands toward Daemon—as though to remind him of his opponent's resolve.
Oswald possessed detailed knowledge of Daemon's weapons, artifacts, and divine trait. His wry smirk unsettled Daemon—it was only the beginning of his discomfort.
Now about twenty meters apart, Daemon launched a blast of flame—but it extinguished roughly two meters from Oswald.
A look of confusion crossed Daemon's face, followed by a tremor of excitement.
"Is that your divine trait?" he asked.
Oswald gave no answer. Instead, he rushed forward, drawing another dagger from his other boot—one that appeared different.
Daemon met him head-on. Their weapons clashed—this time, Oswald's blade held firm, and Daemon was pushed back slightly.
Daemon's movements slowed. A misstep sent him to the ground.
Oswald immediately drove his dagger toward Daemon's heart—but its short reach gave Daemon just enough time to roll aside and regain his footing.
Clutching his chest, Daemon struggled for breath.
"I can't breathe… What have you done?" he demanded.
Oswald remained silent.
After steadying himself, Daemon's eyes flared. Flames erupted around Oswald, spanning nearly a meter in radius—but they vanished almost instantly.
When the smoke cleared, Oswald scanned his surroundings.
Daemon was gone.
In that brief moment, Daemon had moved—emerging from a distant flame and striking from behind.
Blood sprayed across the grass as Oswald's hand was severed and sent flying.
To end it quickly, Daemon unleashed a massive blast of flame.
His expression was certain—victorious—as the inferno surged toward Oswald at point-blank range.
Yet the attack was nullified.
Daemon stood there, drenched in sweat.
"So whatever you're doing to my flames… it isn't passive," he said, wiping his face.
Candor remained at a distance, close enough to observe, yet making no move to intervene. Whether out of loyalty or trust—only he knew.
Oswald's missing hand led to heavy blood loss. As he attempted to stanch the bleeding, Daemon pressured him with a relentless volley of daggers.
It was the safest path to victory—forcing his opponent to bleed out.
Still, Oswald pressed on, though his attacks had lost their sharpness.
He relied on his control of oxygen—extinguishing Daemon's flames and draining the air from his lungs.
That was, until Daemon revealed something unexpected.
He produced a ring—black and gold, beautiful yet unsettling.
Its presence weighed upon the field itself. Even the wind seemed to retreat from it.
Yet it rested calmly upon Daemon's finger.
Oswald attempted to flee—but stopped himself.
His divine trait allowed him to analyze abilities, yet the ring was beyond comprehension.
Still, his control held—within a four-meter radius, oxygen remained under his command. Flames continued to die as they approached him.
Even the flames of the Sovereign of Flames could not survive in such a lifeless space.
Or so Oswald thought.
A faint flicker—no more than candlelight—appeared before him.
From it, the tip of a blade emerged.
In an instant, Daemon followed.
Oswald tried to evade—but he was too slow.
Gyrdius pierced his heart.
Daemon twisted the blade, ensuring the kill.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice breaking.
Oswald laughed weakly, gripping the sword as he pulled it free from his chest.
"How… did you do it?" he asked.
Daemon carried him to a nearby tree and laid him down.
"I made a cession. I sacrificed the lifeforce of my strongest blast… for a single flame," he replied, idly tossing a stone at a lizard.
"Oh… and by the way," Oswald said with a faint smile,
"my divine trait is whatever best counters my opponent's."
Daemon exhaled slowly.
"You always avoided fights you might lose. So it's no surprise you didn't expect me to use cession."
Oswald gently covered one eye.
"My family…"
"I'll protect them," Daemon said firmly.
Though Oswald had betrayed him, he knew better than to trust the Unfettered Four.
And so, with his final breath, he entrusted the future of his family—and his people—to the very man who had slain him.
Even when faced with the chance to flee from overwhelming power, Oswald had chosen to stand.
The Fierce Coward died brave.
Daemon's hand began to bleed. The finger that bore the ring lay severed on the ground.
He picked it up, placed it in his pocket, and wrapped the wound with a strip of Oswald's green cloth.
He picked it up, placed it in his pocket, and wrapped the wound with a strip of Oswald's green cloth.
The finality of Oswald's death dulled even the pain of his own injury.
In the end, if only for a moment—
Oswald had severed Daemon from that monstrous power.