The sun rose vibrant and alive over the eastern ridge, its light crawling across the lands of Orion like spilled wine. Dew clung to the trees and grass, curling around Moro's sandals as he walked the narrow lush trail. Each step slightly sank into soft dirt; each exhale turned to mist in the morning air. Ahead waited only road.
Then something caught his nose, a scent, rich and heavenly. Fish. Noodles. Seasoned potatoes sizzling in oil.
Moro's stomach growled in protest. It had been some time since his last real meal. Silverlake wasn't exactly known for fine dining or anything that didn't taste like whiskey and lead.
"I need food. Pronto," Moro muttered.
He followed the aroma until he found a small wooden eatery tucked between two slopes, smoke curling gently from its chimney. Moro stepped inside and took one of the six seats lined along the counter. The stools were uneven, the wood warped from years of steam and spilled broth. A kettle hissed softly behind the counter where soup was stirred.
The place was small, enough room for a handful of customers, but quiet in a way that made Moro comfortable. He stood three stools away from the only other patron.
An elderly man behind the counter looked up with a smile. "Hello, young man. Welcome! Please, sit wherever you like," he said, wiping his hands on a cloth. "I'll be with you in a moment, must fetch more fish from the back."
The place was quiet. Peaceful. Too peaceful for a man like Moro. The kind of spot where travelers rested, not killers.
As he glanced around, his gaze caught on someone seated to his left, a hulking man in shining silver armor. Even in the soft light of the eatery, his presence dominated the room. His hair was golden and clean despite the travel dust. Beside him rested a claymore nearly as tall as he was, its steel etched with words that gleamed faintly beneath the lamplight:
Kingdom of Veyra.
From his seat down the row, the armored man finally spoke. His voice carried the calm weight of command, shaped by discipline and duty.
"I must say, sir… these fish and potatoes are the finest I have tasted since leaving my homeland. The western provinces lack the fragrant herbs and spices your eastern soil so graciously yields."
The old man smiled, clearly flattered. "Well, that's my grandmother's family recipe. Been perfecting it for fifty years now. Family secret."
"Then your grandmother was a woman of great wisdom," the knight said,nodding his head in respect. "Few know that the worth of a meal lies not in the hands that cook it, but in the care that stirs the pot."
The cook chuckled and wiped his hands on his apron. "Now that's a saying I ain't heard before. Where did you say you were from, stranger?"
The knight turned slightly on his stool, the light of the stove catching the polished edges of his armor. When he spoke again, there was pride in his tone, but beneath it, a trace of sorrow.
"Sir William Henry, once sworn right hand to Her Majesty Queen Selene, and former Knight-Captain of the Kingdom of Veyra. I rode beneath the Radiant Banner for ten years… until the banner fell."
The cook blinked, taken aback. "A knight? Out here?"
"Aye," William said quietly. "Even the righteous must sometimes wander when their kingdom no longer remembers what righteousness is."
The old man opened his mouth to reply but hesitated, glancing between the knight's calm expression and the swordsman sitting a few stools away. The air in the small eatery had grown heavier, two very different kinds of warriors sharing one roof, one conversation away from destiny.
William turned his head and took a long look at the young man sitting a few stools down. He studied him quietly, his posture, his stillness, the faint air of danger that clung to him like a second shadow.
After a moment, he raised a hand toward the old cook.
"And for my dove-haired friend here," William said, his tone courteous but firm, "bring another plate of fish and potatoes—on my account, kind sir."
Moro looked up, brow furrowed.
"No. I can pa—"
William lifted a gauntleted hand, stopping him with a faint gesture.
"Nonsense. A warrior such as yourself should be granted a fine meal from time to time. In Veyra, we had an old saying among soldiers: 'If one cannot eat, then none shall.' It kept us human, even when the world around us forgot how to be."
His voice softened slightly, the edges of command tempered by sincerity.
"Please, friend. Accept it."
Moro hesitated, caught off guard by the man's kindness. His life hadn't offered many gestures like that.
"…Thank you," he said. "Sir William, was it?"
The knight inclined his head, the faintest smile visible beneath the edge of his visor.
"Indeed. And you are The Merciless Moro Ashin, unless every bounty board under the twin suns of Orion has printed a different face beneath your name."
Moro met his gaze, calm but unreadable.
Time has yet again for Moro stood still.
The cook chuckled nervously as he plated another serving, but the warmth in the room had shifted. What began as a shared meal now felt like the prelude to something deadlier
Moro watched as the old man placed the fresh plate before him. Steam curled up from the fish and potatoes, rich with herbs. He picked up his chopsticks but didn't eat yet. His eyes shifted toward the knight.
"Do you intend on collecting those bounties?" Moro asked, voice low but steady.
Sir William paused, setting his cup down with care.
"I intend to right what wrongs I can," he said. "Coin is only the excuse men give themselves when conscience grows inconvenient."
He turned slightly on his stool, facing Moro more directly now.
"If your name lies among the wanted, then I fear our paths were bound to cross. I take no joy in it, but neither will I turn away from duty."
Moro smirked faintly, leaning back.
"Duty. That's a fancy word for killing the highest bidder's enemies."
William's tone remained calm, unshaken.
"Perhaps. But I do what I must."
The old man froze behind the counter, eyes darting between them. The air grew tight again, the quiet before the storm.
But there is no need to trouble yourself with thoughts of our eventual conflict, friend," Sir William said, setting his cup aside. His voice was courteous, but the weight beneath it was unmistakable. "Please, enjoy the meal. I would rather not test my blade against a man who has not yet satisfied his hunger."
Moro gave a faint smirk and finally picked up food with his chopsticks.
"Courtesy costs nothing," William replied.
The old man retreated quietly to the kitchen as the two men sat in silence, the only sound the soft clatter of Moro's utensils against the bowl. Outside, the sunlight began to peak through the blinds of the cozy eatery.
The knight rose from his stool with the slow grace of a man long accustomed to the weight of metal. He reached for the enormous blade beside him, a slab of steel forged for wars that no longer existed and lifted it effortlessly.
"When you are ready," he said, sliding the weapon across his back, "I shall be waiting outside."
He dropped a few coins on the counter, adjusted his sword, inclined his head in a gesture of respect before turning toward the door. The hinges groaned as he stepped out into Orion's early morning light.
The room fell quiet again. The scent of fish and spice lingered in the air, mingling with the metallic trace of western metal.
Moro finishing his meal, wiped his hands, stood, and let out a slow breath.
"Can't say the man doesn't have manners." Moro quietly uttered to himself "Thank you kind sir." Moro bows to the elderly man in the kitchen before moving towards the door.
Moro stepped outside and was immediately greeted by the sound of music.
A flute.
Soft, foreign, and strangely beautiful, a melody not born of the east. Its notes drifted through the mist like ghosts searching for warmth.
He paused, listening. The tune carried a sorrowful grace, something between prayer and farewell. Moro had never heard an instrument like it; the sound alone told him it came from a land far across the sea.
He followed it down the trail, past the last few houses and into the open hills. The air smelled of wet cedar and iron. The song grew clearer with each step until he reached a small clearing, a field encircled by towering trees swaying gently in the morning wind.
There stood Sir William of Veyra.
The knight's tall frame cut an almost ethereal figure against the pale sky. His blond hair flowed with the wind, glinting faintly in the dull red sunlight. Before him, the massive claymore stood planted into Orion like a monument.
His armor, shining silver looked as if it never seen travel nor battle. Yet William's presence and aura told a different story. The insignia of the Radiant Sun of Veyra was engraved across the breastplate.
The flute rested in his left hand. He lowered it slowly as Moro approached, the final note lingering in the air like a sigh.
"Beautiful instrument," Moro said. "Not something we play where I'm from."
William turned, his tone as composed as the song itself.
"It is called a Lira Flute. A gift from my Queen. She once told me its song could calm the hearts of men."
He paused, planting his gauntleted hand on the hilt of his greatsword.
"I fear it calms only my thoughts now."
Sir William's gaze softened as Moro stepped closer. The mist swirled between them, wrapping the field in a pale veil.
"Moro," William began, his tone solemn, "I hope you understand, I take no pleasure in what I'm about to do. I held a great deal of respect for your father. His name reached even the Kingdom of Veyra. His valor was the kind our soldiers sang of during long campaigns."
He grasped the hilt of his claymore and pulled it free from the ground. The blade came loose with a heavy, echoing sound, dirt scattering upward in a brief shower.
"He was a man of conviction," William continued, resting the weapon across his shoulder. "And so are you, I suspect. But honor does not grant us immunity from consequence."
Moro met his gaze evenly, hand resting on the hilt at his side. "I'm not offended," he said. "An honorable duel is never looked down upon."
He drew his sword in one smooth motion. The steel sang as it left the sheath—a clean, crisp sound that sliced through the quiet. The air seemed to tense around it.
"But make no mistake…" Moro's eyes narrowed, his stance lowering. "I am my father's son."
The last echo of the flute's melody faded. Only the wind remained slow, cold, and expectant.
Sir William raised his blade in salute, a gesture of respect that carried centuries of tradition.
"Then may the gods bear witness."