As soon as the door closed and the footsteps faded down the corridor, Edgar finally allowed his expression to change. The corner of his lips lifted slightly, forming a thin smile that was almost imperceptible.
"Mad dog…" he muttered under his breath, faintly amused by Bastian's conduct.
Bastian's final, audacious words still echoed clearly in his mind. Strangely enough, they were exactly what made Edgar let out a quiet, inward chuckle. Then a question surfaced.
Why?
Why did that man, Bastian, speak to him that way? To the Supreme Commander, someone who could end a career or a life with a single order. Was it deliberate disrespect? A calculated attempt to belittle him and show that Bastian felt no fear? Or was it simply how he spoke? Blunt, rough, unfiltered, like a rural boy who had never been taught manners?
Edgar slowly shook his head. No. That was too simple. An assumption like that underestimated Bastian, and Edgar was not the type to underestimate a potential enemy or ally.
Bastian had to know. He had to be aware of how rude and provocative his words were. Speaking that way to a Supreme Commander, especially one who had just lost his younger brother to the very man standing before him, was an invitation to hatred, vengeance, retaliation. Politically, if not physically, it was suicidal.
But from their brief exchange, Edgar had read one thing clearly. Bastian was not a fool. He had never thought him to be one.
Fools did not survive the battlefield, let alone rise from a common soldier to a battalion commander in the middle of such a brutal war. Madmen who relied solely on brute strength had long since become worms in nameless graves.
So if it was not stupidity… then why?
Edgar stopped tapping the table. His dark eyes fixed on the door, as if he could still see the outline of Bastian's back as he left the room.
Could it be… that he was testing me?
The thought struck him clearly, like lightning in the dark.
Did Bastian suspect that I might be a traitor too, like my brother?
It was a bold conclusion, but a logical one. Bastian had exposed a high-ranking traitor, Kaelen, Edgar's own brother. Given his experiences with betrayal, it was only natural for him to suspect everyone above him. Including the Supreme Commander. By deliberately speaking crudely, deliberately provoking him, Bastian might have been watching closely. Would Edgar lash out? Would he threaten him? Would his reaction reveal something hidden? Would he defend his family's honor over justice and the kingdom?
And just now… how had Edgar reacted? He remained calm. He even thanked him. He warned Bastian about political danger, not personal vengeance.
Was that what Bastian expected? Or did it only make him more suspicious?
Edgar's faint smile widened slightly, this time carrying something akin to appreciation. That Mad Dog possessed a sharp, dangerous cleverness after all.
.
.
.
Once the doors of the town hall closed behind him, Bastian did not look back.
His steps were steady as he moved along the outer corridor, then turned right, away from the central square. The morning air brushed against his face, carrying the scent of damp earth and fresh wind.
Several soldiers on guard straightened when they saw him pass. Some saluted, others lowered their heads quickly. Bastian acknowledged none of them. His expression remained flat, his thoughts already far removed from the conversation inside.
At the same time, from the opposite direction, a woman stepped into the area before the town hall.
Her pale blond hair, almost silvery, flowed neatly past her shoulders. The blue dress she wore looked simple at a glance, but any keen eye would notice the intricate, expensive craftsmanship. Subtle patterns adorned the edges of the fabric, fine threads glinting softly in the light. This was not clothing just anyone could afford.
Her steps were measured, her back straight, her chin slightly raised. There was pride in the way she walked, and judgment in her gaze, as if the world around her was meant to adjust to her presence, not the other way around.
A few steps behind her followed another woman, keeping a deliberate distance. Her movements were calm and efficient, her awareness constantly scanning her surroundings. A personal attendant, without a doubt, and clearly not an ordinary one.
She looked entirely out of place in a town like this.
As she passed Bastian, she did not slow down. Her eyes flicked briefly toward his back, only for a moment.
Then she moved past him.
The woman stopped in front of the Supreme Commander's office and knocked twice.
"Enter," came the voice from within.
She opened the door and stepped inside with practiced grace. Once inside, she closed it softly, then bowed perfectly, one hand lightly lifting her skirt, the posture of a noblewoman trained in etiquette since childhood.
"Lyanna Rathsture," she said clearly and firmly. "Commander of the Seventh Battalion of the Southern Legion, reporting to the Supreme Commander of Iskandrite."
Edgar Valobry looked up from behind his desk.
The greeting was overly formal for the setting. For some reason, he could not help but compare it to the rude man who had left this very room just moments earlier.
The comparison softened the corner of Edgar's lips.
"Lady Rathsture," he said. "It has been a long time since we last met. Why do you only ever come when I summon you officially like this?"
Lyanna stepped closer. "Uncle—" She paused, then corrected herself. "I mean, Your Grace. Forgive me. My duties overseeing the newly captured cities have kept me quite occupied. I did not wish to leave my troops for too long."
Edgar let out a quiet sigh. "It's just the two of us. No need to be so stiff. You can call me Uncle Edgar, like you used to."
Lyanna lowered her head slightly. Her expression remained composed, but there was a clear distance there. "Forgive me, Your Grace. I can no longer call you that."
A brief silence fell between them. Edgar sighed softly when he saw the shadow cross her face. "You still haven't come to terms with your father's death, have you?"
For an instant, the muscle in Lyanna's neck tightened. It was fleeting, but Edgar noticed. She took a deep breath before regaining control.
Edgar changed the subject.
"I heard your brother entrusted you with Aiden's relic. May I see it?"
Lyanna nodded. She stepped forward, then sat in the chair opposite Edgar after asking permission. A faint glow appeared in her palm. From that light, a weapon slowly took shape: a pair of curved blades, bound to her arms by long chains attached to each hilt. The edges shimmered like living flame, constantly in motion.
Seeing them, Edgar fell silent for a moment as old memories surfaced unbidden.
"I still find it hard to believe Aiden is gone," he said quietly.
"My father fought bravely until his final breath," Lyanna replied. "He protected all of us."
Edgar's thoughts drifted to the incident five years ago: the rampaging fire dragon, the cities reduced to ash. "That incident five years ago… do you believe that dragon was truly slain by that man?"
"I find it hard to believe," Lyanna answered honestly.
"Then what kind of man was he, really?"
"Is this about the Queen?" Lyanna asked.
Edgar nodded.
She thought for a moment before speaking. "That man and his sister stayed at our estate for several weeks. I rarely spoke with him. From what I observed, there was nothing remarkable about him. Aside from his strange habit of striking rocks with his sword, he seemed like an ordinary man. The kind you could find anywhere. He left no impression at all."
She paused, then continued, "The one who truly stood out was his sister. The Chosen One. Her affinity was storm, strong enough to affect the weather. She was kind, intelligent, talented, and incredibly brave. My father even wished to adopt her into our family, but she refused."
Edgar nodded slowly. "Yet the Queen is convinced the one who split the dragon was that man. Since his disappearance, her condition has continued to worsen. We searched for him for five years, but found nothing."
"It seems likely they both died back then," Lyanna said softly. "Our entire city was burned to the ground. Many bodies were too damaged to be identified. One of them could have been that man and his sister."
"I think so too," Edgar said. "But the Queen believes he is still alive. Because of that incident, she even turned against the Dragonhart, blaming them all."
He fell silent for a moment.
"And honestly… if I were that man, I would never return either. Not after five years. The Queen seems to blame him, even hate him."
They looked at each other.
They knew.
No, everyone knew.
Their Queen had lost her sanity. And thinking about what she might do if that unfortunate man truly was still alive sent a chill creeping down both their spines.
Meanwhile, far from that conversation, Bastian walked through the city streets. His ear suddenly itched. He raised a hand, rubbing it as he muttered, "Is someone cursing me or something?"
Ahead, a crowd shifted. Soldiers, a few officers, faces tense. The moment they saw Bastian, their steps slowed. Then, without many words, they formed a line and blocked his path.
Bastian stopped.
"Morning," he said.