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Time did not move inside the royal quarters.
It pressed.
The room they were given was clean—too clean. Stone walls polished smooth, no cracks, no history. A single narrow window allowed light in during the day, but it was positioned high enough that neither Rexor nor Voryn could see the city beyond it. Only sky. Only distance.
Containment, Rexor realized, didn't always need chains.
Two wooden swords rested against the far wall, newly carved. Untouched.
Rexor sat on the edge of the stone bench, elbows on his knees, staring at them. His body was restless, coiled like a drawn bow. Ever since the court, his thoughts had refused to settle.
No guards spoke to them.
No messengers arrived.
No answers came.
Only silence.
"They heard everything," Rexor finally said. "So why hasn't anything happened?"
Voryn stood near the window, back straight, hands clasped behind him. He did not turn.
"What happens," he asked calmly, "when you place a seed in soil?"
Rexor frowned slightly, caught off guard by the question. He thought for a moment.
"It grows."
Voryn tilted his head just enough to acknowledge the response.
"Instantly?"
Rexor exhaled through his nose. His shoulders lowered a fraction.
"No."
Voryn nodded once.
Then said nothing.
The silence that followed was heavier than before—but it was different now. Not empty. Intentional.
Rexor leaned back against the wall, eyes drifting upward. He understood what Voryn meant. The posters. The court. The words spoken in darkness. None of it was meant for immediate reaction.
They were seeds.
And the city was soil layered with denial, fear, and false comfort.
After a while, Rexor stood and picked up one of the wooden swords. It felt lighter than he expected. Balanced. Well-made.
"They're testing us," Rexor said.
Voryn turned at last. "Yes."
"Not strength," Rexor continued. "Patience."
Voryn allowed himself a faint, almost invisible smile.
"Begin," he said.
Rexor attacked first.
Not recklessly—controlled. A forward strike aimed for the shoulder, followed by a low sweep. Voryn stepped aside with minimal movement, redirecting the blade with a soft tap. Wood met wood with a dull crack.
Rexor adjusted instantly, pressing harder. Strike. Feint. Turn. His footwork was solid, refined by years of training under Maxmilian. But Voryn was different from his father.
Maxmilian corrected.
Voryn anticipated.
Every time Rexor thought he had an opening, it vanished. Voryn never blocked unnecessarily. He let Rexor miss.
Let him overextend.
Then punished it with precision—not force.
"Again," Voryn said.
Sweat formed on Rexor's brow. His breathing quickened, but his focus sharpened. He stopped trying to overpower and began to think. Patterns. Timing. Intention.
This wasn't sparring.
It was calibration.
Somewhere beyond the stone walls, the royal court moved. Discussions whispered behind closed doors. Names spoken carefully. Old reports re-read. Forgotten incidents re-examined under new light.
And still—no one came.
That night, Rexor lay awake staring at the ceiling. He thought of his mother. The way her voice shook when the guards arrived. The way his father hadn't hesitated.
Trust.
Not blind faith—but earned certainty.
By morning, the seed had already begun to take root.
Footsteps echoed outside the door.
Rexor sat up instantly. Voryn was already standing.
The door opened.
A guard entered—not armored, not aggressive. Formal.
"You are to be escorted," he said. "Separately."
Rexor's jaw tightened. "Why?"
The guard didn't answer.
Voryn met Rexor's eyes briefly. No reassurance. No warning.
Just understanding.
Rexor was led through corridors he hadn't seen before—narrower, older. The polish faded here. This part of the court had history.
He was brought into a smaller chamber this time. Dimly lit. No shadows to hide in.
August Engelbert stood alone.
"You adapt quickly," August said without greeting.
Rexor remained silent.
"You did not demand answers," August continued. "You did not protest confinement."
"I know when noise is useless," Rexor replied.
August studied him. "That lesson usually takes decades."
Rexor's eyes hardened. "People die while leaders wait."
August did not deny it.
"Tell me," he said, "do you believe what your companion said?"
Rexor didn't hesitate. "Yes."
"Even without proof?"
Rexor thought of the question longer this time.
"Proof comes after consequences," he said. "Not before."
August smiled thinly. "That answer will make you enemies."
"I already have them," Rexor said quietly.
August turned away, walking toward the wall where old maps were carved directly into stone. Borders that no longer meant what they once did.
"The Outer Lands have been… unsettled," August admitted. "Reports dismissed as coincidence."
Rexor said nothing.
"You forced us to re-examine them," August continued. "That is not a small act."
He turned back.
"Nor is it a forgivable one."
The words hung heavy—but not threatening.
"You planted fear," August said. "But fear spreads faster than truth."
"Only when truth is buried," Rexor replied.
Another pause.
August exhaled slowly.
"You will remain under observation," he said. "Both of you. Your movement will be… guided."
Rexor understood the meaning.
Leash.
"Good," Rexor said. "We were going anyway."
August's eyes narrowed—not in anger, but intrigue.
"Leave," he said.
Voryn was not taken through the same corridors.
That alone told him everything.
Where Rexor was led through older stone and fading polish, Voryn was guided downward—past layers of the court most people never knew existed. The air grew cooler with every step. Not damp. Controlled.
This place had never been meant for comfort.
No guards flanked him closely. They didn't need to.
The door he was brought before was unmarked. No insignia. No symbol of rank. Just iron-bound wood reinforced with runes so old they had eroded into meaninglessness.
The guard knocked once.
Then stepped away.
The door opened on its own.
Inside, the room was large—but sparsely furnished. No banners. No throne. Just a long stone table and a single chair positioned at its head.
A man stood beside it.
Sir Thomas Aurelius.
He did not turn when Voryn entered.
Tall. Broad. Wrapped in dark attire that bore no ornamentation, yet carried unmistakable authority. His presence bent the room—not through pressure, but certainty.
Voryn felt it instantly.
This man had killed things that did not die easily.
"You speak as though the Seven are already moving," Thomas said, voice calm, unhurried. "That is not a conclusion one reaches lightly."
Voryn stopped a respectful distance away.
"They are," he replied.
Thomas turned then.
His eyes were sharp—not cold, not cruel. A veteran's gaze. The kind that measured not threat, but inevitability.
"And you know this," Thomas said, "because…?"
"Because they changed their methods," Voryn answered. "And because I killed one of their instruments."
Silence followed.
Not doubt.
Calculation.
Thomas studied Voryn as one might study a blade—checking balance, edge, integrity.
"You don't speak like a witness," Thomas said slowly. "You speak like someone who has already chosen a side."
Voryn met his gaze evenly.
"I chose a long time ago."
Thomas took a step closer.
The air shifted.
Not threatening.
Heavier.
"You stood in front of August Engelbert without flinching," Thomas said. "You spoke the Seven's name without hesitation."
Another step.
"You asked for wooden swords while under containment."
One more.
"And yet," Thomas finished, "you have not once claimed credit."
Voryn's answer was immediate.
"Credit is noise."
Thomas stopped.
Then—finally—he smiled.
Just slightly.
"You are dangerous," he said. "Not because of what you can do."
He leaned in just enough for the weight of his presence to become undeniable.
"But because of what you won't say."
Voryn inclined his head.
"That makes two of us."
For a long moment, Thomas Aurelius simply looked at him.
Then he spoke again.
"You will remain close to Rexor de Strauss," he said. "Not as his shadow."
A pause.
"As his anchor."
Voryn understood.
"Yes."
Thomas turned away, signaling the end without dismissal.
"One more thing," he added.
Voryn waited.
"If the Seven move," Thomas said quietly, "you will come to me first."
Voryn did not hesitate.
"No," he replied.
Thomas turned sharply.
"I will already be moving."
Silence.
Then—approval.
"Go," Thomas said.
When Voryn was escorted back to the quarters, his expression was unchanged. Calm. Neutral.
But inside, something had shifted.
The seed had not only been planted.
It had been recognized.
When Rexor returned to the quarters, Voryn was seated on the floor, wooden sword across his knees.
"They're watching us," Rexor said.
Voryn nodded. "They always were."
"They believe you," Rexor added.
"Not yet," Voryn corrected. "They believe something is wrong."
Rexor sat beside him, resting his back against the wall.
"That's enough," he said.
Voryn looked at him then—not as a guardian, not as a weapon.
But as an equal.
"Yes," he agreed. "For now."
Outside, the city glowed under perfect lantern light. Roads untouched. Walls strong. People sleeping peacefully behind stone and steel.
They believed themselves safe.
And beneath that belief, the seeds had begun to break.
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