The next morning, Riktor escorted Garnok through the palace district like the stone paths belonged to him.

  The capital woke in layers.

  First came the servants: sweeping courtyards, polishing railings, carrying water in wide basins that sloshed with every hurried step. Then came the soldiers: patrols changing, helmets under arms, boots striking the ground in the same measured rhythm. Then came the nobles—late, perfumed, wrapped in cloth expensive enough to buy a village—gliding past like the world was built to move around them.

  Garnok watched all of it through half-lidded eyes, hands tucked into his coat, posture relaxed.

  Relaxed didn’t mean harmless.

  It meant he was always ready.

  Riktor kept talking as they walked.

  “Onyx is the weakest of the knight orders,” he said.

  Garnok glanced over. “Weakest?”

  “With only a knight captain,” Riktor answered.

  Garnok frowned. “Why only a captain?”

  Riktor exhaled like he hated repeating kingdom structure.

  “The king’s strength is divided between four orders,” he said. “There’s my Crimson Knights. Maldon’s White Knights. Sinthia’s Blue Knights.”

  “Sinthia,” Garnok repeated, filing the name away.

  Riktor nodded. “Her Blue Knights are usually away—diplomatic missions, escorting envoys, negotiating border disputes. When you need polished words and a blade behind them, you send Blue.”

  “And the fourth?” Garnok asked, though he already knew.

  Riktor’s expression flattened slightly. “Onyx.”

  He didn’t say it like a title.

  He said it like a scar.

  “They’re the royal family’s shock unit,” Riktor continued. “The ones you throw at a problem when you want it crushed fast and quietly. No speeches, no banners, no heroic songs. Just results.”

  Garnok’s eyes narrowed.

  Shock units weren’t built to be admired.

  They were built to absorb blood.

  “They used to have a vessel-ranked knight commander,” Riktor said. “Three years ago, he died.”

  Garnok didn’t ask who killed him.

  Riktor looked ahead, voice steady. “To your father.”

  Garnok felt the name like a fist in his ribs even without hearing it spoken.

  Krutang the Red.

  The chieftain who laughed when he beat his own son.

  Riktor didn’t stop there.

  “And it wasn’t just him,” he said. “Your father killed two Onyx captains as well.”

  Garnok’s jaw tightened once, then released.

  Akash’s voice slid through his thoughts, sharp with cruel humor.

  You really walked into a den of swords all by yourself, huh.

  Garnok ignored her.

  Riktor kept his tone matter-of-fact, like he was reciting the weather.

  “With those losses, he slaughtered the low-ranked Vyse users assisting them too. Around fifteen low-grade knights, two mid-grade knights… and the vessel-ranked commander.”

  Garnok exhaled slowly.

  So Onyx wasn’t weak because they were useless.

  They were weak because they’d been gutted and never recovered.

  Garnok spoke again. “Then who’s the captain now?”

  Riktor’s mouth twitched. “See for yourself.”

  They turned past a low stone arch and stepped into Onyx territory.

  The training yard was smaller than the Crimson grounds. Less decorated. No proud statues. No carved memorials. No crowds gathered to watch.

  But what it lacked in spectacle, it made up for in pressure.

  Even the air felt stricter here.

  The knights that remained weren’t laughing or showing off. They drilled in silence, faces hard, weapons moving with blunt discipline. A few carried bruises that weren’t old enough to fade.

  Garnok noticed something else.

  They watched him the way a pack watches a new animal walk into their den.

  Not curiosity.

  Assessment.

  Fear, hidden behind training.

  At the center of the yard, Karen moved with a greatsword.

  Sweat ran down her temples. Her breathing was controlled. Her stance was low—knees bent, legs firm, weight grounded like she could take a charging beast head-on and not budge an inch.

  She wasn’t performing.

  She was trying to become something sharper than she already was.

  Then she noticed them.

  Her blade froze mid-motion.

  Her head turned, and her eyes locked onto Garnok.

  The temperature in the yard dropped.

  “WHY IS HE HERE?!”

  Every Onyx knight paused.

  Some pretended they didn’t.

  None of them actually kept training.

  Riktor didn’t even blink. “He was assigned yesterday.”

  Then, with the kind of smile that belonged on a villain, he added, “Congratulations on your new member, Karen.”

  Garnok looked pleased just to make her angry.

  Karen’s grip tightened on her sword. She glared at Riktor like she wanted to cut him in half.

  “Why was I not consulted?” she snapped.

  Riktor spread his hands. “Because it wasn’t a discussion. It was a royal order.”

  Karen’s nostrils flared. “So you dragged him here and called it congratulations.”

  Riktor shrugged. “You were in the throne room. You heard the king. He put him under your supervision.”

  Karen’s eyes flicked to Garnok. “I refuse him.”

  Riktor looked at Garnok, then back at Karen like she’d just declared she refused the sky.

  “That’s impossible.”

  Karen’s voice rose. “Why?”

  “Because it was the king’s order,” Riktor said flatly. “And there’s no one else in Onyx who can hit like you.”

  That landed.

  It wasn’t praise.

  It was a reminder of how empty the order had become.

  Karen’s jaw worked like she was grinding her teeth into dust.

  “But I can’t use Vyse yet,” she shot back. “And he’s younger than me. I’m sure he can’t either.”

  Garnok tilted his head. “I can’t use Vyse.”

  Karen opened her mouth—ready to throw that back at him like an insult—

  And Garnok lifted his hands slightly.

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  “But I can use this.”

  He pushed heat through his forearm like pulling air into a bellows.

  For a heartbeat, the red snake-like markings shimmered—faint ember-light under the skin—

  and fire spilled into his palms.

  Not wild. Not raging.

  Controlled, like a tool he could turn on and off.

  The remaining Onyx knights flinched.

  Riktor went silent for a moment, eyes narrowing as he studied the flame.

  Karen stumbled backward and fell onto her butt like her legs forgot how to be legs.

  “…You’re a mage?” she muttered.

  Riktor shook his head. “No.”

  He stared at the markings on Garnok’s arm, frowning.

  “He’s a contractor,” Riktor said.

  “A contractor?” Karen repeated, still on the ground.

  Riktor’s gaze sharpened. “A pact-bearer. Someone who borrows the shape of power from something else.”

  He gestured vaguely at Garnok’s arm. “Feels phoenix-like… but the markings don’t match.”

  Garnok didn’t correct him.

  Let them misread it.

  Misunderstanding made people sloppy.

  Riktor clapped his hands once like he was done with the whole situation.

  “I have something to report,” he said. “I’ll leave you two to it.”

  And he walked out without another word.

  Karen sat there for another second, staring at Garnok like he was a problem the king dumped on her doorstep.

  Then she forced herself up, grabbed her greatsword, and wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her wrist.

  “Do you know the basics of being a knight,” she asked, voice clipped, “at least?”

  Garnok nodded. “Honor.”

  Karen’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not a technique.”

  “It’s a foundation,” Garnok said.

  Karen scoffed. “Let me see your techniques.”

  She stepped into stance again—low, grounded, sword angled like a door about to slam shut.

  “Get in stance.”

  Garnok didn’t move. His shoulders stayed loose. Hands relaxed at his sides.

  “I don’t need one right now.”

  Karen’s brow twitched. “Why?”

  Garnok didn’t answer.

  Because even relaxed, he was already ready.

  Because his body didn’t separate “resting” from “prepared.” Not anymore.

  Karen decided not to wait.

  She dashed forward.

  Her rising slash cut air cleanly, aiming to break him before he could even start.

  But before her eyes could track—

  Garnok was gone.

  Karen’s blade met nothing.

  She reset instantly and scanned the yard, eyes sharp.

  Where—

  Then she froze.

  A presence was beside her.

  Close. Silent. Predatory.

  Like a serpent coiling before it devoured prey.

  Karen swung—

  Garnok smacked her wrist with a sharp, precise strike.

  Her grip failed.

  The greatsword slipped, slammed into the ground, and bounced once like humiliation given weight.

  Garnok stepped in, smooth and calm, and placed one finger against the center of her forehead.

  “You’re dead.”

  Karen’s breath caught.

  Her knees hit the ground.

  Around them, the Onyx knights went stiff, like they didn’t know whether to step in or pretend they never saw this.

  Karen looked up at Garnok, eyes wide with shock and fury.

  “How did you do that?”

  Garnok withdrew his hand and stepped back.

  “I fought beasts and monsters in the mountains,” he said simply.

  “Beasts rely on instinct,” he added. “No thought. Just action.”

  It wasn’t a lie.

  But it wasn’t the whole truth.

  He didn’t tell her about being a soldier once—about timing and angles and reading the shift of weight in someone’s hips before they moved.

  He didn’t tell her his hands remembered violence the way a blade remembered sharpening.

  Karen pushed herself up, anger returning like a shield.

  “It still shouldn’t be easy for barbarians to use mana the way you do.”

  Garnok blinked. “All I did was dodge.”

  “No,” Karen snapped. “You didn’t.”

  She pointed at him like she’d caught him cheating.

  “I saw it at the last second,” she said. “You wrapped your hand in mana and deflected my sword.”

  Garnok’s expression didn’t change.

  Inside him, Akash sounded amused.

  She’s observant. Even without Vyse.

  Then, sharper:

  She’s a genius.

  Garnok’s mouth twitched.

  “So what if you saw, Karen?” he said.

  Karen looked stunned—more insulted than impressed.

  Garnok’s voice stayed calm, which somehow made it worse.

  “Even without Vyse, I beat you,” he said. “A knight captain.”

  “And you,” he continued, “can’t beat a barbarian who flails his mana a little.”

  Karen opened her mouth.

  Then shut it.

  Because the worst part was—

  He was right.

  Her shoulders dipped a fraction.

  Her pride fought it. Lost. Then fought again.

  “I don’t have your constitution,” she admitted bitterly. “Barbarian bodies are dense. Your people rarely even have mana veins that circulate properly. Most can’t do complex movement with mana.”

  Her eyes hardened. “So explain it.”

  Garnok tilted his head. “Explain what.”

  “How you do it,” Karen said. “Don’t play dumb.”

  Garnok’s gaze flicked briefly to the Onyx knights watching from the edges of the yard.

  They weren’t just watching a spar.

  They were watching a decision.

  If Karen broke here, the order broke with her.

  Garnok spoke without raising his voice.

  “It’s not barbarian talent,” he said. “It’s borrowed.”

  Karen’s brows drew together.

  Garnok lifted his forearm slightly—not to show it off, but to acknowledge it.

  “I made a contract,” he said.

  Karen’s eyes narrowed. “With what.”

  Akash stirred inside him, irritated.

  Garnok kept his face steady. “With something ancient.”

  Karen didn’t blink. “That doesn’t answer anything.”

  So Garnok gave her something real—something she could carry back to the king without sounding insane.

  “When I made the pact,” Garnok said, “it carved channels in me.”

  Karen’s expression shifted—just slightly. Like that phrase mattered.

  Garnok continued.

  “Most people have mana veins that circulate naturally,” he said. “Or they awaken Vyse and force their inner strength outward. But barbarians… our bodies are heavy. Dense. The veins are thin, sometimes broken, sometimes barely there.”

  Karen watched him closely.

  Garnok’s voice stayed even.

  “The contract acted like a brand,” he said. “It pressed a pattern into my body. It widened what was narrow. Connected what was separated.”

  Karen’s gaze flicked to his forearm again.

  Garnok didn’t over-explain with fancy words.

  He kept it blunt.

  “It’s like pouring water down cracked stone,” he said. “Normally it leaks everywhere. The pact sealed the cracks.”

  Karen’s throat worked. “So you can circulate mana freely.”

  “Freer,” Garnok corrected. “Not perfect.”

  He lifted a hand, palm up.

  “And fire?” Karen demanded. “You’re telling me you can just make fire because of a pact?”

  Garnok exhaled once.

  “The contract gives me a path to it,” he said. “It lets me convert mana into flame more easily—like the pact taught my body what ‘fire’ is supposed to feel like.”

  Akash’s voice cut in, annoyed.

  Simplify it more. You’re making it sound noble.

  Garnok ignored her and kept talking.

  “Without the pact,” he said, “mana is just energy. Hard to shape. Hard to control. With the pact… the shape is already there.”

  Karen stared.

  “So you’re not a mage.”

  “No,” Garnok said. “Mages learn to shape mana from scratch. I’m using a pattern someone else burned into me.”

  Karen’s eyes narrowed. “A pattern.”

  Garnok’s mouth twitched. “A serpent’s leash, if you want to be rude about it.”

  That earned him a sharp look.

  Akash hissed inside him.

  Leash? I should bite you.

  Karen took a slow breath, then asked the question that mattered.

  “If your power comes from a contract,” she said, “then what happens if the contractor turns on you?”

  Garnok smiled—small, sharp, almost amused.

  “Then I die,” he said.

  Karen held his gaze. “You’re too calm about that.”

  Garnok’s smile didn’t move.

  “I grew up under Krutang,” he said. “Risk is normal.”

  Karen’s expression tightened at the name.

  Then she did something Garnok didn’t expect.

  She looked away for half a heartbeat—like she was swallowing something bitter.

  When she looked back, her voice was lower.

  “You’re still not taking my seat,” she said.

  Garnok’s eyes gleamed. “We’ll see.”

  Karen stepped closer, close enough that only he could hear her clearly.

  “You beat me because you’re fast,” she said quietly. “Because you have a body that shouldn’t exist. But this is still my order.”

  Garnok leaned in slightly.

  “If you want to keep it,” he murmured, “get stronger.”

  Karen’s jaw clenched. “And you?”

  Garnok’s grin widened. “I’ll get stronger too.”

  Karen’s eyes flashed. “You can’t even use Vyse.”

  “When I learn it,” Garnok said, “watch closely.”

  “How quickly I replace you.”

  Karen’s breathing tightened. Pride flared again, hot and stubborn.

  Garnok stepped back and nodded toward her sword.

  “Stand up,” he said. “A leader can’t stay on her knees.”

  He extended his hand.

  Karen stared at it like it offended her.

  Then she grabbed it and stood, yanking hard enough to test him.

  Garnok didn’t budge.

  Karen’s lips twitched—half anger, half reluctant respect.

  “…Alright,” she said.

  Garnok’s grin turned smug. “You need to look good for me to replace you.”

  Karen snorted. “Keep dreaming.”

  “You have a better chance making your own order than replacing me.”

  Garnok nodded slowly. “I guess we’ll find out.”

  Karen narrowed her eyes. “When.”

  “When we have a rematch,” Garnok said. “After we both learn Vyse.”

  Karen’s composure cracked just enough for her real voice to show.

  “Shut up,” she muttered. “You little shit.”

  Garnok laughed quietly.

  Not because it was funny.

  Because it was alive.

  Onyx wasn’t dead yet.

  Not with someone like her still biting.

  And Garnok could feel it—this order was a battlefield waiting for a new flag.

  He didn’t need to say it out loud.

  He was already thinking it.

  Step by step, he would carve his way through the kingdom’s systems, its churches, its knight orders—

  Until “Garn” stopped being a nickname they used to make him smaller.

  And became a name they said carefully.

  Because it could cut.