Dawn of Reckoning
The knock came too early—three sharp raps that shattered the pre-dawn silence.
"Günther." Reginald's voice was uncharacteristically tense. "The Duke awaits you in the main hall. Now."
I sat up, the cold sweat of interrupted sleep clinging to my back. "My shift doesn't start for another—"
"He's brought Malverick."
The name dropped like a stone in my gut. The Duke's shadow. The Crown's executioner. A man who carried a katana not for honor, but for severing heads with bureaucratic efficiency.
Reginald's hand trembled as he passed me a fresh shirt. "Whatever you've done… tread lightly."
The Ironhold Court
The grand hall felt colder than the Blackpeak winters. Duke Ironhold sat atop his dais, fingers steepled, his obsidian-ringed eyes tracking my every step. To his right stood Malverick—tall, gaunt, his scarred face half-hidden behind a fall of white hair. The katana at his hip bore no ornamentation. Tools don't need decoration.
"Günther of Nowhere." The Duke's smile could've frozen lava. "How… peculiar that my daughter takes such interest in a man with no past."
Malverick's blade slid an inch from its sheath—just enough to catch the candlelight. A silent promise.
The Dance of Deception
"Good morning, my Lord." I kept my voice steady, my pulse artificially slowed to a funeral march—a soldier's trick to feign calm. "Have I erred somehow, to warrant such… armed hospitality?"
Duke Ironhold's smile didn't reach his eyes. "What is your connection to the Jenuva League?"
"I don't understand the accusation." I spread my hands, the picture of confused innocence. "On my first day, Lady Seraphine was attacked by their assassins near your family's blacksmith. Ask her—or any witness."
Malverick's katana whispered another inch from its sheath.
The Duke tilted his head. "Odd. Why didn't you die?"
"I ran. Quickly. Lady Seraphine handled the rest."
A heartbeat of silence. Then—
Steel sang.
The Duke's blade flashed toward my throat in a silver arc. I sidestepped—just enough to let the edge graze my collar, slicing fabric but not flesh.
"Tch." The Duke's nostrils flared. "Fast for a geriatric."
Blade of Clarity
"Blade of Clarity!"
The Duke's sword erupted in prismatic light. I'd seen this technique before—in Seraphine's training. A mana-forged slash that bent mid-air to strike the target's weakest point.
But I'd also seen its flaw.
SWUUNGG!!!!
The projectile streaked toward my ribs—then veered sharply left as I pivoted, letting it obliterate a marble pillar instead. Dust rained down as the Duke's composure cracked.
"Impossible. That technique never misses."
I bowed my head, playing meek. "Beg pardon, my Lord. Dumb luck."
Malverick's hand tightened on his hilt. We both knew the truth.
Seraphine's Intervention
The grand hall doors burst open with a thunderous crack, frost spreading across the marble floors like creeping vines. Seraphine stood in the doorway, her chest heaving, silver hair wild from sprinting through the manor.
"Father!" Her voice was a whip of winter wind. "Interrogating my staff without my oversight?"
She lunged between us, her hand snapping up to catch the Duke's descending blade—
SNAP.
A sickening pop echoed as her wrist dislocated from the impact. The Duke's eyes widened in rare shock, his weapon freezing mid-swing.
"Seraphine—!"
But she didn't cry out. Didn't even flinch. Just cradled her limp hand against her chest, her glare colder than any magic she'd ever conjured.
"He's just an old man," she hissed. "Perhaps you've simply lost your edge."
The Duke recoiled as if struck.
The Retreat
Günther was already moving, his soldier's instincts overriding the charade. He caught Seraphine's elbow, steadying her without touching the injured wrist.
"Lady Seraphine requires a priest," he said, tone carefully neutral. "With your permission, Lord Ironhold."
The Duke's jaw worked silently, his gaze darting between his daughter's defiance and Günther's too-perfect composure.
"Go," he finally gritted out.
As they turned to leave, Malverick's voice slithered after them:
"No 'ordinary old man' dodges the Blade of Clarity."
The Duke's Epiphany
Alone in the shattered hall, the Duke stared at the destroyed pillar—cleanly split by his own technique, the edges too precise, too calculated.
He'd fought wars. Crushed rebellions. Executed traitors with that very swing.
No one dodged it.
Not unless they'd been trained by—
"Malverick," he whispered. "Find out which branch of the Imperial Shadow Corps he deserted from."
Because this wasn't just some stray hound his daughter had picked up.
This was a wolf.
And wolves always came back for blood.
The Priest's Chambers
Carrying Seraphine through the manor's candlelit halls, I felt the weight of her against my chest—lighter than expected, yet radiating a tension that had nothing to do with her injury. Her face burned crimson where it pressed against my shoulder, her breath shallow.
The priest, an elderly man with ink-stained fingers, worked swiftly. A twist, a pulse of healing magic, and the dislocation clicked back into place.
"Avoid strenuous activity for a day," he advised, wrapping her wrist in a sling of enchanted silk. "And perhaps… fewer duels with your father, my Lady."
Seraphine flexed her fingers, testing the joint. "A fair suggestion."
The Conversation
Once we stepped into the corridor, she rounded on me.
"What happened, Günther?"
"Your father suspects I'm Jenuva League." I kept my voice low. "He tested me with his blade."
She scoffed, though her blush hadn't fully faded. "That old man loses all reason when it comes to me."
"That's called care, Lady Seraphine." The words slipped out before I could stop them. "Fathers rarely say sweet words. But their concern cuts deeper than any sword."
She stared at me, lips parted in shock. Then—
"Wow. Getting lectured by my own chauffeur."
"My apologies, Lady Seraphine."
A beat of silence. Then, softer: "...Don't be."
The Duke's Dilemma
Back in the main hall, Duke Ironhold sat slumped in his throne, Malverick at his side. The shattered pillar mocked him, its clean edges a testament to the impossible.
"No ordinary man dodges the Blade of Clarity," Malverick repeated, voice gravelly. "Not without Imperial training."
The Duke's fingers drummed against the armrest. "Then who the hell is he?"
Malverick's gaze slid toward the hallway where Günther and Seraphine had disappeared. "More importantly… why is she protecting him?"
Seraphine's Return
The grand hall's heavy doors swung open once more, revealing Seraphine standing tall despite her silk sling. The Duke's gaze snapped to her, then to Günther hovering a respectful step behind—his expression unreadable.
"Father, I've returned." Her voice was cool, but her fingers flexed subtly at her side, testing the healed joint. "Allow me to clarify the events at the blacksmith. I went to inspect the blade commissioned for the Academy Combat when the Jenuva League ambushed us. I handled the attackers while Günther retreated to safety."
The Duke's fingers drummed against his throne. "Yes, yes. I've heard you ordered a special sword." His eyes flicked to Günther. "Now explain how you dodged the Blade of Clarity."
Günther bowed slightly, shoulders hunched in feigned frailty. "I don't understand, my Lord... I merely moved randomly. Luck, perhaps?"
A tense silence. Then—
"Fine. Suppose I was... careless." The Duke waved a dismissive hand, though his jaw tightened.
The Spark of Suspicion
Günther hesitated, then pressed further—voice carefully measured to sound like an afterthought.
"But if I may ask... This wasn't Lady Seraphine's first attack. Doesn't the precision of these ambushes strike you as odd? They always know where she'll be."
The Duke's goblet froze halfway to his lips.
"Are you suggesting there's a spy in my mansion?!"
Günther ducked his head, the picture of servile deference. "Merely an observation, my Lord."
But the seed was planted.
The Duke's Calculation
The Duke's eyes darkened as he stared into his wine, the liquid reflecting the flickering torchlight like blood.
"Malverick."
His shadow stepped forward, hand resting on his unadorned katana.
"Triple the guard rotations. Screen every servant, every noble visitor. And bring me the blacksmith's ledger—every weapon commissioned in the last six months."
His gaze slid to Günther, lingering. "As for you... Stay close to my daughter. If your luck holds, perhaps you'll spot this traitor before they strike again."
A threat. A test.
And just maybe—an opportunity.
My role had expanded beyond chauffeur—Duke Ironhold now demanded I act as both driver and shield for his daughter. And Seraphine? Since dawn, she'd clung to me like a second shadow. I didn't mind, but the noblesse did. Their disdain slithered through the Academy's marble halls: revoked invitations to solaré salons, study groups that "coincidentally" disbanded when she approached.
The armored car's engine purred as we wound through the capital's opulent districts. Seraphine's knee bounced impatiently against the seat until she finally snapped the silence.
"Gunther." Her nails tapped the glass divider. "Be honest. Can my team win Academy Combat this year?"
I adjusted the rearview mirror. Her reflection glared back—all fire, no strategy.
"I'm no tactician, My Lady. But tell me: how many scrimmages have you held against rival schools?"
"Scrimmages?" She scoffed. "We train in-house. The Ironhold regimen is—"
"—predictable," I cut in, then stiffened. "Apologies."
She waved me off, curiosity flickering behind her irritation.
"If you only spar teammates," I said, "they'll anticipate your every move. Like chess against yourself." The car swerved around a lumbering mana-wagon, and I gripped the wheel harder. "But real fights? Unknown terrain, unpredictable foes—that's how you learn adaptability."
Silence. Seraphine's teacup hit its saucer with a sharp clink. The Academy's doctrine preached perfection through drilled repetition; my words were outright heresy.
"No one at this institution would dare suggest that," she breathed. Outside, the gilded gates of the combat arena loomed, their pillars carved with scenes of legendary duels.
I downshifted as we approached, leather gloves creaking.
"Then maybe," I said, "it's time someone did."
My advice stemmed from a life I was trying to bury—back on Earth, where survival demanded more than rehearsed drills. We trained in chaos: ambushes at midnight, terrain shifts mid-battle, no room for scripted moves. That forged my unit into elites. But those memories… I'd gladly let them fade. All except her. Elizabeth.
I blinked back to the present as Seraphine concluded her debate with the team's head mentor. Though winning the tournament would be arduous, the experience alone would temper her squad like steel.
"Gunther." She turned to me, the Academy's stained-glass windows casting prismatic light over her shoulders. "Thank you. This… unconventional approach might just be what we need."
Her smile was winter sunlight—cool but dazzling. And for a heartbeat, I saw Elizabeth in the curve of her lips. But it wasn't me who froze in awe.
A noble in embroidered cobalt silks materialized beside us, bowing with theatrical flourish.
"Your smile is a celestial marvel, Lady Seraphine." His voice dripped syrup. "Viscount Durak, at your service. Might I steal a moment of the Ironhold heiress's time?"
Seraphine's smile didn't waver, but her fingertips brushed the hilt of her family's katana—the blade's black lacquer scabbard gleaming with the Ironhold crest. I stepped forward, my shadow cutting between them.
"The Lady's schedule is spoken for," I said, tone flat. "Unless you'd like to petition Duke Ironhold directly?"
Durak's grin turned venomous. "How… protective of you, chauffeur."
The insult hung in the air, but Seraphine's laugh shattered it like glass.
"Oh, Viscount," she purred, tilting her head so the light caught the silver threads in her uniform. "You've mistaken a warhound for a lapdog." She turned on her heel, the katana swaying gracefully at her hip. "Shall we, Gunther?"
I opened the door, her parting glance at Durak sharper than the edge of her blade.
The academy's gilded halls were alive with the usual spectacle—nobles vying for Seraphine's attention with increasingly desperate gambits. A silver-haired viscount "accidentally" spilled his tea near her path, only for her to sidestep it without breaking stride. Another presented a rare starbloom flower; she accepted it with polite detachment before handing it to a passing servant. I kept half a pace behind, my presence alone deterring the bolder ones.
"They grow more creative each week," Seraphine murmured, her katana's hilt glinting as she adjusted her posture. "Last Tuesday, someone staged an entire poetry recital about my eyes."
"Should I intervene?" I asked, noting a baron's son maneuvering to "coincidentally" bump into her near the staircase.
Her lips quirked. "Let him try. I owe Headmaster Aldric three disciplinary reports. This might cover one."
The baron's son never got the chance. A sudden hush fell as six Ironhold guards in runesteel armor marched into the courtyard, their sigils pulsing with urgent crimson light. The captain bowed stiffly.
"My Lady. His Grace demands your immediate return—with your escort."
Seraphine's playful demeanor vanished. "...Understood."
The Ironhold Mansion - Crimson Parlor
Duke Ironhold stood silhouetted against the floor-to-ceiling windows, his back to us as we entered. The room reeked of ozone and copper. Then I saw it—Blair's body cleaved cleanly at the neck, his head tilted grotesquely toward the ceiling, mouth still parted mid-scream. The marble floor was a spiderweb of cracks where the decapitation spell had ricocheted.
"Father—" Seraphine's voice wavered for the first time in months.
The Duke turned. His voidsilver gauntlet dripped with residual magic. "Gunther. Your suspicions were correct." He kicked Blair's severed head toward me with clinical dispassion. "The Jenuvian League's spy. Though his intel matches your description of their safehouse networks."
I knelt to examine the head. The pupils were blown wide—not from pain, but from a triggered mindscour curse. "He talked, then?"
"Enough." The Duke's smile was a blade's edge. "Coordinates to a League outpost near the Blackwater docks. But the moment we pressed about their benefactors..." He gestured to the corpse.
Seraphine stepped forward, her boots leaving faint prints in the blood-flecked dust. "What did he reveal before the spell activated?"
"Nothing coherent." The Duke flicked a rune-inscribed dagger from his sleeve—Blair's own weapon. "This was embedded in his spine years ago. Long-range detonation. Quite... thorough."
A tense silence settled. Seraphine's fingers hovered over her katana's tassels—a childhood habit when unnerved. Then, with deliberate calm, she met her father's gaze.
"So we hunt the hunters." Her voice was steel. "Starting with Blackwater."
The Duke's approving nod was all the confirmation needed.