The carriage ride ended with the clatter of boots.

  A squad of armed guards escorted me through the Noble District’s near-empty streets, their rifles gleaming under the morning sun. At every intersection, more patrols moved in formation, faces grim. The city felt like it had stopped breathing.

  When we reached Arthur’s estate, the soldiers saluted stiffly before bowing out. I gave them an awkward half-smile.

  The whole district feels like it’s walking a tightrope, one wrong step from collapse.

  Inside, the contrast hit me.

  No gilded walls. No marble saints. Arthur’s hallways wore steel and grit instead. War banners. Painted battlefields. Swords hung where portraits should be. It felt more like a garrison than a noble manor.

  It made sense, since Arthur wasn’t just a commander, but someone who was both a scholar of warfare and an adept strategist.

  I knew the way well enough, my steps echoing softly as I crossed the long corridors. Servants dashed around, bowing lightly to me while seemingly rushed into motion.

  Even here there seems to be tension.

  Two guards flanked the double doors to Arthur’s office. They weren’t like the ones outside who were more young and inexperienced. These men had the steady hands and hard eyes of veterans. Bolt-action rifles in hand, sabers at their hips and postures carved from stone.

  They didn’t ask who I was. One of them rapped lightly on the door.

  “Damian.”

  A muffled voice answered. “Let him in.”

  The doors creaked open. I stepped through as they quickly closed behind me, but the guards didn’t relax.

  Arthur barely looked up. He was hunched over a mountain of papers, quill in hand, eyes shadowed with fatigue. His uniform was creased, his hair unkempt - but his presence still carried weight, like he could shake the whole room awake with a single order.

  “The streets are empty,” I said, sliding my hands into my pockets. “Except soldiers.”

  “Not enough,” he muttered, scratching another line across the page. He finally looked up, gaze tired but sharp. “Not after the folly last night.”

  I sat down opposite him, leaning back in the chair. “So the threat’s been dealt with?”

  Arthur’s jaw tightened. “Unlikely. The Cardinal has been missing since that night. Presumed dead.”

  My stomach dropped. “You don’t mean-”

  His eyes narrowed. “Yes. I’ve been told by Her Highness herself. If the reports are true, then you faced a Bishop of the Black Sun. One that's pretty famous in the North.”

  He slid a paper across the desk.

  A flyer. A sketched portrait. The face made my skin crawl with familiarity. Beneath it, the name:

  MAXWELL YEVANTE

  Wanted - Dead.

  A bounty was scrawled beneath, along with promises of reward for information.

  I frowned. “He looks… almost identical.”

  Arthur nodded grimly. “The Regent pulled strings to get this from Twyrn city in the North. That’s where the Black Sun are rooted. Their stain runs deep there.” He sat back, rubbing his temples. “I’ve been busy re-organizing the garrison. Until either Maxwell’s corpse or the Cardinal’s is found, this city stays under lockdown. The Regent’s made that clear.”

  I exhaled slowly. “You’ve got a hell of a job ahead of you.”

  “Especially now that the Inquisition’s involved,” Arthur said, his tone clipped. His eyes flickered with something I didn’t miss - apprehension.

  He didn’t linger on it. Instead, he shuffled another paper from the pile and tossed it toward me. His voice grew sharp with irritation.

  “I know why you’re here.”

  I glanced down. My stomach sank again.

  Application for Nobility Ascension - Merit Based: Damien Solmere.

  Stamped across it in bold red ink - DENIED.

  Arthur’s fist curled, his teeth clenched. “Since most of the military nobles were killed in the bomb that exploded in the west wing of the mansion, our faction has been gutted. And now the Judiciary, led by that snake Arken Talvarien, has blocked your ascension.”

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Thinking back to the mansion, I remember walking past their table - and the smug look on Arkens face. For what reason, I still didn’t know.

  He's certainly not someone I’d associate myself with. Especially with how high and mighty Nobles like him are.

  I narrowed my eyes. “On what grounds?”

  “Martial law,” Arthur spat. “Some obscure clause. A convenient excuse. Arken’s claimed no noble seats can be filled while the city’s under emergency law.”

  “Bullshit,” I muttered.

  Arthur slammed his quill down. “Exactly.” He raked a hand through his hair, glaring at the denied stamp like he could burn it off the page. “It’s politics. They’re circling like vultures. And after all you did, saving Her Highness, the least they could have given you was recognition.”

  I leaned back, jaw tight. “Without a noble seat, I have no power. No influence. And no chance of attending the capital’s military academy.”

  Arthur sighed heavily. “You can still use my name, for now. But anything beyond that and you’ll be at a disadvantage. Don’t even think about the academy at that rate.” His expression softened - just barely. “I’m sorry, Damian.”

  I shook my head. “Don’t be. Not your fault.”

  But my thoughts ran sharp.

  If I had Mary, Arthur and the Regent backing me, even Arken’s faction couldn’t block me forever.

  Arthur must have seen something in my expression, because he added. “You could appeal directly to the Regent. He wanted to see you anyway. If he put his weight behind it, even Talvarien couldn’t refuse. He's currently at his residence, probably stuck in paperwork.”

  I gave a slow nod.

  The Regent’s backing, plus two royals… they wouldn’t be able to deny me then.

  “Fine,” I said. “I’ll meet him. But first, I want to see Adrian. I owe him a spar.”

  Arthur leaned back in his chair, blowing smoke from his billowing pipe. “He’s drilling the recruits at the yard as usual. You’ll find him there.”

  The training yard. Of course Arthur’s estate had one - broad grounds where soldiers could spar and march, the clang of steel echoing off stone. It was a place where discipline never slept.

  A place I loved to avoid.

  I stood, smoothing my coat. “Then I’ll stop by before I go.”

  Arthur gave a weary nod, already turning back to his endless paperwork.

  I left the office, the sound of his quill scratching resuming behind me.

  —

  By the time I arrived, the training yard was alive with noise.

  Young recruits lined up in neat rows, sweat dripping down their brows as they thrust and parried with practice rifles tipped with wooden bayonets. Their stances were shaky, their swings too wide, but their eyes were steady. Determined. Even green as they were, it was clear why Arthur chose them. He didn’t want cowards. He wanted resolve - skill could be hammered in later.

  Adrian spotted me the moment I stepped onto the sand-packed grounds. He barked a quick order, and the recruits froze in place, snapping their rifles back to rest. Their discipline surprised me, even if the movements weren’t clean.

  “Damian!” Adrian called, grinning as he strode over, wiping his brow with his sleeve. “About time you finally swinged by.”

  “You’re training them here?” I asked, glancing at the recruits.

  “Course,” he said proudly. “We’re Arthur’s personal guard. That means every fresh face starts here under our eyes, until they’re worth trusting with a rifle in the field. No better place to learn than the General’s own yard.”

  A few recruits glanced at me curiously, whispers passing between them before Adrian clapped his hands. “Eyes front! Don’t gawk.”

  The boys stiffened, returning to position.

  I eyed their faces, noticing how young they were.

  They can’t be older than fifteen?

  Adrian turned back to me, smirk tugging his lips. “Perfect timing, though. Was about to show ’em how to handle themselves when rifles get too clumsy up close. Thought maybe you’d lend a hand.”

  I raised a brow. “Meaning?”

  He grabbed a rifle from a rack and fixed a bayonet on the end with a metallic snap. Then he tossed me a knife, its edge dulled for training but still heavy in my hand.

  “You play the part of some alley-brawler. Knife’s the simplest tool for close quarters - cheap, quick, nasty. I’ll take the bayonet. Recruits!” he barked again. “Pay attention. When the enemy’s in your face, your rifle’s more than a gun. It’s a spear, a staff, and if you’re clever, a shield. You won’t get a sword until you're at least a colonel, so this will be all you have until then.”

  The boys straightened, eager eyes on us.

  Adrian lowered into a stance. “Come on, Damian. Make me look good.”

  I twirled the knife once between my fingers, stepping forward. “I’m not exactly proficient with a knife. Still reckon I could knock you down though. Don’t regret asking.”

  We circled for a couple seconds before I lunged, quick and low, aiming for his side. He deflected with the rifle shaft, the wooden stock slamming my wrist aside before he twisted and drove the butt toward my chest. I dodged back, regaining distance just beyond his rifle but.

  The recruits murmured at the speed of it.

  I tried again, feinting high then darting low again - but Adrian anticipated, sweeping the rifle down to knock my legs. My balance faltered, and in a blur, he hooked me forward, sending me sprawling into the dirt.

  I could only smile in defeat.

  Well shit, that was quick.

  The recruits let out a collective gasp.

  Adrian leaned on his rifle like it was a cane, grinning down at me. “And that’s how you drop a knife-man before he opens your throat. In Young Master Damian's defence, he's more of a sharpshooter than a knife wielding grunt.”

  I groaned, brushing the sand from my coat as he hauled me back up with one hand. “You could’ve warned me about the trip.”

  He only grinned. “Lesson sticks better if it stings.”

  Facing the recruits again, he raised his voice. “Remember this! Fighting honorably looks good in ballads, but in the field? There’s no room for honor. Only survival. Against heretics especially - they’ll gut you like a fish if you give them the chance. You're no use to the Empire dead.”

  The boys nodded sharply, gripping their rifles tighter.

  I sighed, dusting myself off, though the corner of my mouth tugged up faintly. “Not bad.”

  Adrian clapped me on the shoulder. “Not bad yourself. You lasted longer than most.” His smile turned slightly shocked as he saw my hand. “Your hand's already healed? Is that some divine pathway nonsense, or did the priests find some magical elixir to make it heal that fast.”

  I only shook my head. “The former. Her highness herself was graceful enough to heal my wounded hand.”

  His smile turned sly now. “Must be nice. Being healed personally by some fairy tale princess. I’ve heard her beauty lights up a room by itself y’know?”

  It's not her beauty I'm worried about, my friend.

  I rolled my eyes. “Jealous?”

  “Damn right I am,” he laughed. “Should’ve let me take the stab, then I’d be the one getting royal treatment.”

  I couldn’t help a small chuckle as I adjusted my coat. “Next time, I’ll keep that in mind. Rather it you than me.”

  He smirked, giving me a mock salute. “Well good luck on whatever errand Arthurs sent you on. I’ll have fun training all these boys myself.”

  “Lucky for them,” I muttered, heading for the gate.

  Behind me, the sound of barked orders and the clash of practice rifles filled the air again.

  And with that, I made my way toward the Regent’s manor.

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