In the middle of the night, the tremors finally began to subside, then ceased almost suddenly. The villagers relaxed. Whatever it had been, it seemed over.

  But one person among them all knew better: Owen, still posted atop the wall overlooking the village entrance. The thick fur cloak he wore was now white with snow, blending almost perfectly with his hair. He would have been invisible if not for the faint reflection of moonlight from his presence.

  Before him stretched the only path leading to the village, winding through the mountain gorges. Dozens of motionless silhouettes stood beneath the snow.

  Owen squinted, searching for his essence among the spirits, but in vain: it was as if he weren’t there.

  One of the men stepped forward.

  “By command of His Imperial Majesty, I have been sent as a messenger. Sire Owen, I am honored to find you safe… and pleased to see how much you have grown.”

  Owen’s gaze pierced him, hostile.

  “A messenger? Accompanied by an entire army?!” he snapped.

  “Only a company, Sire. Given the weather and the peril of the mission, you will understand that it was but a necessary measure.”

  “Return at once to whence you came, or I’ll take necessary measures myself.”

  “Regrettably, that is impossible. His Majesty’s orders are absolute.”

  “In that case, he should have come himself; you’re no match.”

  The man sighed deeply.

  “I understand your reluctance, Sire. Truthfully, I would prefer not to use force. I would never wish to see innocents harmed here.”

  Owen reflected for a moment.

  “Tell me, how did you find me?”

  “You ask well; His Majesty has instructed me precisely what to say: ‘Did you truly think you stumbled upon the village’s information by chance?’”

  Owen clenched his teeth and fists. Had he calculated everything from the start? Manipulated everything? Rage surged through him for not questioning it sooner.

  “Never mind. It changes nothing… If you don’t leave, you will die.”

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  “Are you certain, Sire? It would be simpler if you abdi—”

  “No!” Owen cut him off. “I will never return, and I won’t let him win so easily!”

  From atop the wall, Owen closed his eyes, drawing a deep breath and emptying his lungs. When he opened them again, he rose mentally above the soldiers, touching their minds. One by one, he seized control. Swords struck their allies. The clash of steel rang through the mountains, echoing off the rocky walls in deafening reverberations.

  Without hesitation, Owen leapt from the wall, approaching the soldier-messenger he had spared. He surveyed the battlefield with a mixture of astonishment and admiration.

  “Did you truly think you were a match?” Owen asked, drawing his sword.

  The man bowed slightly, a subtle smile on his lips.

  “No, Sire. I would never dare claim such. After all, you are the rightful heir of His Majesty,” he replied.

  Owen’s irritation flared.

  Contrary to expectation, the man looked neither surprised nor afraid. Everything suggested he had anticipated this. A doubt seized Owen: could this be part of his plan? No… it was impossible that he had foreseen all. Worse, he could not see how his men intended to prevail.

  “Out of respect, Sire, allow me to face you.”

  The man displayed remarkable confidence. Owen decided not to underestimate him. This was no longer training—it was real.

  The man drew his sword and raised his shield. He charged, sword aloft. His movements were slow and seemingly clumsy. Owen thought he might not be impressive… a strange notion, given his rank.

  Owen parried effortlessly, pivoting smoothly, deflecting the blow. He struck behind him, unbalancing his opponent with the weight of his body.

  For a moment, he thought he had the advantage—but the strike was blocked by the man’s shield, who turned back with astonishing speed given his weight. Owen stepped back and feinted toward his flank. The man was undeterred, smiling as he swung in a circular motion. Owen parried; the force made his body tremble.

  The man was no amateur. His apparent clumsiness had been a ruse, and his confidence justified. Owen’s heart raced. He caught his breath, lungs burning, glancing over the battlefield: men were still fighting, some fallen, the snow stained with blood.

  A pain shot through his temples; dizziness threatened. He shook his head, regaining focus. His opponent watched impassively, smiling.

  The expression reminded him unpleasantly of the man he hated most. He gritted his teeth, tightened his grip, readying himself.

  “You have made great progress, Sire. His Majesty will be proud.”

  Those words struck Owen with déjà vu. Finally, he understood: this was no ordinary man. His former master-at-arms. One of the Emperor’s trusted men, loyal and high-ranking. Everything fell into place.

  “You…”

  “Do you understand now, Sire?” the man asked, smile widening. “Time has passed quickly for you. You may have forgotten. But I remember. All you know, I taught you. You have trained diligently… yet your style remains unchanged.”

  “You’re wrong. You’re not the only one who has taught me.”

  He stepped forward, ready to strike. The man made no move to defend; he simply pointed above the boy.

  Owen frowned, suspecting a distraction. But cries suddenly rose from the village. He turned sharply.

  Under the moonlight, the snow-covered village was on fire.