“How should I refer to you?” asked Kaniel.

“Gora will do,” said the pallid man.

The two, surrounded by stony timber-framed houses, trod the narrow streets alongside each other. Kaniel shifted his gaze to his left and glanced up at the scarecrow of a man. His own exceptional height barely reached the man’s shoulders. Even more peculiar was his massive forehead.

“I meant your occupation.”

“Ah,” the man exclaimed apathetically. “Steward, butler, marshal, so on.” His narrow eyes fixated on the path ahead, tired yet focused, aloof yet terrifying, not a tinge of emotion perceptible in them. He tilted his disheveled chin and took a momentary look at the new lord, scrutinizing him from head to toe with those dead-fish eyes of his, the color slightly lighter than the voluminous, disarrayed hair. Black strands—in this, and perhaps only in this regard, the man was just like anybody else in the settlement.

“Gora will do,” Gora said.

“Gora it is,” Kaniel resigned. He looked back at the populace that followed behind, all slim and lanky, with black hair, pale skin, lively dark eyes. Back in the capital, he was often compared to the northerners, which was considered an insult. The words ‘Northerner’ and ‘Barbarian’ were used interchangeably. Kaniel would disagree. To him, they gave the impression of grim reapers, if anything. The current sight only served to anchor his views.

“So, Gora.”

“Yes?”

“Such fierce eyes, those peasants. As though they want to tear me apart with them.”

“Yes.”

His curt replies didn't stun Kaniel. Neither did the aggravated peasants. Unlike in the elven and dwarven empires, not many common folk were enthusiastic about nobles in the human empire in the first place, especially if it was a noble with such atrocious accusations as Kaniel's. The rare instances when they wholeheartedly revered their lords could be counted on one hand.

“First impressions matter,” Gora noted, his steps leaving colossal footprints on the dried snow. “You didn’t even say a word. No greetings upon arrival. Just nodded. Forgive me for my insolence, my Lord, but what did you expect?”

By this, Kaniel was internally taken aback. Not because of the apparent revelation, of course, but the talkativeness. Gora had given him an impression of a man of a few words. That impression shattered and vanished into thin air, his breath condensing into short-lived vapors.

He clenched his fists, his pace slowing.

“I can't with this anymore…” Kaniel muttered gibberish under his breath as his steps came to a sudden halt. His lips twitched.

“How dare those lowlifes glare at me!” he snapped, his calm expression contorting into one full of gnash and fury. He pointed at the people, his bloodshot eyes reddened with veins, spitting every word, “Do you people in the north not even understand how to treat nobles?! Ha! You should all have watery eyes filled to the brim with gratitude upon the presence bestowed by my graceful self. And yet, and yet…”

“You mongrels dare oppose someone of such high esteem!?” He strode in their direction and pointed a finger at them, the hand shaking, the other clenched into a fist. “No amount of light can guide those who refuse to open their eyes! No guide can lead the blind who wish to remain lost as those who cling to blindness will never glimpse the horizon!”

Or so he said. Deep down, he was impressed, very. Were it people back in the capital, they would cower and tremble before any noble, no matter how lowly or cruel, but the individuals who stood before him neither faltered nor backed down. Either the influence of nobles and the authority they held wasn’t as far-reaching as he thought, or monster waves and conditions had hardened people here so much that they simply couldn’t care. Possibly both. Now, impressed he was, of course. Still, that was where it ended.

In their eyes, he saw hate, fury, scorn. It didn’t matter. He had seen it everywhere anywhere before. What he didn’t like was the scourge of defiance as it and only it had the strength to break the yoke, for only in it lay the seed of rebellion. Anger and resentment could boil in the masses, but without the will to defy, they were powerless.

So he waited. He waited for someone brave to stand to shatter the chains, to try to set an example. He needed more than anger—a spark, an inspirational figure. Yet none did.

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His eyes landed on a lone little boy in the corner, his lips forming into an ugly leer. “Brat!” His voice rose. “Come closer!”

The boy looked at him in bewilderment and then right and left at the adults and his peers. None responded to his pleas. Again, he ran a hand through his spiky hair and stranded his eyes everywhere he could. No answers came.

“Do you not hear me?!!”

Without any other option and the lord’s patience visibly running thin, he jogged and stood right before him, ready for a beating, eyes shut tight.

Instead, he felt a soft touch on his head. A palm. He was being patted. He slowly opened them, his eyes, astounded.

“Poor child.”

A moment ago, Pana felt dread, yet now, he was relieved and relished in spirited joy. He hadn’t since the passing of his parents.

“Your filthy parents didn’t teach you manners, did they?”

“…”

All the spectators gasped. The words slowly but surely dawned on the child. His small, oval face became aghast. Tears followed, silent yet telling. His lips quivered. His mouth widened, breaths rapid.

“It’s okay, kid. It's the people who should be blamed.” Kaniel’s expression softened. “A child's path is often laid by their parents, who sow manners in their children, the roots grow deep, and their fruits will be borne by the next generation and the one after that, who carry the harvest.”

Pana began to sob loudly, uncontrollably. Glassy tears trickled down his puffy cheeks onto his tattered, off-white shirt.

Kaniel brushed them away. “Worry not. Though the roots may be tangled, it’s never too late to nurture new growth, as even a troubled past can be the soil from which a better future is cultivated, and a new harvest can still be grown. The mistakes of the parents don’t have to be your fate. There’s always a chance to tear apart the perpetual cycle—”

“Enough!” A scream erupted from the crowd of bystanders. “Did you have enough fun on your power trip?”

The crowd parted. All the gazes landed on a figure of a young man who stepped forth, some worried, some bewildered, all supportive. Kaniel, too, glimpsed at him once again with sly amusement. Outwardly, though, he remained frustrated, shocked. Sensing the tension, Pana ran away.

“You nobles are cut from the same cloth. No better than animals. No, worse than animals. But even for a noble, you seem to have a pretty sharp tongue, don't ya?” He pointed his blade at Kaniel. “My parents told me men used steel to clear the air, y'know?”

He glared at Kaniel with a brave smirk. His dark hair fell past his narrow eyes, a few pieces brushing against his angular face. Handsome was the bastard. Kaniel could swear that if the man took better care of himself, he’d look no second to the crown prince who so much cared about appearances. A perfect counterfeit indeed.

“Brazen brat, who are you?” Kaniel spat.

“Me?” The man strode till he stood a few steps away from Kaniel and crossed his arms. “I, Leonard Smith, demand a duel. Let us see if your blade is as sharp as your wit.”

Silence fell. Though expected, even Kaniel was taken aback. The man was truly fearless.

“Do you realize the weight of your words?” he probed. “That even if you were to defeat me, claim my noblehood, and keep yourself alive, you’d have to fight one of the top hundred swordsmen the empire sends after you.”

Leonard frowned. Well, of course, he hadn’t. “Of course I did!”

“So be it.” Kaniel stepped forward, reaching for the blade at his waist. “I shall show the mongrels their true place!” His lips curled into a ridiculous grin.

Leonard planted his feet in a wide stance, knees slightly bent. He raised and angled his sword diagonally, high, with the hilt positioned near the side of his head above eye level. Though tense, his arms were ready to strike, block, or parry, waiting for movement.

Then, just as Kaniel’s fingers brushed the pommel, Gora’s massive hand landed on his shoulder. Kaniel shot his eyes at the taller man, his teeth grinding. “Remove your hand unless you’re prepared to lose it.”

“Apologies, my Lord,” he said, dipping his head with humility. “Would you please do me a favor and forgive this scoundrel?”

Kaniel’s eyes narrowed to slits. Gora followed, “I ask that you leave this matter to me.”

“Count your lucky stars, brat.” Kaniel relaxed his hand and turned toward the castle. “Today is a good day. A sunny day. No blood will be shed.”

The crowd gasped in relief. They were ever so thankful for Gora’s presence. All except one.

“Where are you going, you coward—”

“Lower your blade.” Gora stood before him like a mountain. He hunched over, hands inside his pockets, staring Leonard down.

“I'm sorry, Gora yo. Don't stop me. We too have honor n' pride, y'know?” He pushed past him to follow the lord.

Suddenly, a shoe connected with Leonard’s jaw, his head snapping back with a crack. His body spun midair repeatedly before crashing to the ground across the snowy street. So did his sword, clattering beside him as his arms went limp, his consciousness ripped from him before he could comprehend. Before anybody could fully comprehend.

Gora lowered his leg and glanced at the crumpled boy at his feet with indifference. “Take him to the priestess,” he said flatly.

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A monotone voice as flat as winter stone resounded in Kaniel’s head.