Ronan's sword was sheared at the tip and now had a jagged edge. The sky above was threatening, and all sound seemed to come from very far away. He had just killed a man, lying lifeless before him now.

His sword and body seemed to almost hunger lifeblood. Thoughts of slaughter running unimpeded through his mind, filling him with joy. Ronan felt himself slipping, watching his own movements as though through a fog, a passenger in his own body. Something else had control.

He saw his jagged sword slide into yet another faceless victim. This one bearing the colors of the Reach. One of his country men then. His body moved on, having tasted the blood the slain man. A quick parry, then a riposte and his sword tasted blood once again. Each drop seeming to energize it, each slash becoming easier.

He slid the sword into the next mans stomach, looking at the man. He expected him to be faceless, but instead it was Daire staring back at him. Horror should have gripped him, but it slid away, lost beneath a wave of exhilaration that surged with each drop of blood spilled. The joy was alien, terrifying in its intensity. Focusing on the face again it was not Daire but his own father he now saw. Staring at him with pity, moving his mouth as if speaking but with no sound.

Ronan withdrew the sword from his fathers stomach and saw him crumble to the ground, a joyful expectation filling him at the thought of his next kill. As his father fell Ronan saw Lyra standing behind him. Her golden hair glowed like a halo in the fading sunlight, framing eyes that shimmered with pity, their light dim against the encroaching shadows. Again she seemed to be speaking, but no sound reached him. Suddenly he looked down to see blood welling from his side, where a knife had just punctured him Lyra's hand wrapped around the hilt.

He slumped to the ground, trying with all his might to feel something other than anger at being defeated. Lyra was in front of him again those pitying blue eyes still there. Her lips moved, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade: "...sorry, Ronan." The words reverberated in his skull as the knife bit deep, her grip firm on the hilt. "Fight it" something whispered, before darkness took him.

"Ronan." Distant murmurs tugged at his awareness, low and droning like the hum of bees. They pressed against his thoughts, a quiet yet persistent summons. There was something he needed to do, if only the noise could quiet down.

"Sorry Ronan," this time accompanied by light shaking. Ronan couldn't help but feel that were he disturbed now, he would miss something important. "Ronan! You need to wake up." A light smack on his shoulder all but forced Ronan to open his eyes. Ronan blinked, trying to align the face before him with the voice pulling him from the void. Daire’s grin seemed too bright, his relief too sharp—it felt as though the battle was still clinging to him, its weight pressing just beneath his skin.

"There we go! By the Lightbringer, I thought you would never wake, you sleep heavier than a boulder." Ronan almost turned around, but seeing it was light outside, decided against it. He sat up, the events before slowly coming back to him. He looked to the side to check if Lyra was awake as well, but saw she was gone.

"She woke when I entered the tent. You got a fine one there my friend." He shot a big grin towards Ronan, Though I’d say mine was the better choice," Daire added with a mock-serious grin.

"It is too early for me to handle you right now Daire, please get out. You can annoy me when I've had some breakfast to try and satiate this hangover." As the remnants of his dream faded, only the faint memory of joy lingered.

"Better hurry. Those two knights from yesterday were already here—looking for you. They didn’t seem the patient type." At this Ronan sighed, he had suspected yesterday the knights where not finished with their questions yet. With a sigh he got up, and put on his clothes, still dirty from the march and battle.

"What's for breakfast then? I better eat before I go to them." Ronan could feel the alcohol from yesterday. He felt a light headache and general fatigue, though how much was from the battle and how much from the alcohol he did not know.

At the campfire, Ronan settled down with a bowl of stew and some water fresh from the stream. As he ate and drank, he could feel some strength returning to him, and with it some memories from last night. The softness and warmth of Lyra at the forefront of his mind. The taste of her as they kissed, and the smell of her when they lay down to sleep. As the last traces of warmth faded from his memory, the cold fresh mountain air prickled his skin, pulling him fully into the morning.

For the first time since the march began, Ronan felt a sense of satisfaction—he had survived his first battle, spent the night with a beautiful woman, and shared jokes with Daire. Perhaps soldiering could be like this—an adventure. But beneath the contentment lingered a question he couldn’t quite shake: why did he feel excited at the prospect of battle?

When he had finished eating and taking another cup full of water, Ronan decided to not wait any longer, and headed towards the Aetherian Knights' camp.

Seeing the Sardian camp in daylight gave Ronan a better perspective of the price of battle, things the darkness yesterday had hidden. Many men sat silent around the campfires, nursing injuries that ranged from shallow scratches to missing limbs, a clear indication that the camp doctors had been busy in the aftermath of the battle.

Apparently Ronan and his comrades had fared much better than most. What struck him most, however, wasn’t the injured but the missing. Campfires that should have been crowded with laughter and camaraderie were eerily quiet, their circle of men halved or worse. The absence of voices was a weight all its own,

The stillness of the fires gnawed at him, chipping away at the fragile sense of satisfaction he'd carried moments ago. Was this the true face of the adventure he’d imagined? Resolving to push past the unease gnawing at him, Ronan focused on the task ahead and made his way toward the knights’ camp.

At the camp, the scene was less grim. Their injuries were fewer, their polished armor catching the sunlight as they moved with purpose. The contrast was stark—training and steel had spared them the worst. Yet even here, some men bore wounds, the grim reminders of a battle that had left no one entirely untouched. But still they all seemed to be in good spirits, their injuries nothing more than another story to tell in the taverns.

Ronan quickly found Leoric and Edric near the tent where he had woken yesterday. The metallic scrape of whetstones and the gleam of polished steel caught Ronan’s attention. Both knights sat outside in the sun, cleaning and polishing their gear with practiced ease.. As he walked towards them Leoric glanced up and with a faint smile he beckoned him over.

"Good morning, Ronan. I’m glad you came so promptly." Leoric’s voice carried an easy warmth, though his eyes never left his blade as he continued polishing it.

"Daire said it was important." Ronan met the knight’s gaze, the easy warmth of Leoric’s smile doing little to lift the unease lingering in his chest. He hadn’t forgotten how they ended things yesterday—the callousness of using lives as bargaining chips still not sitting right with him. He hesitated for a moment, considering his words carefully. "So, what can I do for you? I would like to get back to my own things before we march again."

Leoric continued the practiced motions of sharpening and polishing his blade, but his tone shifted as he shot a quick glance at Edric. "Straight to the matter at hand, then. Fine." He paused briefly before continuing. "The Knight Paramount would like a word with you."

As he said this, Leoric finally stopped his work and focused fully on Ronan. His blue eyes held an intensity that Ronan couldn’t ignore. "He was quite impressed with the tales of your actions on the battlefield—particularly your duel with the knight from Varn."

"The Knight Paramount?" Ronan had a hard time keeping the disbelief from his voice. "Why would the Duke of the Reach be interested in talking with me, I'm just a soldier."

"Believe me, we are as surprised as you are," Leoric took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts "I figured I would have to question you myself on the march back to Kestrel, but the Knight Paramount was quite keen on meeting the Reaper of the Sardian Pass. Tales are already spreading about you." At these last words he gave Ronan a wink.

Ronan blinked, unable to hide his surprise. "Is that what they’re calling me? The Reaper."

Part of him swelled with pride at the recognition, a flicker of joy at the thought of his actions being recounted. But beneath it was a quiet unease, a whisper reminding him that taking lives—no matter how heroic it seemed—was not something to celebrate. The weight of the name pressed on him. Was this what he wanted to be known for?

"Of course that is what you get caught on. You need to hurry, the Duke doesn’t like to be kept waiting." Leoric had gone back to polishing his gear now, apparently satisfied with his blade, he was now beginning on his breastplate. "You'll find him near the center of our camp. Look for the biggest tent." At this, his attention was once again focused on maintaining his gear.

With a curt nod, Ronan turned and made his way toward the center of camp. Pride carried him forward, straightening his posture and putting a pep in his step. Tales of the Reaper of the Sardian Pass filled his mind—tales others were spinning about him, tales he hadn’t asked for. Pride carried him, but in its shadow lurked a quiet unease. Would his reputation be forged by his deeds, or the stories others wove around him?

It didn’t take long to find the largest tent in the camp. The dark blue fabric rippled like a royal banner in the breeze, the gold accents along its edges catching the sunlight. Two pennants flanked the entrance—one bearing the screeching eagle of the Reach, the other the flaming sword and shield of the Aetherian Knights.

A man stood guard in front, his polished armor gleaming like silver. His posture was rigid, but his sharp eyes flicked over Ronan with practiced scrutiny as he approached.

"I was told the Duke is expecting me," Ronan said, his voice steady though his chest felt tight.

The guard tilted his head slightly, studying him. "And who might you be?" he asked, his tone measured but firm. "It’s hard to verify if the Duke is expecting you without knowing your name."

The guard’s sharp tone caught Ronan off guard, and for a moment, the confidence he’d built on the walk faltered. Straightening his posture, he forced the words out. "Umm... Ronan, sir. Ronan Blackarken."

He hesitated, then added quickly, "I was sent here by Leoric Ashferm. He said the Duke wanted to speak to me."

The guard studied him for another moment, his sharp gaze softening slightly as he gave a brief nod. "Wait here," he said curtly, turning and stepping inside the tent. The flap fell shut behind him, leaving Ronan standing alone.

The quiet stretched, broken only by the faint murmur of voices within the tent. Ronan shifted his weight, his palms brushing against the now worn leather of his sword hilt.

Not long after, the guard returned, stepping aside to hold the flap open. Behind him came a man whose presence filled the space before he even spoke. Broad-shouldered with piercing amber eyes, he moved with the confidence of someone who had led men into battle and brought them home. His burgundy cloak, trimmed with silver, swept lightly against his polished boots. Ronan had no doubt—this was the Duke of the Reach, Thorne of Kestrel.

"Ronan is it?" Thorne’s voice was rich, carrying the weight of authority yet touched with warmth. "It is a pleasure to meet the one they call the Reaper of the Sardian Pass."

Ronan stiffened slightly at the title, unsure whether to feel pride or discomfort. But as Thorne’s smile softened, it dispelled some of his unease. There was no arrogance in Thorne’s tone, only genuine curiosity—so unlike the veiled barbs he had sensed in Leoric’s words.

"The pleasure is mine, sir." Ronan stood stiffly, unsure if he was supposed to kneel, bow, or just stand there. Before he could decide, Thorne started moving, "Please, follow me."

Ronan felt anticipation build within him, sensing that he would soon learn why the Duke of the Reach and Knight Paramount had summoned him. Straightening his posture, he quickly fell into step behind Thorne. The guard’s steady footsteps echoed softly behind them, a quiet reminder of the formality of the moment.

Thorne’s stride was measured and purposeful, his cloak trailing lightly behind him. Ronan couldn’t help but notice the ease with which Thorne carried himself—like a man accustomed to command, yet unburdened by its weight.

"I must admit, the tales of your prowess in yesterday’s battle are remarkable. Astonishing, even. Though I wonder if such feats can truly belong to just one man." Thorne’s tone was light, conversational, yet carried an undercurrent that set Ronan on edge.

"I heard from Leoric that you single-handedly bested one of the Varn nobles and played quite a large role in keeping our right flank relatively unharmed." Ronan could sense that while Thorne’s tone was companionable, there was a subtle challenge beneath it, as though he expected Ronan to admit he had help.

"Thank you, sir," Ronan started, sensing a reply was expected. For a brief moment, he hesitated, the weight of Thorne’s gaze pressing on him.

"I must admit that much of yesterday is a blur," he continued, his voice steadier now. "I remember flashes—the chaos, the noise—but not enough to piece it all together."

As he spoke, a flicker of confidence returned. There was a reason Thorne had summoned him, after all, and it couldn’t simply be to dismiss what Leoric had reported. "I’m certain you’ve heard more about the battle than I could recall, my lord," he added, his tone growing more assured.

Thorne’s amber eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze steady but unreadable, as though weighing Ronan’s every word. "Indeed," he replied, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Yet hearing it from the man himself is far more illuminating."

"I remember standing in a circle of dead Varn. Around me, the other levy-men from the Reach stood some distance away, just staring at me." As he was telling this story again, Ronan could still clearly recall the look in Daire's eyes, the unease in his eyes.

The joy of seeing blood spilled surged again, unbidden, clawing at the edges of his mind. For a moment, he felt the same terrible thrill—the same dark satisfaction—that had overtaken him during the battle. He pushed the thought away, forcing himself to focus, fighting the feeling of losing control, reminiscent of what he felt when waking this morning.

"The next thing I remember is the Varn man, the knight, moving toward me, and then him on his knees with my sword moving toward his neck," he finished, his voice quieter now, as though speaking the words aloud brought the memory into sharper, more uncomfortable focus.

"I see. Was this your first taste of battle? The first time you've had your memory be so unclear?" Thorne’s tone was conversational, light even, but Ronan couldn’t shake the feeling that each word was deliberate, carrying a weight far greater than Thorne let on. His amber eyes, steady and sharp, seemed to pierce through Ronan’s every hesitation.

"Yes, my lord. I've never seen battle before. I am a blacksmith back in Kestrel. This was my first time using a sword." The words felt heavy on his tongue, an admission that stripped away the veneer of the tales surrounding him. What could Thorne possibly want with him, a simple blacksmith?

He heard a small, almost inaudible, "Interesting, very interesting," from Thorne. The words seemed more for himself than for Ronan, as though he were fitting another piece into a puzzle only he could see.

"Enough with the questions. Your answers fit with Leoric's report," Thorne said suddenly, his tone returning to a light, almost happy timbre. The piercing intensity in his eyes softened, replaced by a glimmer of something else—curiosity, perhaps, or amusement. "Would you perhaps be interested in a little sparring match with me? I would be interested in seeing the talent of the one who could best a knight, even a Varn one, without any formal training."

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

Sensing it was more an order than an offer, Ronan felt no other option than to accept. Thorne's faint smile didn’t waver, but his eyes held a quiet expectation that left no room for refusal.

"It would be an honor," Ronan replied, his voice steady despite the tightness in his chest. "Though as you said, I don’t have any training."

Ronan swallowed hard, his hand brushing against the hilt of his sword as though seeking reassurance from the worn leather grip. His mind raced. What was Thorne hoping to prove? To humiliate him, or to test the stories? Either way, the thought of crossing swords with a man of Thorne’s skill made his stomach churn. And the humiliation that would surely follow when he inevitably lost only made the prospect worse.

They quickly moved to an open area, filled with other Aetherian Knights practicing. The rhythmic clang of wooden swords striking filled the air, punctuated by sharp commands and the occasional grunt of exertion. It seemed to Ronan that this had been Thorne’s plan all along—a carefully orchestrated test.

Thorne moved with an unhurried grace, lifting a wooden practice sword as though it were an extension of himself. He turned, his amber eyes calm but intent, and indicated for Ronan to do the same.

Ronan hesitated for a moment before stepping forward. His fingers trembled slightly as he gripped the wooden hilt, the wooden sword heavier than anticipated. He forced himself to meet Thorne’s gaze, though the anticipation coiled tight in his chest.

Unsure of what to do, Ronan walked slowly toward Thorne. "Do we just… start? Or is there something else I should know?" He felt the need to get this clarified. Ronan would not want to strike at Thorne before ready; he was a noble, after all, and Ronan just a commoner.

"Let’s skip the formalities," Thorne replied cheerfully, his tone light but brimming with confidence. "Feel free to strike at me when you’re ready. I’ll let you initiate."

Thorne’s movements were fluid, almost too graceful for a man his age. The silver in his short hair and neatly trimmed beard did nothing to dull the vitality radiating from him. He seemed completely at ease, standing with one foot slightly forward, the wooden practice sword resting lightly in his hand, as though it were no more than a toy. Despite his relaxed posture, Ronan could feel the barely contained energy in every subtle shift of his stance.

The calm invitation hung in the air, a challenge that Ronan knew he had no choice but to accept.

Using all his might and strength gained from long hours working at the forge, Ronan quickly shot forward and slashed downward toward Thorne’s shoulder. Before Ronan could react, Thorne had shifted slightly to the left and was behind him. The next thing he felt was a tap on his back.

As he turned around, Thorne was already back in the same stance, wooden practice sword resting lightly in his hand, ready for another strike. "Too predictable, I’m afraid. Your movements gave away your intention. Fighting is about surprising and deceiving your opponent, not brute strength."

Thorne’s voice was calm and measured, the faint curve of a smile softening the lesson. Despite the ease with which he had spoken, Ronan sensed no mockery behind the words—only genuine instruction.

Ronan’s chest tightened with frustration as he tightened his grip on the wooden sword. He hadn’t even seen Thorne move, and the ease with which he had been outmaneuvered stung more than he expected. Around him, the rhythmic clash of practice swords faded into the background, the faint creak of the wooden hilt under his tightening grip pulling him back into the moment.

He approached Thorne again, preparing for a strike to his stomach. Before it connected, he attempted to instead hit his thigh. Again Thorne moved just enough to evade the hit. His practice sword hitting Ronan's shoulder, harder this time. The blow sent a jolt through Ronan’s arm, making him grit his teeth. He forced himself to shake it off, unwilling to show weakness.

"You held back, and your eyes gave you away."

Ronan decided to circle Thorne instead, studying him and his movements this time, trying patience instead of strength. He could see no obvious weaknesses, though he did not really know what to look for either. His movements were so fluid they felt impossible to predict, leaving Ronan searching for even the smallest flaw.

Suddenly Thorne exploded into motion, and Ronan barely got his sword in front of him before he felt a sharp pain above his eye. When he looked again Thorne was back in position.

"There is no honor in battle," Thorne said, his tone calm but firm. "Forget it—it’s a luxury you can’t afford. Victory is all that matters. Cuts to the head bleed more than you’d expect, and they’re excellent for impairing your opponent. As you can see."

The warm trickle of blood blurred Ronan’s sight, each blink smearing red across his vision. The slight breeze teased his hair into the wound, stinging with every movement. The sting of the cut, and the sight of blood brought back a strange feeling of joy to Ronan.

Time once again seemed to slow down, and the sounds of the other sparring matches faded away. Each movement of Thorne’s body became sharper, more defined, as though the rest of the world had dimmed to leave only the two of them in the sparring circle. Every fiber of Ronan’s being honed in on his opponent, waiting for the next move.

As if sensing a change in him, Thorne once again exploded into motion. He moved with a practiced ease, his sword leading. Ronan saw the tensing of leg muscles, the movement of his arms as the sword moved through the air. He moved his own sword up into a parry, knowing instinctually how to position his sword to deflect the strike.

As their swords clashed, Ronan shifted into Thorne’s path, aiming to disrupt his reach. Thorne twisted at the last moment, slipping out of range with a speed that left him breathless. But this time, no counterstrike came.

Ronan could feel an anger building at being denied the strike. He felt a loss of control as his body began responding by itself. He and Thorne clashed blades several times more. Ronan managing to evade or parry many of the strikes, but not all. Yet he had yet to score a hit on Thorne.

Sweat dripped down Ronan’s brow, mingling with the blood above his eye. Each clash of their swords reverberated up his arms. All he could think of was striking Thorne and spilling blood. He needed it. He needed to feel that same joy he had felt yesterday.

Recollections of the slaughter flashed in his mind—bright, vivid, and far too clear. The memory fueled his anger, twisting it into something primal. A part of him recoiled at the thought, horrified by how much he craved the feeling, but the anger roared louder, drowning out reason.

"Enough." He vaguely heard Thorne say, but still Ronan moved in for his next strike. His sword moved quicker than the wind, and for a fleeting moment, Ronan felt certain it would land. But Thorne moved even quicker. He struck Ronan’s hand with unrelenting precision, sending the sword clattering to the ground. Before Ronan could react, Thorne’s wooden blade arced toward his head.

Time seemed to slow as the blade descended. Ronan’s breath caught, his vision narrowing to the wooden sword streaked with blood and sweat, each grain of wood standing out in sharp relief.

Ronan was looking up at a blue sky, sprinkled with clouds. He felt himself again, though his body ached with pain from bruises, cuts, and muscles worked to exhaustion. Every movement sent sharp aches through his bruised muscles, and the sting of the cut above his eye throbbed in time with his heartbeat. Slowly, he sat up, his head spinning slightly.

Thorne stood over him, his wooden sword steady, the tip hovering inches from Ronan’s face. There was no malice in his gaze, only calm assessment.

"Are you back to yourself again?" Thorne asked, his tone even but carrying an edge of curiosity. The question confused Ronan, and he blinked up at Thorne, unsure of how to respond.

"I will take your lack of an attack as a yes then," Thorne said, his faint smile returning as he lowered the wooden sword. He offered Ronan his hand and helped him back to his feet. Ronan’s legs felt unsteady, his thoughts sluggish and fragmented. He tried to piece together the last moments of the sparring match, but they slipped through his grasp like water.

Thorne studied him for a moment, a strange look in his eyes. "There’s something unusual about you, lad. More than I expected. Follow me—I’d like to discuss it further."

Instead of waiting for a response, Thorne turned and strode toward his tent with the same unhurried confidence he’d shown in the sparring circle. Ronan hesitated before following, feeling as though he had little choice. What could Thorne possibly have to discuss with him now? He had been soundly beaten, after all—or at least, that was how it seemed, given that he’d been the one lying on the ground.

The walk back to Thorne’s tent helped clear Ronan’s mind. The fogginess that had clouded his thoughts began to lift, and with each step, his legs felt steadier beneath him. The faint clang of armor and the murmur of soldiers’ voices drifted through the camp, grounding him in the moment. Even so, his body ached. His shoulders felt like lead, and every step sent a dull ache through his legs. The sting of the cut above his eye flared whenever the breeze brushed against it, and his breathing felt heavier, each inhale reminding him of his bruised ribs.

He was exhausted, he realized. The battle yesterday, the celebration in the evening, and now a duel with the Duke of the Reach and Knight Paramount of the Aetherian Knights had definitely taken it's toll on Ronan. He wished he could just lay down and sleep for a week, but right now rest seemed to be very far away.

When they reached the tent again, Thorne simply strolled right in. He had not so much as glanced in Ronan's direction during the short walk back. He was either fully confident that Ronan was following, or he could hear his steps in the grass.

Ronan hesitated at the entrance to the grand tent, again unused to dealing with nobles and knights, and their etiquette outside of trade in the smithy. "Please, enter. The Duke will be waiting inside." The guard, their silent shadow the whole time had evidently followed them back as well.

Ronan mumbled a quick thanks and stepped inside. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of polished leather and oiled steel. The soft rustle of the fabric walls shifted with the breeze outside. The interior was not what he had imagined, though what he had expected, he wasn’t sure. There were no ostentatious displays of wealth—everything was functional, almost utilitarian.

In one corner was a cot, in the middle was a table and three chairs, and on the side opposite the cot was a chest and an armor stand. Everything looked to be of high quality and sturdy, but there were no obvious decorations.

Thorne was seated in the chair behind the desk, his posture relaxed yet deliberate. His hands rested lightly on the desk, and his gaze was fully focused on Ronan.

"Please, take a seat," Thorne offered, holding out a hand to one of the two chairs facing him. As Ronan sat down in the chair, he silently admired the craftmanship. From a distance it looked like just a chair, but as he approached he saw the density of the wood grain, speaking of high quality timber. The seat as he sat down was also incredibly comfortable, especially for one as weary as he was.

As he sat down, he heard the rustle of the tent behind him, and in stepped the guard once again, bearing two wooden tankards. They were both placed on the table, one in front of Thorne and one in front of him. Gratefully taking the tankard Ronan saw it was filled with water. He realized how thirsty he was from the sparring, and drank almost the entire tankard in one go, only realizing after that it might not be the proper thing to do. He glanced up at Thorne, expecting disapproval, but instead found an amused smile.

"Would you like a refill? Fighting is definitely thirsty work." He was amused at Ronan, that much he could see, "Yes please, that would be great." He quickly emptied the rest of the tankard and placed it back on the table. The guard took it without a word and left the tent again.

Thorne leaned forward slightly, his expression shifting to something more serious but no less kind. "I imagine you are wondering why I wanted to talk more with you," he said, his gaze focused fully on Ronan. His tone was calm, almost reassuring.

Before Ronan could reply, the guard returned with the refilled tankard and placed it on the table. The interruption forestalled any immediate response, and Ronan took a grateful sip as the guard exited the tent once more.

"You fought well in the sparring circle, and I bear no ill will towards your 'enthusiasm'. At first, you were hesitant, unsure. But then something changed, and you became the opposite—fierce, relentless. Changing from the deer in the forest running from the bear, to the bear chasing it's next dinner."

Thorne took a quick breath before he continued, almost as if he had made a decision recounting the short fight. "A switch flipped, and suddenly you started acting instead of reacting, taking the initiative in many cases. Tell me, do you remember or short sparring match, do you remember when you changed?"

Ronan felt as if he was missing something, a piece of the puzzle that would help him piece all the events of the past two days together. "Not fully, no... It was much like the battle yesterday." He took a quick sip of water, both to gather his thoughts and to ease his dry throat. "The first few moments are clear—you easily evading me, hitting me back. And then... I think around my second or third attempt to even get near you, everything just clicks, and I’m barely aware of what’s happening. What I can remember of it doesn’t feel like me. Finally, I’m looking up at the sky with a headache."

Thorne leaned forward slightly, his gaze steady but intent. "It was the third strike—when I hit your head and broke the skin—that you changed. You started to bleed."

As he said that, Ronan remembered it clearly, Thorne rushing towards him and hitting him above the eye, and then everything changed. "I see that you can remember now. Tell me then Ronan when did things change during the battle?"

Once again, Ronan forced himself to think back. He pictured a man moving toward him, his sword piercing the man’s flesh. Before he could finish the job, another tackled him to the ground. This time, he slashed the man’s neck and saw the life leave his eyes. A joyous feeling rose as the blood spilt from him, something inside Ronan stirring awake at that moment.

His mouth was dry. He cleared his throat and took another drink before responding. "I was tackled to the ground by a Varnman. I don’t really know how, but I managed to slash his neck and saw the life leave his eyes."

"Did you get any blood on you as he died? Think carefully—this could be important." Thorne’s voice was calm, but there was an undercurrent of urgency now. His gaze bore into Ronan’s, waiting.

"Yes?" Ronan’s response was hesitant, uncertain. He didn’t know what to make of the question. Why did it matter how he had reacted during the battle, and why was blood suddenly important?

His mind raced, trying to make sense of the connection, but it felt like grasping at shadows. The memory of the blood—its warmth, the way it smeared across his hands—flickered in his thoughts, but he couldn’t understand what significance it could hold. "Why does it matter?" he asked finally, the frustration slipping into his voice despite his attempt to keep it steady.

Thorne leaned back slightly, his expression thoughtful but his gaze unwavering, as though he were weighing Ronan’s words carefully. "Because, it is why you go from being a deer, to being the bear, from reacting to acting." Ronan was still confused, but he sensed that things would soon be cleared for him. That things would soon change.

"Think, both times you have had this feeling now, you've had blood touch your skin."

"But I've bled before. Why would that suddenly change me now?" Ronan remembered countless small cuts from sharpening swords, countless scraped knees from playing with Daire back in Kestrel.

Thorne’s gaze hardened slightly, his voice steady. "Because this was the first time you killed someone—the first time you watched the life drain from another man’s eyes."

Ronan fell silent. His stomach churned at the words. He wanted to argue, to dismiss the idea that taking a life could change him so fundamentally, but the memory of that moment—the rush, the joy—kept him silent. All he could do now was listen.

Thorne studied him for a moment before continuing. "I assume you know why we Aetherian Knights are as revered as we are. Sure, we are good fighters. We train from a young age and devote our lives to the Lightbringer and the Kingdom of Sardia. But what truly sets us apart from orders like the Kingsguard or the knights of the Duchy of Varn is that each and every one of us carries the blessing of Aethor the Lightbringer."

Ronan was slowly beginning to understand. Understand why Thorne was telling him of the knights and their abilities, and why blood could bring about such a transformation.

"This blessing is carried through the blood," Thorne continued. "Each of us, who carries the blessing, can trace our ancestry back to The Fifteen —the first chosen by Aethor to carry his light into the world."

Ronan’s mind raced. If the blessing was part of ancestry, why would he then possess the blessing… His breath caught, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, unsure what to make of it all.

Thorne leaned forward slightly, his piercing gaze unwavering, as though he could uncover the truth just by observing Ronan. "Now, what confounds me is this—how come a commoner carries the blessed blood of Aethor?"

Ronan felt overwhelmed. The pieces didn’t fit together. What was it that Thorne wanted from him? He couldn’t be one of the blessed. His father was a blacksmith, had always been so, and his mother’s family were tailors in the capital, Kael Sardis. Ordinary. Normal.

"I… I don’t know," Ronan said, searching for something—anything—that could explain it. The idea was absurd, wasn’t it? He wasn’t one of the blessed. But the words kept echoing in his mind, gnawing at his sense of who he was.

"How can you be sure this is the blessing of Aethor?" he asked finally, the desperation creeping into his voice. "What if it’s just… chance, or something else entirely?"

"Believe me, I did not believe it either, but having heard the stories about you from yesterday, and seen firsthand how you change during a fight, there is no other explanation that makes sense. You, Ronan Blackarken, carry the blessed blood of Aethor." Thorne was looking intently at him, leaving no doubt in his words.

Thorne leaned forward, his piercing gaze holding Ronan’s. "How, I do not know. Perhaps one of your ancestors was bastard born, their lineage buried in the shadows of history. Or perhaps you are something else entirely, something we’ve yet to understand. But what I do know is this: the blessing you carry is potent—one of the strongest for a knight to have. To leave such power wasted in a forge would be a tragedy."

Ronan had a feeling that a profound change was about to happen. One of those times in life that defined who you where, like when he first picked up a hammer and asked his father to teach him. Or the first time he met Daire and they became friends. A moment was coming that would define his path moving forward.

Thorne had kept his voice steady throughout the conversation, but now Ronan could detect a hint of excitement, of finality. "I believe you are meant to be one of the Aetherian Knights, Ronan. I offer this to you: join our order and do something that has never been done before, be the first commoner to join the revered Knights."

Thorne paused, his gaze unwavering. "Or, stay a blacksmith. By all accounts, you are skilled in the craft. You could lead a regular life—safe, steady. But without the excitement, the camaraderie, the glory that comes with being a knight. As a blacksmith, you’ll build tools and weapons for others to wield. As a knight, you’ll wield them yourself, shaping history with your own hands."

Ronan’s chest tightened with the weight of the choice before him. A blacksmith’s life was familiar, steady, something he could understand. He thought of the forge—the glow of the fire, the rhythmic ring of the hammer, the satisfaction of creating something tangible and lasting. It was safe. It was certain.

But the idea of being a knight, of wielding the blessing of Aethor, sent a thrill through him despite his doubts. All the thoughts of adventure, the shared relief and joy around the campfire after a battle, and the stories that might grow around the name "Reaper of the Sardian Pass," were intoxicating. Yet, they clashed against the fear of losing himself—the strange joy he felt in the heat of battle—and the pain he had seen that morning, the empty seats around the campfires where men should have sat.

Could he bear the weight of lives taken, the creeping joy of battle that had begun to haunt him? Yet could he turn his back on a calling that seemed to pulse through his very blood? No commoner had ever joined the ranks of the Aetherian Knights.

Ronan looked up at Thorne, who waited patiently, his amber eyes sharp but kind. The forge had been warm, steady—a place of creation. But the battlefield was chaos, its heat forged in blood and fire, its rewards uncertain and fleeting.