Spring was nearly at its end, yet there was still no word from Bran’s two older brothers. The trials of adulthood varied from person to person. Some emerged after only a few months, while others took a full year. Most trials sted between four and five months—any longer, and the chances of survival dwindled significantly.

  Still, Bran had no doubt his brothers would return safely, completing their trials with honor. It was an instinct, a bond woven deep into his blood. He could almost see them now, striding out of the wilderness with triumphant smiles, their ughter echoing in the crisp northern air.

  Today, Bran was informed that an envoy from the capital would be arriving soon, accompanied by royal knights and noblemen from the southern nds. His mother gave him a pointed look as she reyed this news.

  The capital. To the people of the North, the so-called kingdom and its distant rulers meant little. The North was its own entity, governed by its own ws. The Duke’s title was merely a formality, a token of allegiance in exchange for autonomy. The king’s influence had never truly reached this far. Likewise, the North had little interest in expansion, given its vast and sparsely poputed nds.

  Bran often wondered why the Northerners subjected themselves to their brutal coming-of-age trials. If the goal was popution growth, then this barbaric tradition was entirely counterproductive.

  Upon hearing of the envoy’s impending arrival, Bran’s mind immediately turned to preparations. Specifically, he fixated on what accessories his people should wear. His absent-mindedness became even more pronounced in the following days, as he found himself lost in thought at the most inconvenient times.

  The North boasted the finest leather and furs, yet its woven fabrics paled in comparison to those of the South. Their weapons and armor were unparalleled, but it hardly seemed appropriate to greet emissaries cd in full battle gear.

  Bran’s pn was simple—adorn his people with striking accessories, dazzling enough to leave the southern visitors speechless.

  While the grand fortress of the castle was beyond his concern, his own estate needed to make an impression. The gatekeepers each received a wolf-head shoulder piece and an ornamental weapon belt, with strict instructions to wear the wolf’s head on their left shoulder. When asked why, Bran simply decred, “It’s called asymmetrical beauty.” Never mind that the gatekeepers rarely left their posts inside the gates.

  As for himself, Bran decided that true men relied on inner qualities rather than outward appearance. He would wear his usual pristine attire. In truth, he expected to be ignored, just as he had been three years ago when the st envoy visited. Back then, he had still been in his dull-witted phase, left entirely to his own devices.

  One morning, Bran gathered the women of the household—including Dany and his sister’s handmaid—in the courtyard. As he began expining how to accentuate their femininity through accessories, he was met with unanimous expressions of scorn. Only his little sister gazed at him in awe.

  “All you need,” Bran decred, “is a few dazzling pieces of jewelry. If they shine brightly enough, you’ll be the star of the event.”

  The skeptical stares persisted until Bran decided to prove his point. He sprinted to his quarters and returned with a rge chest.

  As he flung it open, a chorus of gasps filled the air.

  Inside y a trove of exquisite jewelry, each piece radiating brilliance. Bracelets, rings, hairpins, brooches—an overwhelming collection of delicate craftsmanship. Several hands immediately grabbed Bran and unceremoniously tossed him aside.

  These trinkets were fragments of his past life, recreated through his craftsmanship as training exercises. Now, they were in the hands of his family.

  His mother, ever composed, was the first to recover. She made a decision that nearly shattered Bran’s soul.

  “I’ll hold onto these for safekeeping,” she decred. Then, as if to soften the blow, she added, “Each of you may choose two pieces.”

  Bran could only gape in horror as the women eagerly agreed.

  But the nightmare was not yet over.

  His mother’s next request struck the final blow.

  “You’ve never invited me to see your ‘Treasure Vault’ since you moved here. Show me today.”

  Bran colpsed to the ground with a wail. “This is robbery!”

  His mother, ever serene, merely smiled. “We’re just taking a look. We promise not to take anything.”

  Bran squinted. “You promise?”

  “I promise.”

  Bran and the women stood before the so-called Treasure Vault. With everyone watching, he reached for an inconspicuous metal pte on the doorframe, pulling it downward. Then, he lifted another pte near the bottom and gave the door a gentle push. The rge iron lock dangled uselessly, swinging mockingly in the air.

  He heard his sister and mother’s soft gasps of realization. Smirking slightly, he turned to them with a knowing look.

  Inside, the room was lined with weapons—each uniquely designed, hanging from walls, resting on tables, and dispyed on racks. Not a single bde was alike. Every piece was a recreation from Bran’s past: swords from legendary films, daggers from ancient texts, polearms from long-forgotten battlefields. Imaginary or real, they all existed now, crafted by his own hands.

  Northerners, warriors to their core, had an innate reverence for weapons. Their desire to possess them far outweighed any craving for jewelry.

  Bran’s shouts of protest went unheard.

  “I saw that! Put my dagger back, Lily!”

  “Ciri, those twin bdes are far too big for you! Stand back before you hurt yourself!”

  “Don’t even think about it! I’m a sorcerer—I have the power to sense stolen items! Put them back, all of you!”

  His voice was lost in the chaos.

  Had it been only one or two weapons, the women might have remained composed. Even ten or twenty might have merely earned Bran a few envious gnces. But this… this was an entire arsenal. A veritable shrine of war.

  They lost all restraint.

  The first to regain her senses was Dany. Of all those present, she knew Bran best. She had seen his craftsmanship firsthand, from the day he forged her bde, “Birthday,” to the time he personally outfitted the knights with custom weapons.

  Though the sheer scale of his collection had stunned her at first, she quickly composed herself.

  The room gradually settled into an uneasy calm. The fire of desire still burned in their eyes, but reason had returned.

  Bran’s mother finally spoke.

  “This pce isn’t safe.”

  Bran cut in immediately. “No one takes anything. No one. This is mine. And no one but you even knows this pce exists. I have never allowed outsiders in, and I never will.”

  A reluctant consensus was reached. They would keep his secret. No one would steal from him. But in exchange, they demanded one thing—he must never lock the door again.

  Bran was promptly thrown out. Behind him, the women remained in the vault, mesmerized by his creations, basking in the presence of so much cold, gleaming steel.