Baral and Corvus had known this day would come. That’s why they had prepared in advance. As Baral knelt, recounting the details of the trade in Sorbaj, his words did not contradict Corvus’s explanations. Yet he trembled with fear. Corvus’s wounded state and the mansion’s devastation had filled the portly merchant with horror.

  But that night, nothing to fear transpired. Sakhaar listened silently to the merchant’s account. He asked no questions, showed no surprise. When Baral finished speaking, Sakhaar accepted the gifts he had brought and dismissed him without a word.

  Much of the mansion remained intact, including Rasur’s study. After Baral’s departure, Corvus and Sakhaar were left alone. Corvus’s wounds had already begun healing. Thanks to the Lightstone energy, he no longer struggled to stand.

  “Settle your affairs in Bahoz by the time the sun reaches its zenith tomorrow. We depart at noon.”

  It was an order, so Corvus offered no reply. He merely nodded and left the room. As if his physical pain weren’t enough, his mind gnawed at another concern: the impact of his words about Volmir. Tormented by this thought, he strode swiftly to Volmir’s chamber, only to find it empty.

  Despite the day’s exhaustion, Volmir was training in the rear garden. He practiced a technique Corvus had copied from the Black-Masked Ones. Under the pale moonlight in the cool night air, the boy repeated the same movements, falling each time. His body was covered in cuts and bruises. His clothes were stained with dirt and blood, his knees shredded. But he didn’t stop. His determination strained the limits of his frail form.

  Watching this scene deepened the sorrow in Corvus’s heart. Volmir had crashed to the ground dozens of times, his body battered by the brutal training as he mimicked half-remembered techniques. He gripped his short sword so tightly that his palms had split, leaving them bloodied. His breathing was ragged, his eyes blurred with fatigue. Yet he stubbornly persisted.

  He was so focused that he hadn’t noticed Corvus—until the blood-slicked sword slipped from his grasp. The clang of metal striking stone echoed like a bitter warning in the silent night. Volmir stared at the fallen blade, lips trembling but resolve unbroken. Witnessing this heart-wrenching sight, Corvus clenched his fists. This boy wasn’t just weak—he was a stubborn warrior battling his own weakness.

  “I’m sorry, Volmir. This was the only way to convince the Sanguinar.”

  Volmir’s hazy eyes, accompanied by shaky breaths, searched for the voice until they found Corvus. Sweat dripped from his brow, mingling with the blood at the corners of his eyes and leaving salty trails down his cheeks. Struggling to straighten his slumped shoulders, he bent down, trembling fingers clutching the fallen sword. His cut palms twitched with pain, but the boy ignored it as he stood. He wiped the blood on his soiled tunic with a harsh swipe, then raised the blade again.

  “You spoke no lies, brother. There’s nothing to apologize for.”

  His voice was weary but sharp. Despite his pain, he fought to stand tall. He took one step, then another. Raising his sword, he tried to steady his breath and continue. But Corvus felt no peace.

  “No!” he barked, his voice as sharp as an order.

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  “What I said wasn’t what I believe. I’m certain you’ll become a great warrior, even without my help! The Sanguinar just can’t see it. You know what he’s like—”

  “I no longer care what the Sanguinar thinks, brother.”

  Volmir’s voice sliced through the night. His fatigue, pain, and helplessness all burned to ash in a flare of rage. His chest heaved, teeth clenched. Drawing another breath through cracked lips, he continued:

  “The only thing that matters is that we can’t even call him ‘father’!”

  Moonlight sharpened the shadows of fury on his face. He suddenly raised his sword, pointing it at his brother. His eyes held far more pain than a child’s should.

  “The other children in the military camp, their fathers wouldn’t last a second against the Sanguinar, yet they still strive to train their sons!”

  His breaths grew erratic, chest rising and falling with anger. But he didn’t stop. Years of pent-up screams echoed into the night.

  “And what about our father?!” he shouted. “Rhazgord’s greatest warrior, the exalted Sanguinar! what has he ever done for us?! We can’t even call him father! When has he ever truly seen us?! When has he ever taught us?! Despite being his sons, we’re nothing more than soldiers, tools to him! And you! You staked your own neck to convince him! Spent your blood, your life, for this! Why?! Does that man truly deserve it?!”

  Tears welled in his eyes as he screamed the final words, but he refused to let them fall. Bloodied and breathless, he glared at Corvus. The ache in his chest dwarfed the pain in his hands. Corvus felt his brother’s bitterness, rage, and disappointment to his core. But he had no answer.

  Volmir knew his brother had no reply. He had seen how the Sanguinar’s cruelty and rigid discipline had weighed on Corvus for years. But their situations differed. Corvus was hailed as the most talented Tiamat in generations, a name that brought victory on the battlefield and made enemies tremble. Volmir, however, was seen as the Tiamat bloodline’s shame, the weak link, a flawed gem. Though only nine, the burden he carried was immeasurable.

  Gritting his teeth, Volmir reset his stance. He raised his sword and resumed his strikes. His labored breaths echoed in the silent night. Corvus stood frozen, unsure what to say. So he voiced the first thought that came:

  “I need a little time. But if you endure a while longer, I can free you from Rhazgord. I can send you to Adler, let you live as you wish.”

  But his words didn’t feel like an offer of mercy. To Volmir, they rang with condescension, fanning the flames inside him. His hands shook, eyes brimming, but he lacked the strength to hold back. Gripping his sword tighter, he whirled toward his brother.

  “Are you telling me to run?” he whispered, voice cracking with rage.

  “Do you also doubt me? Do you also see me as weak?! You want me to flee and live under your shadow in foreign lands?!”

  Corvus stepped forward, hands raised.

  “No, Volmir! You misunderstand—calm down and listen!”

  But Volmir had already erupted. Every muscle in his face tensed; his eyes burned crimson with fury. His brother’s words had unleashed years of poison festering within.

  “I won’t run!” he roared. “I won’t flee like mother and die in some corner! I’ll stay here and grow stronger! I won’t leave Rhazgord until I crush everyone who sees me as weak and inept! And I’ll do it for myself! Not for the Sanguinar, not for you, not for anyone else!”

  The words echoed into the night, marking the end of the conversation. Corvus realized he had stoked his brother’s inner fire of rage, but there was no turning back now. His eyes traced Volmir’s heaving, ambition-trembling frame. The brother he once saw as fragile had transformed into someone entirely new. Perhaps one day, Volmir would stand before him as an enemy… But at least he would no longer be a dim, smothered flame.

  With a quiet sigh, Corvus turned away.

  “We return to Sorbaj tomorrow. We leave at noon. Come if you wish, or stay here and continue your studies with the scholars. Rasur will provide for your needs.”

  Without a word, Volmir raised his sword, eyes still blazing, and resumed his training. Corvus vanished into the dark corridors, his mind echoing with Volmir’s words, a burden even for him. But there was no going back.