Chapter 9: "Questions, Commands, and Complications"

The quiet after carnage was never peace. It was just the world catching its breath.

Leon stood surrounded by cooling bodies and overturned stalls, the twin daggers still dripping in his hands. His breathing had evened out, but his stance hadn’t relaxed. Not yet.

Because in front of him, a woman sat astride a horse—a figure as out of place in Grayridge as a jewel in a dungheap.

She’d arrived alone. No fanfare, no guards, just hoofbeats and silver armor flashing beneath a ruined sky. Her violet hair trailed behind her like a war banner, and the insignia on her breastplate—sword, shield, and eye—meant nothing to Leon, but it looked important.

And she’d looked at him like he was the strangest thing here.

She dismounted in a smooth motion, her gaze already scanning the scene with a general’s precision. Her eyes—sharp, amethyst, and utterly unreadable—fell on him, bloodstained, tattered, and very much armed.

"You," she said, her voice a command disguised as a word. "Name."

Leon tilted his head, still catching his breath.

"Only fair if you go first."

A pause.

Then, calmly, without blinking: "Seraphine Vael. Knight-Commander of Duskmoor."

Leon blinked.

"Well. That’s... unexpected."

She didn’t react to the tone. Not even a twitch.

"You were fighting?"

"Defending myself. Looked like nobody else was going to."

"You’re young."

"Noticed that, too."

"You killed that?" she asked, nodding toward the goblin brute crumpled in a pool of its own blood, twin stab wounds where its eyes used to be.

Leon offered a small shrug.

"It tried to kill me. I stopped it first."

Before she could speak again, the air shifted.

Distant hoofbeats. Boots on cobblestone. Orders barked. Steel drawn.

The cavalry arrived—late, loud, and very much ready for a fight that was already over.

A column of armored soldiers thundered in from the southern road, some mounted, others on foot, their banners fluttering in the wind. Spears, shields, cloaks of Duskmoor gray.

They came to a halt behind her, surrounding the scene in a wall of polished steel and wary eyes.

Leon’s grip on his daggers didn’t tighten. But it didn’t loosen either.

One of the soldiers approached. "Commander Vael. We came as soon as—"

"Late," she said, without turning.

The man fell silent.

Seraphine kept her gaze on Leon. "You’re not from Grayridge."

"No."

"Then why are you here?"

"Selling soup. Sounds stupid, but it’s the truth."

Her eyes flicked to the ring on his finger, then the daggers, then back to his silver eyes.

"You’re coming with us."

He raised a brow.

"Do I get a choice?"

"Not, For now."

He scanned the crowd of armed soldiers and sighed.

"Fine. But I’m keeping my things. And I don’t like people touching my stuff."

"Understood."

With that, she turned on her heel, heading back toward her steed.

Leon fell into step beside her, bloody daggers sheathed but still visible, tension trailing him like a second shadow.

Behind them, soldiers whispered.

A kid.

Covered in blood.

Standing over corpses.

Smirking at their commander like it was just another Tuesday.

Leon didn’t know where this was going.

But it smelled like complications.

---

The shop was half-collapsed, walls cracked and windows shattered—yet it was the quietest place left standing near the market. Charred wood and broken shelves framed the room like a war exhibit. A single chair had survived.

Commander Seraphine Vael sat in it like it was a throne.

Leon stood before her, still in blood-stained clothes, his daggers now sheathed but visible at his waist. He didn’t fidget. He didn’t shift. He just stood—like he had nothing to prove, but everything to hide.

A few soldiers lingered near the entrance, but none spoke. The air was thick with tension, the aftermath of violence still lingering in every breath.

Seraphine studied him from behind steepled fingers.

"You have the look of someone who should be dead."

Leon shrugged.

"I’ve had worse odds. Somehow still standing."

"Where did you learn to fight like that?" Her tone didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.

He cocked his head.

"Trial and error. More error than trial, probably."

She leaned back slightly. "Fine. Where did you ’learn’ it, then?"

"In a place where time felt like it stopped. Just me, my knives, and the need to keep going."

She didn’t blink. "Sarcasm won’t help you here."

"It’s not. It’s just how I explain things that shouldn’t make sense."

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "You’re deflecting."

"Maybe. Or maybe I’m just used to not being believed."

Seraphine paused, then gestured subtly. One of the soldiers stepped forward and placed Leon’s retrieved soup pot gently on the floor beside him. Unharmed.

Leon glanced at it, then back at her.

"Nice to see it’s still intact. Thanks."

"I want the truth," she said. "Not stories. Not charm. You were fighting with precision. Timing. Technique. That doesn’t come from hunger or fear."

His gaze sharpened slightly.

"You’re not wrong. But hunger teaches fast. Pain teaches faster."

"Who are you, Leon?"

"A survivor. Nothing more right now."

She tilted her head. "You’re not normal."

"Heard that before. Might even be true."

"I’m not complimenting you."

"I didn’t think you were."

Silence stretched.

Outside, the sounds of soldiers barking orders and wounded groaning filtered through the broken walls.

Finally, she asked, "How old are you?"

Leon raised an eyebrow.

"Physically or Emotionally?"

"Pick the one less sarcastic."

"Seven, That was the honest one."

She didn’t flinch, but her expression shifted—just a fraction. "Seven, and standing on a pile of corpses."

He met her gaze.

"I didn’t choose that. I just handled it."

Another pause.

Then she rose, the chair creaking beneath her.

"You’ll come with us to Duskmoor," she said. "For your protection—and ours."

Leon’s eyes flicked to the soldiers at the door, then back to her.

"Guess I don’t really have much of a choice."

"Then I’ll have to wonder what a seven-year-old with two knives and a level 2 dead goblin warrior at his feet is trying to hide."

Leon smiled thinly.

"You’ll find I’m surprisingly boring once you get to know me."

"We haven’t even started."

She stepped past him toward the door, soldiers falling into motion like parts of a machine.

Leon sighed, picking up his soup pot.

"Let’s hope this isn’t the part where everything goes downhill."

He followed her out into the ruined sunlight.

The world was watching him now—and he knew it.

But for once, he didn’t feel like running.

About half an hour later, the fires were out. The bodies were piled. The screams had gone quiet, leaving only the stink of blood and burned wood to linger in the air.

Grayridge was used to pain. But even it had never looked this hollow.

Leon stood at the edge of the ruined square, soup pot strapped to his back, boots dusty and eyes distant. He’d stayed silent during the aftermath, watching the soldiers clean up with ruthless efficiency. No one approached him—not after what they’d seen him do.

That was fine.

He didn’t want company. He wanted answers.

And instead, he got a horse.

Seraphine had been giving orders non-stop since the fight ended, her voice sharp and surgical. But now, she sat astride her white-gray stallion, her violet hair pulled back and her armor still gleaming with blood-spatter.

She looked down at him like someone weighing a puzzle piece that didn’t fit.

"You’re riding with me," she said simply.

Leon squinted up at the horse, then back at her.

"Not a fan of horses. I’d rather not fall off."

"You’re seven. You’ll bounce."

"That’s... not as comforting as you think it is."

Seraphine extended a hand.

He hesitated, then sighed, slung his pot tighter, and grabbed it.

She hauled him up with ease, placing him behind her on the saddle.

The soldiers nearby didn’t comment. But a few exchanged looks.

A small boy with white hair and tired eyes, climbing onto the Commander’s horse like he belonged there?

It didn’t make sense.

Leon leaned slightly to one side, adjusting his grip so he didn’t look like he was clinging for dear life—even though he was.

"So... does this make me an assistant or a prisoner?"

Seraphine’s voice was unreadable. "That depends. How good are you at surviving paperwork?"

Leon groaned.

"I’d rather take my chances with goblins again."

She spurred the horse forward, and the rest of the soldiers fell into formation behind them.

As they left the smoke and blood of Grayridge behind, Leon glanced over his shoulder—just once.

That cursed town had been the start of his new life.

And now it was behind him.

Ahead?

Duskmoor.

A real city. A real commander.

And very, very real complications.

He tightened his grip around the saddle.

"Let’s see what comes next."