The lamp's beam hit the fragment once more.
Leon examined it in his fingers, slowly and cautiously. The edge remained excessively sharp. It remained sharp even after being in his pocket for three days. It also did not reflect the light correctly—like glass at one moment, then polished bone the next.
It had no place in this world. He was aware of that.
He tucked it back into the inner fold of his tunic and stood up.
The bruises remained taut over his ribs. His shoulders were in pain. However, it has become boring now. Diminishing. The type of pain that allowed him to move once more.
He exited the barracks via the side entrance.
The courtyard remained silent. Fog continued to hover at the ground, and the torches along the walls had diminished to faint glimmers. No sounds. No noise of arms. Only the wind against the stone and the soft rustle of banners above.
Leon walked past the training ring, unoccupied for a change.
His feet continued to move.
Beyond the smithy. Beyond the northern garden trail. Towards the center of the manor.
He did not knock upon arriving at the armory. He simply opened the sturdy door and walked in.
Chilled air enveloped him.
The armory remained the same. Identical shattered rocks, identical surfaces of coated arms. No attendants arrived here after dark. No surveillance. Only lines of metal and quiet.
Leon approached the central rack.
His sword—the one from the battle with the convoy—was positioned at the far end. Still blemished, still lackluster. It hadn't been touched by anyone.
He extended his hand, fingers encircling the grip as if through instinct. The weight welcomed him as if it had been anticipating his arrival.
He yanked it downward. Held it evenly in both hands.
And then simply… remained still.
"You ought to be relaxing."
Leon pivoted.
Isabel entered from the hallway. She did not wear a royal cloak. Without a blade. Just plain boots and a dark tunic tailored at the waist. Her hair was secured more tightly than normal.
She closed the door quietly behind her with a gentle click.
"I heard concerning the convoy," she stated. "I also heard that you didn't share everything with the council."
Leon stayed still. "They refused to listen."
"They would, provided your father instructed them to."
Leon placed the sword carefully on the adjacent bench. "He does not wish to instigate conflict with shadows."
"He wouldn't be initiating it."
Leon chose not to contest.
Isabel moved deeper inside. Her boots were silent on the ancient stone. She paused by a corroded poleaxe, examining it as if it could still recall blood.
"What did it tell you?" she inquired.
Leon stiffened. "How can you be sure it mentioned anything?"
"Since you're not resting." "You have visited this armory three times since evening."
He gazed downward.
"It gazed at me," he stated. "And it stated—You shouldn't be here."
He didn't think she would trust him.
However, she didn't chuckle. Didn't inquire.
She merely faced him, with her arms folded.
"That verifies it."
Leon lifted an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"There are additional members among you."
The words struck like a blow to the ribs.
Leon remained motionless. "What are you trying to say?"
Isabel moved nearer. "You've transformed." You talk as if you've experienced war and survived to wish you hadn't. You move as if anticipating an assault from every shadow. "That doesn't occur suddenly."
Leon had a dry mouth.
"You didn't used to be this way," she remarked.
"Not at all," he acknowledged.
She observed him. "Can you tell me—how long have you been this way?"
Leon remained silent.
He was unable to.
Thus, she accomplished it for him.
"Have you returned?"
The quiet lingered.
Leon's jaw tightened. His hand moved toward the fragment in his pocket.
"I've passed away," he finally spoke.
Isabel remained unblinking.
"Then I awoke three months prior to its occurrence."
"Why is that?"
"I have no idea."
"You think it was chance?"
Leon looked her in the eye. "I think it was punishment."
They stood in the cold armory for a long time.
Neither spoke.
Then Isabel reached into her cloak and pulled something from the inner lining—a scroll tube. She handed it over.
Leon unlatched it and slid the parchment free.
It was a sketch. A report. A demon form—roughly humanoid, limbs too long, a cloak that never moved in the wind.
At the bottom, in faint ink:
"Eastern ridge encounter. No survivors. One witness claimed it whispered in their tongue."
Leon looked up.
"This was last month?" he asked.
Isabel nodded.
"No one listened?"
"No one wanted to."
Leon rolled the parchment and handed it back.
"Why show me?"
"Because you're the only one fighting them," she said. "And because they seem to recognize you."
The torch flickered low.
Leon stepped back toward the sword.
He picked it up again.
This time it felt heavier.
Isabel moved for the door.
Before she opened it, she paused. "Whatever brought you back, you'd better start preparing to face it."
He nodded.
She glanced over her shoulder once more. "And Leon—next time it talks to you, ask it why you scare it."
He didn't sleep that night.
He sharpened the sword.
He drew patterns into the dirt floor with the shard.
And when dawn finally cracked the sky open, he was already walking toward the training yard—not to remember who he'd been,
but to become someone even death wouldn't recognize.
As the first rays of sunlight crept across the stones, Leon stepped into the ring without a blade.
No drills. No opponent. Just him and breath.
He dropped into a low stance and began moving—slow pivots, shifting weight, the rhythm of his old footwork returning, not through memory, but through grit. His body lagged behind his mind, but not as far as it once did.
With every motion, the dirt rose. Sweat followed.
He wasn't training to win a duel.
He was training for something worse.
Something that whispered his name like it already knew the outcome—and dared him to change it.