The corridor swallowed his footsteps.
Leon didn't walk fast, but every stride had weight—measured, quiet, deliberate. The torchlight threw long shadows against the tapestries. The air was colder here, heavier near the council hall. Like the walls themselves had heard what was said.
And didn't agree with it.
He passed a pair of serving maids near the corner. They lowered their heads quickly. Not out of politeness.
Out of caution.
He was no longer just the quiet second son.
Now, he was the cursed one. The marked one. The one whose name demons whispered when no one else could hear.
He turned the gallery corner and nearly walked straight into Elena.
She stopped short, scrolls pressed against her chest, the Veiren seal visible even in the low light. Leon didn't flinch. He didn't even blink.
"Elena," he said evenly.
Her eyes flicked to his face. "I was looking for you."
He glanced at the scrolls. "Delivering those?"
"Yes. Reports—ward fluctuations, scout routes, energy spikes south of the Vale. You already know what they'll say."
Leon didn't reach for them. "And Isabel trusts the council to handle that?"
"She trusts you to decide who sees it."
Leon exhaled through his nose. "Not sure that's any better."
Elena stepped forward. "Leon. What happened in there?"
He looked down the corridor, toward the still-open council door. "They tried to dress a threat in robes and courtesy. And when that didn't work, they tried to blame it on me."
Her voice softened. "And?"
"And I didn't give them a denial. I gave them truth."
"You challenged Harven in front of the others."
"He called me rot."
"You didn't answer him."
Leon turned his head, voice low. "I didn't need to."
She followed him as he walked toward the east stairs.
"Leon," she said again, quieter now. "You don't have to be the edge of this war alone."
He stopped mid-step.
She didn't.
"I've studied those things too. Isabel let me see the sealed sketches from the marshlines. The ash patterns. The pulse traces. The demons are changing. Even the mages feel it."
"I know."
"And Roderic—"
Leon stiffened. "Roderic made his choice."
"He's trying to protect the family—"
"No," Leon said. "He's trying to protect the idea of it. The one that never broke. The one where we never fell. And that family doesn't exist anymore."
Elena didn't speak for a while.
When she did, it was with careful steadiness. "If you keep pushing everyone away, there won't be anyone left to protect when it counts."
He looked at her for the first time since the council.
And that silence was his answer.
He didn't return to the barracks.
Instead, he moved toward the wall.
Not the high wall. The old wall—the section they never patrolled anymore. Moss-covered stone lined with arrow slits too narrow for modern bows. No torches. Just the moonlight bleeding down through gaps in the ruined battlement.
Leon climbed the steps with the sword strapped to his back and the shard tucked against his chest.
Every breath in this part of the manor grounds felt colder.
But more honest.
This was the wall they left broken.
This was where the cracks began.
He stood there for a long time, eyes scanning the trees below.
His hands stayed loose. Not ready for a fight. Just waiting.
Sometimes, waiting was worse.
The wind shifted.
He heard boots behind him and didn't turn.
"I figured you'd come up here," said Roderic's voice.
Leon's grip didn't change. "You followed me?"
"No. I just knew where you'd go when you wanted to feel like you weren't being watched."
Leon turned his head slightly. "You should've stayed in the council room. Looked strong."
"I'm not there for them."
Leon gave a faint scoff. "You're not here for me either."
Roderic leaned on the parapet beside him. "You think I hate you."
"I think you don't trust me."
Roderic didn't deny it.
"You've changed," he said. "Everyone sees it."
"I had to."
"And we didn't?"
Leon's eyes stayed on the dark treeline. "You had a name to protect. I had one to bury."
"That's not fair."
Leon finally looked at him. "I died, Rod."
Roderic went still.
Leon's voice dropped. "I died alone. In a street I should never have been in. And I came back with nothing but a blade and a second chance. So don't talk to me about fair."
They stood in silence.
No wind.
No noise.
Just tension, like two swords half-raised.
Then Roderic broke it. "Do you think they're really after you?"
Leon didn't hesitate. "I know they are."
Roderic folded his arms. "What are your intentions now?"
Leon extracted the shard from beneath his tunic and raised it to the moonlight.
It pulsed again.
This time brighter.
"I'm going to let them find me."
Roderic looked at him like he hadn't heard right.
Leon returned the shard to his cloak. "And when they do, I'll finally learn why."
Back in the manor, Isabel sat alone at the table in the smaller war room. A map of the southern marshes was spread wide. Three markers glowed faintly across its surface—red, blue, and one pulsing violet.
She heard boots at the door and didn't look up.
"You were right," Elena said quietly, entering.
"I usually am."
"They've divided."
Isabel tapped the violet mark with one finger. "Not yet. They've just started choosing who they want to blame when this all falls apart."
"And Leon?"
Isabel smiled without humor. "Leon already knows what he is."
Elena's brow furrowed. "Which is?"
Isabel stood and blew out the candle. "Bait."
Roderic watched Leon walk the length of the wall again—measured steps, always the same path, always with his left hand brushing the stone. Like he was feeling for something only he could sense.
Something no one else could touch.
He hadn't said another word since pocketing the shard.
And maybe that was what disturbed Roderic most.
Leon used to talk too much. Used to complain, to deflect, to joke badly and deflate tension with sarcasm. Now, every word carried weight like it might be his last.
As if he was preparing for something none of them could stop.
Roderic leaned back from the edge and crossed his arms.
"You really think they're coming for you?" he called out.
Leon didn't stop walking. "They're already here."
"What if you're wrong?"
Leon finally paused. He turned slowly, the moon catching the edge of his jaw, the faint cut beneath his eye, the tension in his stance.
"Then I'll be ready for nothing."
His voice wasn't angry.
It was tired.
Not like someone defeated.
But like someone who'd already made peace with the cost of being right.