The silence that followed Tireuz's words was heavy.
Bral sat upright now, propped on one arm, staring at the place where the other should've been. His breath trembled in his chest. His entire body was tense, like it might crack apart at any second under the weight of what had just been taken from him.
He didn't speak at first. He just looked.
Looked at the stump. Looked at the healing magic slowly sealing it shut. Looked at the blood still soaking his tunic and the torn straps of his armor that hung limp across his chest.
Then—barely a whisper—he spoke. "…My arm." His voice was hoarse. Distant.
He blinked hard, as if trying to convince himself it wasn't real. "…How will I… keep fighting?" he asked, still staring. "How will I live like this…? What's left for me?"
Amukelo swallowed hard, his chest tightening. He had seen Bral laugh through the worst moments, tease everyone in the guild regardless of how serious things got, act like pain and pressure didn't touch him.
But now he sat in the dirt, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. Not from the pain. Not from the blood. But from the realization.
He might never be the same again.
Then Bral turned.
His eyes found Padrin, who had just been freed from the last of the ice magic, still on one knee as he tried to gather his breath.
And Bral's voice, now sharper, cut through the stillness.
"If you didn't rush in like an idiot…" he said.
Padrin raised his head slowly, his brows tightening.
"If you had just stuck to the plan," Bral said, louder now. "If you hadn't let yourself get caught—" his voice cracked, "—you were supposed to be the reinforcement for our team."
Padrin opened his mouth, but no words came.
Bral didn't let up.
"You were supposed to be the strongest. You were the one they sent to cover us, to watch our backs. So what the hell happened, Padrin?!"
The words echoed across the field, loud enough that even the outlaws looked down.
Padrin lowered his eyes. His hands rested on his knees. He didn't speak for a moment. The fire was gone from his posture.
"I… I'm sorry," he said softly. His voice had no pride. Just guilt.
"I used the weights. I didn't take them off. I thought I'd still be able to handle it. I underestimated the threat."
Bral's eyes narrowed, fury mixing with disbelief. "Why?! Why would you do that? Knowing you were slowed—why would you act alone?!"
Padrin didn't raise his head. He didn't even flinch at the anger in Bral's voice.
His eyes drifted slowly to the side.
To where Celeste sat, bound, her wrists enclosed by Tireuz's frozen water restraint.
And for a long moment, Padrin looked at her like she wasn't even here. Like he was seeing someone else entirely.
"…Because I found someone," he said.
His voice wasn't shaky anymore. It was even. Calm. Detached. "Someone I've been trying to find… for a long time."
His gaze didn't leave her, but he wasn't speaking to her. He was speaking to the rest of them.
His voice became quieter. Not to hide—just because he was somewhere else now.
"It was a long time ago."
The heat of the battlefield melted away into the warmth of candlelight.
The sounds of clashing steel were replaced by the soft hum of violins and the low murmur of conversation. Voices laughed, goblets clinked, fine boots moved over polished marble floors.
Inside a lavish banquet hall, lined with banners of houses and families, a younger version of Padrin stood in a simple but neat navy coat, shoulders stiff, his posture tense. He couldn't have been older than eleven.
He stood beside his parents—Lord Calmon and Lady Isolde—both finely dressed and mingling with practiced smiles.
"It's a transformative moment for our family," his mother whispered to his father. "With these connections, we may finally break into noble status."
Padrin stood awkwardly beside them, hands folded in front of him, eyes flicking between strangers he didn't know and nobles he'd been taught to admire.
Then, "Ah. Sir Garin. Lady Seren," said Calmon, stepping forward to shake hands. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you."
"Indeed," said Garin with a cordial smile. "A pleasure, Mister Calmon. Lady Isolde."
Polite handshakes. Political courtesies.
Then Lady Isolde gestured to Padrin, touching his shoulder.
"This is our son, Padrin."
He looked up quickly.
She nudged him gently. "Go on. Say hello."
Padrin blinked, then stepped forward hesitantly, clearing his throat. "It's… um… nice to meet you," he said, his voice just barely holding steady.
Garin smiled and shook his hand politely. "A polite young man."
Then he turned and looked over his shoulder. "Celeste, don't hide. Come now. Be polite."
Padrin blinked and followed Garin's gaze.
There, peeking from behind Garin's side, was a girl—only a few years younger than him, with auburn hair tied in a gentle braid and eyes the color of molten amber. She was clinging to Garin's robes, hesitant to step forward.
But then she let go and walked forward slowly, giving a small, awkward bow.
"It's good to meet you," she said quietly.
Padrin's heart skipped.
His mouth dried. He couldn't look away.
Padrin's voice echoed in the quiet field like a whisper lost in the wind. He didn't look at anyone as he spoke. His gaze stayed fixed ahead, not on Celeste, not on Bral or Amukelo, but somewhere far beyond the trees, as if his mind had slipped back into another time entirely.
"I wanted to know her better from the moment I met her."
Their house wasn't extravagant by noble standards, but it was large enough to boast pride. A tall wooden frame with polished glass windows, a winding staircase, and a dining room where conversations about politics were common and laughter more rare.
Padrin sat at the edge of his bed, feet dangling just above the carpeted floor, his formal jacket still buttoned and wrinkled at the shoulders. The moment his parents stepped into the sitting room down the hall, he called out, voice higher then, still holding the softness of childhood.
"Mom, Dad… who was that girl?"
There was a pause. Calmon leaned around the corner, raising a brow. "Which one?"
Padrin fidgeted. His cheeks flushed red. "You know… Celeste."
A short beat of silence. Then Calmon smiled. "Did you like her?"
Padrin didn't answer. He just looked down, flustered.
Calmon chuckled, stepping into the room and folding his arms. "That's wonderful. It's good timing. Our families are going to be working together—forming a proper alliance. We're going to support the first prince of Elandria, Aurelan Elarion. He's young, but he is a very promising man. If he becomes king, it could mean a noble title for our houses."
Isolde walked in beside him, slipping off her gloves. "It's a chance we've been preparing for. The Garin family is a powerful ally, and they trust us. They've built wealth outside the capital, but they're looking for stable partnerships."
Padrin's eyes lit up. "So… I'll see her again?"
Calmon nodded, placing a hand on his son's shoulder. "And not only once. If all goes well, you two might end up more than just friends."
Padrin's heart thumped so loudly he was sure they heard it. He nodded quickly, eyes wide. "I'll get along with her. I will."
Padrin's voice faded over the present as the memory bled into another. "When I got to meet her again… she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen."
The image formed as clearly as if it were still unfolding in front of him.
The morning sun sat low behind thin clouds, casting a golden warmth over the quiet residential street. The Garin estate stood behind a black wrought-iron gate, tall and sturdy. The house itself was broad and symmetrical, its stone walls clean, its design elegant but restrained.
Calmon knocked on the wide oak doors.
After a few moments, they opened.
Lady Seren stood in the entrance, dressed in a long pale gown, her dark hair tied neatly behind her shoulders. Her posture was graceful, but her smile was warm.
"Oh, welcome. Please, come in."
They stepped into the foyer. The inside was simple but well-kept—light brown tile beneath their feet, the scent of polished wood and fresh herbs filling the air. A young maid waited quietly off to the side.
"Would you like something to drink?" Seren asked. "Water, tea, coffee? Or perhaps something else?"
"Coffee for me," Calmon said.
"And the same for me," Isolde added with a smile.
Seren nodded. "Of course." She turned to the maid. "Three coffees, and one tea for myself. Before that, please take young Padrin to Celeste. I think the two of them should get to know each other."
Padrin's heart nearly stopped.
He looked up at his parents. His mother gave him a small smile and a reassuring nod. His father whispered, "Remember what we talked about—be polite, be honest, be yourself."
The maid gestured softly. "This way, young master."
He followed.
They moved through a hallway lit by sunlight spilling through wide windows, then down a smaller corridor that opened up into a quiet garden at the back of the house.
The grass was neatly trimmed. Flowers bloomed along the edges of stone walkways. The scent of lavender floated on the breeze. A small stone fountain trickled in the corner, the water casting soft echoes through the air.
And there she was.
Celeste sat alone on a white wooden bench under a maple tree, the red leaves forming a canopy overhead. She had her legs crossed at the ankle, a book in her lap. Her auburn hair caught the sunlight, glowing like copper. Her eyes—sharp, intelligent—scanned the page in front of her.
She didn't notice him at first.
The maid gave Padrin a small smile and whispered, "You'll like her. She really is lovely."
Padrin nodded slowly, his heart racing, and took a step forward.
Then he stopped.
He stood still, just beyond the path, watching her. His mouth opened slightly, but no words came out.
All he could do was look at her.