Alden Marr stepped forward first, hands folded behind his back, voice smooth and cool, like polished steel.

“No need to bristle, Stonefury. We didn’t come to kick you while you’re down.”

Lady Serennia’s lips curved into the faintest suggestion of a smile, not warm, not kind.

“We came to talk about what happened in the arena. And to help you avoid further… embarrassment.”

Kyren Valdros grunted in agreement, crossing his arms. His cloak rippled with the motion.

“Nobody wants to see you humiliated again. Not you, not us.”

Varkas narrowed his eyes, gaze flicking across their faces. He knew these people far too well, their reputations, their methods, their ambition. None of them helped without reason. None of them gave without expecting to take twice as much back.

Snakes. Every one of them. And the fact that they stood before him, now that he lay bruised and broken, meant they smelled opportunity.

He folded his arms as best he could under the linen sheets, jaw tightening.

“Get to the point.”

Alden tilted his head slightly, as though measuring the air.

“Do you have any trump cards left? Any champion capable of facing the Lionsguard?”

Varkas said nothing. He didn’t need to. Silence was answer enough.

Serennia’s gaze sharpened.

“So you don’t.”

Kyren nodded, as if confirming a private thought.

“We expected as much.”

Varkas’s jaw flexed. Rage twisted in his gut, not only at being defeated, but at being laid bare in front of his rivals.

Alden stepped closer to the bed, lowering his voice.

“Fortunately, we came with a solution.”

He glanced back at the other two guild leaders, then continued.

“We each have specialists, fighters who don’t appear on guild rosters, who never attend public events, who take missions most people don’t survive.”

Serennia’s eyes glimmered with ember light.

“Hidden assets. Secret members. Individuals who serve no purpose in parades or publicity, but excel in… other areas.”

Kyren’s teeth showed in something that was almost a smile.

“We’re offering to send some of them to join your guild temporarily.”

The room seemed to still. Varkas stared at them, disbelief coiling into suspicion.

Alden nodded once, sharply.

“They will fight under your banner for the duration of this contest.”

Serennia added,

“You will not need to risk another public humiliation. Not alone.”

Kyren finished the thought, voice hard as gravel.

“We will help you crush them.”

And with that, three titans of the capital smiled as one… because what they offered wasn’t charity. It was war.

Varkas’s stare hardened, suspicion settling deep into his bones. His voice came out rough, edged with exhaustion and anger.

“What’s in it for you?”

Alden didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even blink.

“Influence,” he said simply. “Control.”

Serennia folded her hands in front of her, silk sleeves whispering as she moved.

“The Lionsguard are growing too quickly. Their power spikes upward with every report, every expedition, every whisper from the north.”

Kyren leaned forward, forearms like stone pillars, voice low.

“And the crowds love them. That’s the problem.”

Alden nodded once.

“Their public presence is stronger than any guild has seen in decades. Fame matters. Reputation matters. Enough of it, and even kings bow.”

Serennia stepped closer to the foot of the bed, ember threads glowing faintly in her hair.

“And let’s not ignore the international angle. The Lionsguard have safe passage agreements in multiple regions. Their froststeel trade is expanding. Heroes emerging. Resources increasing.”

Her voice chilled.

“They are not a border-town militia anymore.”

Kyren’s lip curled.

“And the empire loves stories like theirs. The underdogs rising. The righteous guild defending their land.”

Alden spread his hands slightly, as if laying out a board of pieces already in motion.

“Public opinion is a weapon, Stonefury. And the Lionsguard are swinging it better than anyone.”

Torvares’s name hung in the air without being spoken, until Serennia said it.

“Lord Torvares is old, but not finished. He is dangerous. And powerful enough that other nobles already whisper his name like a threat.”

Kyren added,

“And there are larger interests backing the Lionsguard, supporters who want Torvares to grow. They want that guild to take root and spread.”

Alden’s eyes narrowed.

“We have allies who don’t want that. Not the guild. Not Torvares. Not his region. And definitely not that boy who just crushed you.”

Varkas’s fingers curled around the blanket, knuckles white beneath battered skin. He studied them,really studied them.

These three were not here because they cared about him. They were not here because of pride, or friendship, or rivalry. They were here because someone bigger, richer, and far more dangerous wanted the Lionsguard stopped.

Someone who could move the three strongest guilds in the capital like chess pieces. Who were the backers behind them? Noble houses? Foreign powers? Imperial branches? Trade syndicates? Hidden families?

His skin crawled. Whoever they were, they had just reached into his hospital room.

And now they waited for his answer.

— —

The next morning, Ludger woke at sunrise, habit guiding his body out of bed before his mind fully caught up. The estate was quiet, most of the northerners were still unconscious somewhere, sleeping off last night’s celebrations. The twins snored softly across the hall. Even the capital’s noise hadn’t reached its usual volume yet.

He made his way down to the garden. Stacks of miniature shelves lined up, covered with figurines in various stages of completion. He sat, pulled clay toward him, and set to work. His fingers moved with familiarity, shaping broad shoulders, sturdy boots, distinct armor silhouettes, depictions of Lionsguard fighters, and northerners wielding axes like thunder.

Fendrel was already there, hunched over the merchant’s desk, scribbling numbers, eyes gleaming behind his spectacles.

“We’ll raise prices today,” Fendrel said without looking up. “Fifty percent.”

Ludger blinked.

“Fifty?”

“The Lionsguard’s reputation is booming,” Fendrel replied, tapping the ledger. “The contest in the arena has half the city whispering your name. This is the moment.”

It felt strange hearing it spoken so plainly. Fame. The word had weight Ludger didn’t care to touch. He didn’t argue. He kept sculpting. Minutes passed quietly, until Fendrel cleared his throat and dropped the real question.

“Why aren’t you making any figurines of yourself?”

Ludger paused mid-stroke. Looked up. Raised an eyebrow.

“Do I look that vain to you?”

Fendrel snorted.

“No. This isn’t about vanity. It’s business. You’re getting famous, Ludger. Really famous. People will pay good coin to own something with your face on it.”

Ludger stared down at the clay between his fingers, material still warm from his mana, half-shaped into a shield. He took a breath. Then another.

“It feels…” he began, head tilting, trying to find the right word. “…uncomfortable.”

He set the clay aside and wiped his hands clean.

“Selling and making figurines of myself while my reputation is exploding doesn’t sit right. It feels like stealing from the moment. Like feeding off of something that hasn’t even finished happening.”

His eyes flicked to the shelves, dozens of figures lined neatly, ready to be sold.

“It’s fine shaping heroes, allies, people who want to be remembered. But shaping myself?” He shook his head. “That feels like carving a statue before the story’s finished. The paint’s still wet.”

He looked up at Fendrel, voice quiet but firm.

“I’d rather make things that help the guild. Figurines of me feel… self-serving.”

Fendrel leaned back, tapping his ledger with a thoughtful finger.

“Or maybe you just don’t see yourself the way the rest of the city is starting to.”

Ludger didn’t respond. He only picked up another lump of clay and continued shaping a new figurine, hands steady, but eyes a little distant.

Ludger continued shaping earth for another hour, letting quiet concentration settle into his bones. It was one of the few tasks that allowed his mind to slow down, no mana to measure, no blows to predict, no political weight bearing down on his spine. Just sculpting, smoothing edges, carving lines that turned earth into miniature armor.

Outside, the capital morning deepened. Horses clattered down the street, merchants called out prices in competing voices, children argued somewhere over sweets. The estate, however, remained mostly peaceful, until the sharp cadence of tense voices drifted through the open windows.

At first Ludger ignored it. The capital’s front gate always had some noise: nobles demanding entry, patrolling guards muttering to one another, the occasional drunken northerner trying to reenact last night’s victory punch.

But this voice was different. It cut through the background hum like a blade through cloth, low, calm, clipped with practiced authority. A voice Ludger knew very well. Varik.

Representative of the Silver Talon Order, the guild that served directly under the capital senate, collecting information, enforcing laws, dealing justice or silence with equal efficiency. Unlike most guild leaders, Varik carried no arrogance in his tone. He didn’t need it; reputation did the speaking.

And Ludger had worked with him more than once. The man was competent, levelheaded, and, rarest of all in the capital, honest. Their interactions had grown into something close to friendship. Which only made arrivals like this more unsettling. Varik didn’t visit to chat. Not ever.

Ludger set the figurine aside, dusted his hands clean, and followed the voices into the hall.

At the front entrance, two guards stationed as temporary sentries stood rigid, expressions strained between uncertainty and suspicion. Varik stood before them, posture crisp despite mud smeared across his boots and cloak. His usually tidy hair was wind-tossed, and he carried a faint smell of long travel.

His face said everything. Tired, tense. Carrying news he didn’t want to deliver. When Varik saw Ludger approach, he offered a strained smile. It didn’t hold.

Ludger stopped in front of him, arms folded casually.

“Just say it. Straight.”

No ceremony. No expectation of ceremony. Varik ran a hand through his hair, exhaled, and finally spoke.

“Ashbound Compact isn’t walking away from the contest.”

Ludger’s posture stiffened, not from surprise, but from the implications threading beneath the words.

Varik continued, voice more controlled now.

“They have three more fighters lined up today. Challenges scheduled. Official requests already filed.”

Ludger frowned. The numbers didn’t make sense.

Ashbound Compact was a large guild, but their ranks were shallow, spread thin by mid-tier contracts. Their strongest three fighters had already fallen: Renalt, Horvan, Varkas. Even if they scraped their reserves, they shouldn’t have three more worth sending.

Yet Varik’s eyes held no uncertainty, only worry. Something had changed. Someone had intervened. Ludger thought back to the three major guild leaders who watched the duel. Their silence afterward. Their expressions. Their agendas.

It wasn’t hard to guess what had happened. Ashbound Compact had found new strength overnight, and not the kind that belonged to them.

His voice dropped low.

“What did they bring?”

Varik’s reply came just as quiet.

“Something you haven’t seen before.”

And Ludger knew the day ahead would not be simple.

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