Riven bowed his head for a long time. His eyes never left his sister’s sleeping face.

Melly’s breathing was calm, her chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm. Her soft hair fanned across the pillow, still damp with traces of sweat. Her face looked peaceful, too peaceful compared to the man watching over her.

Meanwhile, Riven’s chest felt tight with something he couldn’t name. Worry. Gratitude. Fear. Pride. Everything collided and spun in silence.

“I… need time to think,” Riven muttered at last, his voice hoarse, almost like a plea. “I want to speak with Melly directly when she wakes. I want to know how she feels… before deciding anything.”

Lord Aiden Rathsture nodded slowly. “Of course. This decision concerns her future. It shouldn’t be made without her.”

His tone stayed calm, but his gaze revealed that he understood how crucial this moment was. He said no more, offered no pressure. He simply lowered his head slightly—a rare gesture of respect from a noble to a commoner—then spoke briefly with Ashtoria before turning and leaving the room.

The door closed behind him.

Silence returned once more.

The oil lamp on the small table flickered, casting soft, shifting shadows on the wall. Riven kept staring at his sister, his fingers brushing gently against Melly’s warm, small hand.

After a while, he exhaled deeply and spoke quietly. “Ashtoria… I don’t really understand any of this. The nobility. The adoption…”

He turned to Ashtoria, who was still seated beside him.

“You know more than I do. What do you think I should do?”

Ashtoria didn’t answer right away. She paused, as if weighing her words carefully. Her eyes studied Riven for a moment before slowly shifting toward Melly. Her expression remained unchanged—cold, graceful, intimidating—but there was something different in her gaze, something that almost resembled… sympathy.

“If you want my honest answer,” she said softly but sharply,

“Melly cannot remain a girl without a name. The world won’t allow it.”

Riven stayed silent, listening.

“Even if we can hide her now, it won’t last long. With talent and potential like hers, people will start to notice. To watch. To hunt. Or to recruit. The stronger she becomes, the greater the danger that will follow. And you… you can’t protect her alone.”

Riven lifted his head slightly, defiance flickering in his eyes.

Ashtoria continued, her tone calm but firm. “Aiden Rathsture is no ordinary man. He’s not a saint, and he has his own ambitions. But when he says he’ll protect someone, he means it. Even if it costs blood.”

Riven tightened his hold on Melly’s hand, his throat dry. “But if I give her away… does that mean I’m giving up on her? Letting her go from my life?”

Ashtoria slowly shook her head.

“No. It means the opposite. You’re giving Melly something many like her never have, a chance to live beyond mere survival. If she becomes Melly Rathsture, she’ll have a name that makes people think twice before touching her. She’ll learn, be trained, and grow…”

Riven lowered his head again, his breath heavy with unseen weight.

Ashtoria spoke again, this time softer, almost a whisper. “This isn’t about pride or shame. It’s about survival. About giving that power a meaning… before the world turns it into a curse. But in the end, the choice belongs to her, and to you.”

The room felt even quieter than before. Only the soft ticking of a small clock on the shelf broke the silence, marking the steady passage of time.

Riven nodded slowly.

.

.

.

Night fell gently, wrapping the Rathsture estate in a silence that felt almost sacred. In the sky, a pale half-moon hung low, veiled by drifting clouds. The night wind carried a chill that bit at the skin, yet in the wide, empty courtyard—Riven still stood.

His body moved.

Each swing of his sword echoed faintly in the air.

Moonlight glimmered on the length of his silver blade, scattering dim flashes every time it sliced through the still night. Sweat dripped from his temples and chin, soaking his collar, but he didn’t stop. His palms were red and sore, yet his grip never loosened.

There was only one sound in that night: the blade cutting the air.

His body was exhausted, but his mind was too restless to sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, the memory of his conversation with Aiden Rathsture and Ashtoria resurfaced, like ghosts refusing to leave.

Melly would become a noble. Melly would have a name. Melly… would grow into someone far greater than him.

And himself?

Riven swung his sword again, faster this time. His breathing grew heavier, his shoulders rising and falling.

He was still in the same place.

You can’t protect her forever.

Ashtoria’s words echoed in his mind. He knew she wasn’t lying. He knew she meant well. But still, something inside him ached—a quiet, sharp sting of defeat.

I have to become stronger.

His swings slowed. Riven stood still, his head bowed.

Then… he remembered.

That moment. When he and his sword became one. When his breath, his heartbeat, his thoughts—his entire being—moved in rhythm with the steel in his hand. When the world fell silent, and all that existed was the edge and its direction.

He tried to recall it again. The sensation. The stillness. The voice within.

He closed his eyes.

And then, that vision appeared, the one that always haunted his dreams.

That man stood at the peak of the world. One strike from him split the ground, the mountains, even the continent itself. No magic. No shouting. Just a single movement, perfect and absolute.

How did he do it?

Riven opened his eyes. They gleamed. His breathing steadied.

He began again.

His feet shifted. His left hand balanced his body, his right hand gripped the hilt as if it were part of him. He slashed. Straight. Fast. Not rushed. Not too slow.

He imagined an enemy before him. A killer. A soldier. A monster.

He moved as if his life depended on each strike.

The memory returned, the one in the tavern, when Ashtoria told him he was destruction itself.

“I am the sword,” he whispered between breaths. “Not just its wielder… I am the sword.”

His words weren’t a chant. They were conviction. He repeated them again and again, every time his blade cut through the night.

“I am the sword.”

Not blood, but steel flows within me.

Not flesh, but the blade shapes my fate.

Not my voice, but the song of the strike will be my answer.

“I am the sword.”

And I will sharpen myself…

until no one can touch my sister without crossing my blade first.

.

.

.

Along a cobblestone road shrouded in morning mist, a simple horse-drawn carriage rolled slowly down the slope toward the city of Dorthlam. The wheels creaked softly over damp earth, the steady rhythm of hooves blending with the whisper of the northern wind.

Inside the small but comfortable cabin, a man sat in quiet repose.

His face was so beautiful it almost didn’t seem real—sharp jawline, skin pale and flawless as porcelain, golden hair loose around his shoulders. His half-lidded golden eyes held an air of calm or perhaps boredom. He wore a long black coat lined with a pattern of crimson flames on the inside, striking yet not gaudy.

But it wasn’t the man who drew attention, it was what he carried in his arms.

An egg.

Not an ordinary one. It was large, about the size of a grown man’s head. Its shell glowed a deep, molten red, patterned with faint scales that gleamed like living fire. At times, the surface pulsed with a faint heat, as if a sleeping creature inside was quietly breathing.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep