The afternoon sun turned the main training ground into a furnace. Sweat ran down Avian's bare chest, highlighting fresh scars that crisscrossed older ones—a year of Lysander's educational brutality written in flesh. His practice sword cut through the air in precise arcs, each movement flowing seamlessly into the next.

Lighter on the backswing, heavier on impact. Make gravity your bitch, not your crutch.

Beside him, Lux darted between training dummies, practicing her new ability to split into multiple lightning copies. She'd been working on it for weeks now, managing to maintain three copies for almost a minute before they collapsed back into one very dizzy wolf.

"Focus on the core copy," Avian called out between strikes. "The others are just extensions."

Lux barked—a sound like thunder trying to be cute—and tried again. This time she managed four copies before tumbling into a sparking heap.

"Young master!" A guard called from the entrance. "Visitor approaching."

Avian didn't stop his form. After a year as heir, guards knew better than to expect him to pause mid-sequence for anything short of an emergency. He'd finish when he was damn well ready.

The dummy's head exploded into splinters as his gravity-enhanced strike connected.

"Fuck," he muttered, looking at the destruction. "That's the third one this week."

"I'll add it to the replacement order," Elira said from where she stood near the weapons rack, holding Fargrim with the casual ease of someone who'd gotten used to demonic swords. The blade hummed contentedly in her grip—after a year, even it had accepted her as furniture. "Miss Lyselle is here to see you."

Avian glanced toward the entrance. Seren stood there in her usual modest dress, notebook clutched in her hands. But something was off. Her fingers weren't ink-stained—she'd actually washed them. That meant this was important enough that she'd taken time to prepare.

She didn't approach, just stood watching as he finished the form. Ten minutes. Twenty. Thirty. She waited with the patience of someone who'd spent years in dusty archives, though he caught her fingers drumming against her notebook once.

When he finally stopped, grabbing a towel from Elira, Seren approached with measured steps.

"Apologies for the interruption," she said, voice steady despite the slight tension in her shoulders. "I went to Training Ground Three first. Some knights were sparring there—quite violently."

"That's where the regulars beat each other bloody." Avian wiped sweat from his face, noting how her eyes tracked the new scars across his ribs. "I train here to avoid the audiences."

Two guards flanked the entrance, both Sixth Tier warriors assigned specifically to protect the heir. They watched Seren with professional assessment but didn't interfere. After a year, they knew who was allowed near him.

"You look like someone kicked your puppy," Avian said, tossing the towel aside.

"I don't have a puppy."

"Figure of speech. You going to tell me what's wrong, or do I have to guess?"

"Not here." She glanced meaningfully at the guards, the servants preparing the next set of training equipment. "Perhaps somewhere more private?"

Smart girl. Whatever she's found, it's dangerous enough to need real privacy.

"My study," he said, pulling on his shirt. "Elira, bring tea. And Fargrim."

"Of course, young master."

They walked through the compound, guards nodding respectfully as they passed. "Young master," they murmured, some even bowing slightly. A year ago they'd barely noticed him. Now he was the heir who'd moved a Paragon Knight through will alone.

His study was on the third floor of the heir's wing, warded heavily enough that even sound had trouble escaping. Once inside, Avian closed his eyes and concentrated, creating a subtle distortion in the air—a technique he'd figured out months ago by accident, making his mana fluctuate in patterns that interfered with eavesdropping.

"What's that?" Seren asked, watching the air shimmer slightly.

"Mana interference. Makes it harder for anyone to listen in. Not perfect, but it helps." He settled into his chair. "We can speak freely. Mostly."

Elira entered with tea and Fargrim, setting both down before departing with a knowing look. The door clicked shut with finality.

Seren sat across from him, back straight, hands folded. The perfect picture of composure except for the way her thumb rubbed against her knuckle—her only tell when nervous.

"That thing you said during your trial," she began. "When you were basically unconscious. 'I don't stop.'"

Shit. Here we fucking go.

He kept his face neutral. "What about it?"

"I found that exact phrase. In old military dispatches. From the Demon War."

"Interesting coincidence."

"I don't believe in coincidences anymore." She pulled out folded papers from her satchel—not dramatically, just methodically, like someone who'd rehearsed this moment. "I've been back to the restricted archives. Multiple times. If they catch me, I'm likely dead, but I had to know."

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

"Know what?"

"Why you move like someone who's survived real battles. Why you hate the Vaerin prayers with visible disgust. Why you look at his statue like you want to piss on it."

Too fucking perceptive. But after a year of careful friendship, she deserves something.

He leaned back, studying her. "Those are dangerous observations, Seren."

"I know." She unfolded the first paper with precise movements. "This is from a soldier's diary. Found misfiled with supply reports. He wrote about Commander D—about Dex."

She read: "'The commander doesn't fight pretty. Doesn't fight for show. He fights like every swing might be his last, like stopping isn't an option. When asked why he pushes so hard, he just says 'I don't stop.' Like that explains everything.'"

The study felt smaller suddenly. Some nameless soldier had written those words, tried to understand what drove him.

"Lots of people probably said similar things during the war," he managed.

"Perhaps." Another paper, handled with the same careful precision. "Report from a field medic. 'Commander D. sustained injuries that should have killed him three times over. When asked how he survived, his response was—'"

"'I don't stop.'" The words escaped before he could catch them.

They stared at each other. Lux, who'd been napping by the window, raised her head to watch with intelligent eyes.

"I'm not going to ask if you're him," Seren said quietly. "That's impossible. But you're connected somehow. To the real history."

Tell her. Don't tell her. Tell her. Fuck, I don't know anymore.

"This is dangerous territory, Seren."

"I know. The Church already watches me. Three other researchers who investigated the Demon War's inconsistencies have had 'accidents' in the last decade." Her thumb rubbed harder against her knuckle. "But the truth matters."

She pulled out an older paper, edges yellowed. "Hidden in a genealogy text. A letter fragment in Vaerin's handwriting: 'The arrow was mercy. The curse was taking hold. He would have thanked me if he knew what fate awaited him.'"

Curse? What fucking curse? I never felt anything like that.

"Where?" His voice came out rough.

"Family vault. Bottom of a weapons case that hadn't been opened in centuries." She watched his face carefully. "What if Vaerin thought he was saving his friend from something worse than death?"

The room was silent except for Lux's quiet breathing.

"One more thing." She pulled out something wrapped in cloth. "I found this in an antique shop in the old quarter. The owner said someone brought it in decades ago—found in an old soldier's effects. Thought it might be valuable, but it's just copper."

She unwrapped it carefully. A small copper coin, worn but clear. Common soldiers on one side. On the other, scratched deep like someone used a knife:

"For Big B - The Stubborn Bastards - D."

His hand clenched so hard his nails drew blood.

I made this. After Brick died. After the northern pass. Gave it to Jenkins before the final battle, told him to keep it safe. Said if I didn't make it back, at least someone would remember our stupid joke about opening the worst tavern in history.

"That inscription," Seren said softly. "The Stubborn Bastards appears nowhere else in any record. But 'Big B' matches descriptions of someone close to Commander D. And that initial—D."

Jenkins kept it. That beautiful bastard kept it all these years. Through the battle, through the rewriting of history. Kept our stupid dream safe in copper.

Should I tell her? She's risking everything. She deserves the truth.

But truth gets people killed.

He took the coin with forced calm, thumb running over the crude carving he'd made five centuries ago with a knife and grief.

"Why show me this?"

"Because when you look at the Vaerin statue, you see betrayal. Because something in you recognizes these fragments as truth." She stood, that slight tension returning to her shoulders. "The Church has 'requested' I present my research next week."

"That's not a request."

"No. But I've hidden copies. Multiple locations." Her composure cracked slightly. "I'm... concerned about the meeting."

She should be. The Church doesn't summon historians for friendly discussions about truth.

The divine chains pulsed around his core—nearly fully reformed now, maybe weeks from completion. Six months of constant reinforcement since Winter's Descent, and he still couldn't access whatever power had shattered them in the arena. It was like trying to grab smoke with broken fingers.

I'm running out of time. These chains are almost complete, and I have no fucking idea how to break them again.

"Father will send guards with you," he said, trying to focus on her problem instead of his own impending imprisonment. "Subtle ones, but they'll be there. The Church doesn't martyr historians. Too obvious."

"Speaking from observation?"

"Speaking from logic." He stood as well, the chains pulsing again, tighter than this morning. "Be careful, Seren. Whatever truth you're chasing, it has teeth."

"I know." At the door, she paused. "That coin belongs with you. I don't know why, but it does."

After she left, Avian stood at his window, holding the coin. His crude carving, his grief, his memorial to Brick. Jenkins had kept it safe for five hundred years, through wars and purges and the rewriting of history.

The Stubborn Bastards. Water down the ale, overcharge the nobles. Brick would've loved that someone kept this.

The divine chains pulsed again, almost mocking. Nearly complete, nearly unbreakable. Whatever divine power had saved him in the arena remained dormant, unreachable.

I'm going to be trapped again. Weak again. And Seren's walking into danger I can't protect her from.

Fuck. Brick would call me a moody bitch and tell me to do something about it instead of whining.

He looked at Fargrim on his desk. The blade hummed, sensing his turmoil.

"She's walking into a trap," he told the sword. "And these fucking chains are almost reformed. I can't break them. Can't access that power. Can't protect anyone."

The blade pulsed, almost sympathetic.

But I can try. Jenkins kept this coin safe for five centuries. Least I can do is try to keep Seren safe for a week.

Evening was coming. Soon Lysander would arrive for the night session, ready to beat new lessons into him. Tomorrow would bring more of the same. And next week, Seren would walk into the Church's hands with her dangerous truth.

I can't tell her who I am. Can't break these chains. But maybe I can make sure she survives anyway.

The Stubborn Bastards. Worst tavern never built. Because I got us both killed before we could build it.

The memory hurt less than he expected. Maybe because someone else—Jenkins—had thought it worth preserving.

The divine chains pulsed one more time, nearly complete, nearly victorious.

But for once, he wasn't thinking about his own imprisonment.

Someone else needed protection more.

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