“Hit me, Reid.”

  The words did not simply echo. They traveled — across marble, across banners that had witnessed coronations and wars, across pillars that had held up generations of kings.

  The throne room was vast.

  Marble veined like old scars. Banners descending in patient folds. Pillars rising until they dissolved into shadow.

  It should have felt immense.

  Yet it did not.

  Not with only two men standing at its center.

  The space seemed to narrow around them, drawing inward, as though the grandeur itself had withdrawn. It pressed down on Reid — not upon his shoulders, but somewhere deeper. Somewhere no armor could guard.

  Reid lifted his head.

  The fire that once burned in his eyes was absent. What remained was calm.

  Not peace.

  Calm.

  A stillness that felt deliberate. Chosen.

  He looked at the King — not briefly, not in hesitation — but in full.

  His face revealed nothing. No tremor. No accusation. No plea.

  Was he measuring him?

  Was he searching for a final excuse?

  Was he hoping to find one?

  No.

  The movement came without warning.

  Reid stepped forward, assumed his stance, and before the air itself could shift, his fist struck.

  The impact rang sharper than the command that preceded it.

  It landed against the king’s left cheek — and with it, the thin-framed glasses perched upon Rucon’s face shattered from their place.

  “Krrshh—”

  Glass cracked. Metal bent. They slipped free, struck the marble below, and broke into scattered fragments that caught the chamber’s dim light for only a second before lying still.

  The sound was smaller than the punch.

  But somehow heavier.

  Arttu inhaled sharply. “What is Reid doing?”

  Baranor stepped forward again, instinct overtaking thought. Even he — the strongest sovereign knight — could not make sense of what unfolded before him.

  It did not matter whose hand it was.

  The king had been struck.

  Before Baranor could advance further, Rucon lifted a single hand behind his back — a silent command. He did not turn. He did not look at him.

  His hands returned, clasped behind him.

  The mark bloomed slowly across his cheek — red deepening against aged skin. Without the glasses, his eyes were fully visible now. Unshielded. Clear.

  He did not look away from Reid.

  “Again.”

  There was no anger in it.

  No challenge.

  Only continuation.

  Reid did not hesitate.

  But the second strike was different.

  Slower.

  Measured.

  It was not born of impulse. It was delivered with awareness.

  And that made it crueler.

  His fist met the opposite cheek. Rucon’s head snapped to the side, the sound of bone and flesh reverberating against stone. Blood surfaced, thin at first, then heavier, tracing the natural lines carved by time upon his face.

  For a brief second, he remained turned.

  The room did not move.

  Then he straightened.

  Swiftly.

  When his face returned forward, his eyes were still fixed on Reid.

  Not defiant.

  Not broken.

  Present.

  “Sir Klutz. Sir Arttu Corvane. Leave the room.”

  His voice carried evenly across the chamber, untouched by strain. It did not rise. It did not crack.

  It endured.

  And beneath that composed exterior, something accepted the blows — not as humiliation, but as due. As weight that had long awaited its bearer.

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  Yet even there — beneath the shame, beneath the endurance — pride remained.

  It did not kneel.

  Arttu’s vision blurred faintly. The sting in his eyes was not from fear alone. But he swallowed it down. This was not his moment.

  Baranor moved at last. His hand settled against Arttu’s back — firm, steady — guiding him toward the towering double doors.

  Their steps echoed.

  Neither spoke.

  Both carried a silence they did not yet know how to name.

  And when the doors closed, the vastness of the throne room shrank further still — leaving only Rucon and Reid within it.

  For a moment, nothing happened.

  The fragments of broken glass rested between them.

  Reid’s gaze flickered downward — just briefly.

  Rucon noticed.

  “They were unnecessary,” Rucon said quietly. “I wore them to appear older.”

  He wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. It stained his skin. He did not bother to clean it further.

  “I thought it made them listen more.”

  Reid said nothing.

  The distance between them remained the same.

  Then Rucon stepped forward.

  No stance.

  No warning.

  His fist came forward with none of Reid’s restraint.

  It struck Reid across the jaw.

  The sound was rawer this time. Flesh against flesh without hesitation.

  Reid’s head turned with the force of it. He did not fall. His feet held.

  Silence returned.

  Then Reid answered.

  A strike to Rucon’s ribs.

  Not wild.

  Not furious.

  Measured.

  Rucon exhaled sharply through his teeth.

  They did not speak.

  Another strike from Rucon — to Reid’s cheekbone.

  Another from Reid — to Rucon’s shoulder.

  Back.

  Forth.

  No shouts.

  No declarations.

  Only the steady rhythm of impact.

  Each blow was not an attempt to overpower.

  It was acknowledgment.

  You hurt.

  So did I.

  You failed.

  So did I.

  You chose.

  So did I.

  Blood darkened Rucon’s collar.

  A thin line split along Reid’s lower lip.

  Their breathing began to shift — controlled calm fraying at the edges.

  Still they struck.

  Slower now.

  Heavier.

  Not because strength increased —

  But because weight accumulated.

  At some point, neither of them remembered who struck first.

  It no longer mattered.

  The throne behind them stood untouched.

  The banners did not move.

  The marble observed without judgment.

  Finally —

  Reid’s fist halted mid-motion.

  His arm trembled.

  Not from exhaustion alone.

  From something else.

  Rucon’s own hand remained raised, hovering for a second longer before lowering.

  They stood facing one another.

  Breathing no longer measured.

  Shoulders rising and falling.

  Blood and sweat mixing in quiet testament.

  Reid’s eyes, once calm, wavered.

  Not in anger.

  In fracture.

  “I’m sorry.”

  The words did not echo.

  They fell.

  Simple.

  Unadorned.

  Rucon studied him.

  Not as a ruler.

  Not as a superior.

  As a man who understood exactly what those two words cost.

  “So am I,” Rucon replied.

  The silence that followed was different from the earlier one.

  Less sharp.

  More tired.

  Rucon inhaled slowly, then exhaled through his nose.

  “This is how it works,” he said. “For people like us.”

  He glanced briefly at the shattered remains of his glasses.

  “We make decisions. Others live inside them.”

  His gaze returned to Reid.

  “We do not get the luxury of clean hands.”

  Reid’s jaw tightened.

  “I don’t want luxury.”

  “I know.”

  Rucon stepped past him, walking slowly toward the fractured lenses on the floor. He crouched — joints protesting faintly — and gathered the broken pieces into his palm.

  “They were a shield,” he murmured. “A small one. But a shield nonetheless.”

  He stood again.

  “I suppose I do not need them anymore.”

  He let the fragments fall from his hand. They scattered again across the marble, this time without ceremony.

  “Reid.”

  Reid straightened instinctively.

  “There is something you will do.”

  Not as punishment.

  Not as redemption.

  As necessity.

  “In the southern territories of Aquilonis, villages have begun reporting unusual growths.”

  Rucon’s voice shifted — not colder, but steadier. The cadence of a sovereign returning, though he still did not feel like one.

  “Flowers.”

  Reid frowned faintly.

  “Wildflowers,” Rucon continued. “Native species. Harmless for generations. They bloomed every spring and withered every winter. Predictable. Natural.”

  He began walking slowly, circling the space as though the explanation required movement.

  “Decades ago, there was a surge. An irregular wave of cursed energy that passed across the continent. It did not linger long. Most dismissed it as a fluctuation.”

  His eyes darkened.

  “It lingered long enough.”

  The first generation of seeds exposed to that wave produced abnormalities. Most died before sprouting. Those that survived appeared… unchanged.

  “They were not.”

  Rucon stopped.

  “Their roots began absorbing ambient cursed energy from the soil. Not aggressively. Gradually. Like breath.”

  Reid listened without interruption.

  “Over time, their offspring grew more efficient. Some remained small — almost indistinguishable from ordinary flora. Those are the most dangerous. Their size allows them to concentrate the corruption densely. A single patch can sicken an entire field.”

  He turned toward the far banners.

  “Others grew large. Twisted. Petals darkened toward crimson. Veins visible along their stems like exposed arteries.”

  Reid’s mind flickered — red petals.

  “The villagers call them Blood Blossoms,” Rucon said. “But that is superstition. They are not born of blood. They are born of exposure.”

  He faced Reid fully again.

  “Their pollen carries corrupted particles. Inhalation over time weakens the body. Livestock become restless. Crops fail. Children fall ill without visible wound.”

  “And they spread?” Reid asked quietly.

  “Yes.”

  “By wind?”

  “By soil. By root networks. By contact with other plants. They are patient.”

  Reid’s expression hardened.

  “Why now?”

  “Because someone is protecting them.”

  The air shifted again — but not with violence.

  “With protection, their growth accelerated,” Rucon continued. “On the southern border, near the outer forests of Aquilonis, reports indicate organized presence.”

  Reid understood before the name was spoken.

  “The Cult of Hatred.”

  Rucon nodded once.

  “They believe the flowers are a gift. Manifestations of lingering resentment embedded in the land itself. They cultivate them. Guard them.”

  His jaw tightened faintly — the only visible sign of irritation.

  “They have erected minor barriers around the largest clusters. Crude. But effective enough to deter villagers.”

  Reid’s breathing steadied.

  “You want them destroyed.”

  “I want the land cleansed,” Rucon corrected.

  “Fire?” Reid asked.

  “Nothing works without purifying them.”

  “And Arttu?”

  “He will accompany you.”

  Reid’s eyes flickered briefly at the mention.

  “He needs to see what corruption looks like when it grows quietly. You know that more than I do,” Rucon said.

  The chamber seemed less oppressive now.

  Still heavy.

  But breathable.

  “You wish to help the southern villagers,” Rucon continued. “You’ve made that clear.”

  Reid did not deny it.

  “Then begin there.”

  This was not exile.

  Not distraction.

  It was alignment.

  Rucon stepped closer.

  “When you destroy them, do not do so in anger.”

  Reid met his gaze.

  “Understand them.”

  A pause.

  “They were once ordinary flowers.”

  The weight of that sentence lingered longer than the rest.

  “So were we,” Reid said softly.

  Rucon almost smiled.

  “Perhaps.”

  The distance between King and knight had shifted again — not erased, but altered.

  “This mission will not erase what has happened,” Rucon said. “Nor will it absolve either of us.”

  “I’m not looking for absolution.”

  “I know.”

  Another silence.

  Less suffocating now.

  More resolute.

  Rucon turned slightly toward the throne — then stopped himself.

  He did not sit.

  “Will you accept it?” he asked.

  Not as a command.

  As a question.

  Reid wiped the blood from his mouth with his thumb. It smeared across his skin.

  He thought of the villagers.

  Of red petals spreading quietly across soil.

  Of corruption that began small.

  Of glasses shattering on marble.

  “I will.”

  The answer was steady.

  Not fiery.

  Not vengeful.

  Certain.

  Rucon nodded once.

  “Then at dawn, you and Arttu depart for the south of Aquilonis.”

  The throne room remained vast.

  But now it no longer felt like it was collapsing inward.

  It felt—

  Awaiting.

  And between broken glass and drying blood, two men stood not as king and subordinate —

  But as those who had struck,

  And endured,

  And chosen to continue anyway.