Chapter 7: Alliance

The dusky light of late afternoon filtered through the thinning clouds above the Duskmere training grounds. The once-bustling field now lay quiet, save for the whisper of wind rustling through dry grass. In the center of the stone courtyard, Ethan sat alone, legs folded beneath him in a meditative pose. His back was straight, hands resting on his knees, palms up.

Laid before him was his ego weapon: a short, rust-covered dagger.

It looked unimpressive, ancient, almost pitiful. The blade’s surface was chipped and mottled with reddish corrosion, as though it had been left forgotten in the dirt for decades. Yet even in its ruined state, it pulsed faintly with something… foreign. Alive.

Ethan exhaled slowly.

“Alright,” he said quietly, eyes still closed. “I don’t know how this is supposed to work, but I guess you can hear me. Or feel me. Or something.”

Silence.

“I’m not some warrior. I don’t have battle scars or a tragic past. I’m just me. A kid from a quiet town who got thrown into all this. But if you’re really part of me now… I need to understand you. I need to understand what we are.”

The air felt stiller than before. He couldn’t explain why, but the silence had grown… heavy. Expectant.

“You really aren’t going to make this easy, huh?” he muttered. “I’m talking to a dagger.”

He sighed and leaned forward slightly. “So… what exactly are you?”

Silence.

“…Okay, let me try that again,” Ethan said, voice a little louder this time. “What are you, exactly?”

The silence stretched for several more seconds. He was just about to give up when a dry, slightly irritated voice echoed no, resonated in the back of his skull. It wasn’t loud, but it was clear. Masculine. Calm, yet sharp as a whetstone edge.

“Enough. Switch places with me. I refuse to bake in this ridiculous sun any longer.”

Ethan didn’t flinch. He just shifted his weight, side-eying the dagger like someone dealing with a cranky old man.

“Of course it talks now,” he muttered. “Hour of silence and suddenly the sun’s a problem.”

“You’re blocking the shade. I don’t care about your little soul-searching session just move.”

Ethan gave a half-shrug and scooted to the side, letting the blade fall under the shadow cast by the crumbling training post behind him.

“There. Happy now?”

“Marginally.”

He folded his arms and narrowed his eyes at the rust-covered weapon. “You don’t sound like someone who's eager to bond.”

“I’m not. I was enjoying the silence before you started your heartfelt monologue.”

Ethan exhaled through his nose, dry. “You’ve got the charm of a rusted nail.”

“You’ve got the sense of presence of a damp sock. Yet here we are.”

Ethan let the insult slide off him. He leaned back slightly, arms still folded.

"Alright, fine. What’s your name?"

Silence.

The wind whispered again. A few leaves skittered across the training ground.

Just when Ethan thought he’d be ignored again, the voice returned gruffer, clearly annoyed.

“I don’t know.”

Ethan blinked. “What do you mean you don’t know?”

He leaned in, brow furrowing slightly. “Sayo’s ego weapon has a name. Shura. Cool history, too. ‘Endless War’ something, all dramatic and mysterious. You’re telling me you don’t even have a name?”

Silence.

The dagger said nothing this time. Not even a snide remark. Just that same, weighty quiet like the question had hit something it didn’t want to touch.

Ethan watched it for a moment, then sighed and leaned back again.

“Alright… guess I’ll have to give you one myself, at least for now.”

He stared at the rusted blade again, eyes narrowing. “You’re like some kind of bad omen, you know that?”

The silence didn’t argue. It almost felt like the dagger was listening.

“Omen,” Ethan said again, this time with a nod. “Yeah. That fits. You’re unpredictable, moody, and probably more trouble than you're worth.”

The dagger pulsed faintly.

“…Omen it is.”

To Ethan’s surprise, the dagger responded immediately.

“Nice. Omen. I like that. Has a badass ring to it,” the voice grunted, oddly pleased.

Ethan raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“Better than 'rusty' "

“Huh. You actually like that?”

He let out a small, dry chuckle. “Figures. You would like something dramatic.”

Ethan leaned back on his hands, glancing toward the dimming sky.

“An omen, a sign,” Ethan murmured to himself. “Good or bad, it means change is coming. Unpredictable. Dangerous. Something people notice… and remember.”

He paused, letting the thought settle.

“A warning and a promise.”

Ethan let the words hang for a moment, then glanced back at the blade.

“So… what exactly can you do to me?”

A low chuckle echoed in his head dry and wicked, like someone who’d been waiting for that question all day.

“Since you’re asking,” Omen said with theatrical flair, “let me, the great Omen, show you.”

Ethan rolled his eyes. “Oh no.”

“Pick me up,” Omen commanded, voice smug and sure. “Then you’ll see.”

Ethan reached forward and wrapped his fingers around the dagger’s worn hilt. The moment his skin touched the metal, a sudden shift rippled through the air.

From the base of the dagger, thin black chains erupted ethereal, smoke-like, yet solid enough to lash around his dominant arm. They coiled upward in a spiral, snug and fast. The second they tightened around his forearm, a sharp sting pulsed through his nerves.

“Gah–!”

It wasn’t unbearable, but it was sharp, like a jolt of electricity running straight through muscle and bone. His eyes widened not from pain, but from what followed.

The world around him slowed, just slightly. The wind felt clearer. His breathing steadied. His muscles tensed, ready, as if reacting before he even thought to move.

“…What the hell was that?”

Omen’s voice purred through his head, satisfied.

“Reflex tuning. You're slow, painfully so. This will help, for now.”

Ethan flexed his fingers, watching the faint shimmer of chain woven into his skin.

“This… is definitely new.”

Ethan twirled the dagger once in his hand, then glanced at its chipped, rusted surface.

“So… any chance you can change this form? Maybe look a little less like you were dug up from a graveyard?”

There was a pause. Then, Omen’s voice snapped back, sharp with offense.

“Excuse me?”

“I mean just saying you don’t exactly scream ‘badass death dagger’ right now.”

“You insufferable twig–” Omen growled. “My form is a direct reflection of you. Your vessel your pathetic, below-average physique cannot sustain even a fraction of my true shape. If I shifted into a ‘decent’ form, your body would explode from the strain.”

Ethan blinked. “...Seriously?”

“You would explode instantly,” Omen replied flatly, as if the answer should have been obvious. “Pulverized. Disintegrated. A pathetic smear on the training ground.”

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Before Ethan could reply, Omen added, “Pick up that wooden sword. The one leaning against the post.”

Ethan glanced over, spotted the training blade, and stood up. He flexed his fingers, chains still faintly coiled around his arm, then gripped the wooden sword with both hands. He hesitated for a moment he had never properly swung a weapon before but something in his stance felt different.

He swung.

The blade sliced through the air with a crisp whoosh, cutting wind in a clean arc. The motion felt smooth. Natural. Like his body knew what it was doing even before he did. The wind stirred at his back, kicking up dust.

“Huh,” he muttered, blinking. “That felt… good.”

“You absolute walnut–!” Omen barked. “Use your right arm your dominant arm. The one I’m bound to, you slack-jawed disgrace.”

Ethan switched his grip, wielding the training sword solely in his right hand. The weight felt better. Balanced.

“Now,” Omen commanded, “attack that training dummy.”

Ethan looked toward the worn straw figure at the edge of the yard. He adjusted his stance, exhaled once, then stepped forward and slashed.

The wooden blade tore through the dummy in a clean diagonal cut, slicing it in half with startling ease. The top half slumped and fell to the ground.

But with that single swing, the training sword snapped in two clean at the hilt.

Ethan stared, wide-eyed, holding the splintered handle.

“Holy crap!” he breathed. “I just cut that thing in half.”

A smug chuckle rolled through Ethan’s mind.

“Now you’re starting to understand,” Omen said with pride. “That was only a fraction of what I can do. Imagine what’s possible if you weren’t such a wet noodle of a vessel.”

Before Ethan could respond, a slow, deliberate clap echoed across the training yard. The sound was steady measured. Polished.

Ethan turned.

Carter stood at the edge of the stone courtyard, arms folded behind his back. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes gleamed with quiet approval.

“Well done,” Carter said smoothly. “It appears you and your weapon have begun to understand each other.”

Just as Ethan managed a breath, the thrill of his accomplishment began to fade. His knees buckled slightly.

“Whoa—...” he muttered, catching himself against the training post. A wave of dizziness crashed over him, his muscles trembling.

“What… what’s going on?”

Omen's voice returned, completely unbothered.

“Oh, that? Perfectly normal. You're just crashing. Your pathetic vessel isn't used to channeling even a shred of my power.”

Ethan groaned, sinking onto one knee.

“You could’ve warned me.”

“I did,” Omen said smugly. “I told you. You’re weak.”

Carter stepped forward with the measured grace of a seasoned butler, gloved hands neatly folded behind his back. His voice, though calm, carried the gentle weight of authority refined through years of discipline.

"That will be quite enough for today, Master Ethan. A hot bath and rest should be your priority now. Your body is speaking best not to ignore its wisdom."

Ethan returned to his personal room, exhaustion tugging at every step. After soaking in a long, much-needed bath, the tension in his muscles began to ease. With some free time on his hands, and the evening air calling to him, he decided to take a quiet walk through the manor grounds.

As he wandered the halls, the flickering torchlight cast long shadows along the marbled walls. Turning a corner, he suddenly found himself face-to-face with a tall figure.

Edrick Duskmere.

The man stood with the posture of a coiled serpent tall and composed, dressed in deep, midnight-toned noblewear that flowed like silk. His silver hair, neatly combed back, gleamed under the dim light. But it was his eyes that stole the breath from Ethan’s lungs sharp, narrow, and cold like polished obsidian. They didn’t just look at you, they saw through you. A serpent’s stare silent, calculating, and unreadable.

There was no hostility in his expression, but no warmth either. Just a perfect, impenetrable calm that made the air feel heavier.

Ethan stopped in place, instinctively straightening his posture.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Edrick's eyes scanned Ethan briefly, as if appraising a new servant who had lost his way. Just as the silence grew more uncomfortable, Carter appeared with practiced poise, his arrival as quiet and precise as a seasoned butler’s should be.

"Master Edrick," Carter said with a respectful bow, "Allow me to clarify this is Ethan Peirce, Lady Ceris’s Kingmaker."

Edrick’s gaze sharpened. He looked Ethan up and down with a subtle, scrutinizing pause, his expression unchanged but somehow colder. He said nothing.

Then, without a word, he turned and strode past them, his footsteps fading into the quiet halls of the manor.

Meanwhile, in Arthur's office, a knock echoed against the polished oak door. A butler stoic and well-groomed, with gloves as crisp as his voice entered with a slight bow. "Master Arthur, your brother has arrived."

Arthur, seated behind his desk with a cup of steaming tea in hand, did not seem surprised. He set the cup down gently and nodded. "Send him in. I’ve been expecting him."

Edrick entered without hesitation, his footsteps soundless against the carpet. He did not bow, nor offer pleasantries. Instead, he studied the room with a single, sweeping glance, then seated himself across from his brother with quiet dignity.

Arthur poured a second cup of tea from the steaming pot beside him and slid it gently across the table.

Edrick ignored it.

Arthur smiled faintly, lifting his own cup.

“To what do I owe the honor, dear brother? It’s not every day the East Branch graces us with a visit.”

“I heard my great-niece has become a Candidate,” Edrick said, his voice quiet but firm.

Arthur raised an eyebrow, amused. “News certainly travels fast.”

“I have my ways,” Edrick said.

Arthur nodded, then asked casually, “So, what brings you to the main branch? Curiosity?”

“My granddaughter, Sylviane, has also become a Candidate.”

Arthur took a slow sip of his tea. “So I’ve heard.”

Edrick continued, “I’ve come to propose an alliance between the main and eastern branches of House Duskmere. Political support, information, and influence from my side in exchange for sheltering Sylviane here at the manor, and a modest financial stipend from your end.”

Arthur’s smile didn’t fade, but his eyes sharpened slightly.

“An alliance,” he mused. “Between our two halves of the family. That would be… historic.”

His gaze drifted toward the high, arched windows behind him, where the faint silhouette of the throne citadel could be seen far in the distance.

“As you know, the Duskmere main house was built not far from the throne’s central province. Close enough to hear the rumors, observe the moves of rival houses, and watch Candidates from all factions gather during this season. If Sylviane stays here, she’ll be able to see and study her competition firsthand, perhaps even anticipate their ambitions.”

He looked back at Edrick, eyes sharp. “I imagine that was part of your calculation.”

Arthur’s fingers tapped once against his porcelain cup. The soft sound echoed like a clock’s tick in the hush between them.

“Sheltering Sylviane here… That’s no small ask, Edrick,” Arthur said, voice calm but cautious. “You must be expecting the storm to reach even quiet corners like ours.”

Edrick’s gaze flicked toward the hearth, where the fire glowed low and steady. “I expect war in all its forms steel, silver, and subterfuge. This cycle will be more volatile than the last.”

Arthur arched a brow. “And yet you come seeking alliance instead of maneuvering for leverage. That’s not your usual method.”

Edrick turned his eyes back to him. “Our House can’t afford to fracture not now. Not when half the Candidates summoned from noble lines are unfit to lead anything but parade lines.”

Arthur gave a quiet hum, swirling the last of his tea. “And the other half?”

“Ambitious. Ruthless. Some with Kingmakers capable of leveling strongholds if left unchecked.”

The fire cracked in the silence that followed. Arthur leaned back, setting his cup down with a soft clink.

“So you’re placing your hope in Sylviane.”

Edrick’s silence spoke more clearly than words.

Arthur studied him, then stood and crossed to the tall window behind his desk. The view stretched wide across the Duskmere estate misty fields, stone courtyards, and the looming shadow of the Candidate tower in the distance.

“She’s a brilliant girl,” he said softly. “But fire sealed too tight doesn’t burn steady it bursts.”

“She’ll learn,” Edrick replied. “Sayo will ensure it.”

Arthur’s reflection flickered in the windowpane. His voice lowered. “And if I refused?”

A beat of silence.

Then Edrick said, “I’ve heard Ceris still hasn’t left the manor. Not once.”

Arthur’s brow twitched slightly.

“How long do you plan to keep her hidden away?” Edrick continued, tone quiet but cutting. “She spends her days crunching through books and scrolls while other Candidates are rallying arms and alliances. You know the factions won’t wait for her to be ready. And if she falls behind… the main branch will be swallowed whole.”

Arthur’s shoulders tensed but he said nothing.

“I’ve seen her Kingmaker,” Edrick said. “A civilian. Pathetic. Not a warrior, not a tactician. He looks as if he’d faint at the sight of real blood. Easily pressured, fumbling under stress, and with a will so soft he could barely hurt a fly let alone protect a future queen.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened, but his eyes remained on the distant tower.

“I’m offering you the protection of the main branch,” Edrick said. “Our strength, our network, our influence. In return, you shelter Sylviane and her Kingmaker under your roof just long enough for the tides to shift.”

Arthur stood in silence, hands clasped behind his back, eyes still lingering on the distant tower.

Edrick’s words lingered heavier than the fire’s warmth. Harsh as they were, they weren’t wrong. Ceris was bright, passionate but she was not ready. Not to command, not to rally, not to lead. And her Kingmaker…

Arthur sighed through his nose.

“Very well,” he said at last, turning back to face his brother. “An alliance, then.”

Edrick gave a subtle nod of approval without arrogance.

Arthur stepped to the side cabinet and pulled open a narrow drawer. From within, he retrieved a slender, parchment scroll sealed in silver wax, one of only a handful created under Duskmere law for matters of binding House accord.

He placed it on the desk between them and broke the seal.

No words were exchanged as the scroll unrolled itself with a whisper of aged paper. A faint glow ran across its surface, revealing the House crest and arcane text only visible during formal compacts.

Arthur pricked his thumb with the small stylus at the scroll’s edge and pressed it against the marked circle. Edrick followed, expression unreadable as he did the same.

The moment both marks were made, the scroll ignited in silver flame burning clean, soundless, and vanishing into smoke.

The pact was sealed.

Arthur let out a long breath and leaned slightly on the desk, eyes narrowing just a fraction.

“Where is she, then? Your granddaughter.” Arthur asked.

Edrick adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, then answered coolly, “At the manor gates. I sent her ahead once I stepped onto your estate.”

Arthur raised a brow. “You assumed I’d say yes.”

“No,” Edrick said. “I trusted you'd see the truth.”

Arthur gave a small grunt somewhere between amusement and resignation then reached for the silver bell beside the hearth.

He rang it once. A crisp chime echoed down the hall.

Within moments, footsteps approached. The door creaked open and a senior steward entered, bowing deeply. Behind him, two maids waited with poised hands and lowered eyes.

“Escort Lord Edrick’s granddaughter and her attendants from the gates,” Arthur said. “Assist with her carriage, and see that her belongings are brought to the southern wing. Prepare a room equal to that of a Candidate and ensure her Kingmaker has their own adjoining quarters.”

The steward bowed again. “At once, my lord.”

As the servants hurried off, Arthur returned to his chair, slowly lowering himself with a thoughtful exhale.

“Let’s hope your trust wasn’t misplaced,” he muttered.

Edrick said nothing. But the flicker of the hearth caught in his eyes like steel catching light.