CHAPTER 97

  TUTELAGE

  Was it courage—or just fake bravado? None in the high hall could say for certain. All they knew was this: the young man before them bore an aura. Not just any aura, but one that shimmered with the same quiet majesty as the royal blood of Clandor.

  A male born with a light aura among elves had never been heard of, at least not in known history. That alone was enough to stir whispers. Enough to mark him special—something of a legend—or myth. A boy of no more than seventeen—yet already something more.

  Hearing his answers, his unwatered words, the woman on the throne gave a slow nod, as though he had given her exactly what she’d been wanting to hear.

  “You wanted the corruption uprooted. I did it,” said Reina, Queen of the Elves, her tone humble. “The elven world thanks you for standing up.”

  Theodred looked at her, confused. He didn’t know what was happening when he was behind the bars. But certainly, he didn’t think she’d go this far. I guess, I rubbed her pretty badly.

  She stood, stepped forward, her voice turning softer, almost inviting.

  Hans knew something was a play here but he had no choice, only to be the character in her story and here he was.

  “Come under my wing.” She said. “I’ll make you strong enough to realise your ideals. Strong enough to rival a queen like me. So a person like me does wrong, you can correct them—hold others in power to account. The code you carry—the code of a true knight—I see it in you. I’ll help you fulfil it. I’ll teach you everything I know. So, Theodred... come under my tutelage.”

  The wordplay, Hans thought. If I were myself, the first thing I’d ask is—what’s the price? But not as Theodred. He meets every challenge head-on. Damn it, I really chose the sucker’s role.

  Shaking off the thought, he asked plainly, “Do you stake your honour as a knight to stay true to your word? The oath of a master is no light thing—”

  “So is the disciple’s,” she replied, amused by how well things were unfolding. Both of them were hiding their true intentions—and both knew it.

  Still, it was a tempting offer.

  One neither of them could ignore.

  None objected but Eleanor.

  “Reina, you barely know him,” he said sharply. “The Oathfire Rite? You can’t just grant it to anyone. Who knows what bastard bore that child? He may as well be from the Crows—”

  “I knew you very well, husband,” Reina replied coldly. “And what did that earn me? Dishonour. I couldn’t strike at the true enemy. I gave something up. Now, it’s your turn.”

  Eleanor’s mouth shut tight. The right to guide her—or correct her—was long lost. All because of his family. He clenched his fists in a silent storm of regret and fury.

  Theodred watched all of it unfold.

  I didn’t come here to burn someone’s house down—just to smack her pretty face hard enough that smugness never settles there again.

  But he kept those thoughts locked inside. He knew nothing of elven rituals or culture, so he waited for someone to explain what was happening.

  “That sucker,” Delimira whispered bitterly. “She’s just using him. I hate idiots like him. Fools who think the world’s made of glitter.”

  “I don’t know, Deli,” Chris said sharply. “He walks and speaks the knight’s code. My father taught it when I was a child—I thought it was all just ceremony. But he actually believes it. He’s trying to live it. That’s not something you can mock.”

  “That’s irritating,” she muttered—and vanished from the great hall before Reina could dismiss anyone but Theodred.

  “Come with me,” Reina said softly. Hans followed.

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  A transfer circle lit beneath their feet. He opened his eyes to find himself surprised.

  Unlike Sunspark, which was the highest peak in Parv— a place where knights took their oaths. Here, was all bright. An unending light, a space where only he and her existed.

  Between them stood a silver vessel, filled with clear water.

  “Drink,” she said.

  And Hans took the cup without any unnecessary words. He had to appear as he trusted her completely. So he acted like an obedient child. A child without curiosity, even if it was itching him inside.

  Resting the cup at the edge of his lips, he drank. It was the purest water he had ever tasted, and Reina did the same.

  “This clears the tongue of deceit,” she said.

  Hans felt a twinge of unease. Rites like these carried deep magic. He could feel it in the air, woven through the silence. From now on, his words had to be deliberate. In this place, a single misstep could carry permanent consequences.

  “Let the fire burn what fear remains. Let only truth pass through.”

  The vessel ignited—blue flames dancing silently atop the water.

  “Kneel,” she said, drawing the ceremonial sword of House Clandor.

  The karmic blade—the very one that killed my father, Hans realised. He swallowed hard. He had come this far. He couldn’t just blow it up.

  Without hesitation, without betraying emotion, he knelt.

  She placed the blade lightly on his right shoulder and began the ancient chant of House Clandor, the rite to anoint knights:

  By the Tree of Life, I bind hand to truth.

  I swear upon my honour to raise this child a knight.

  I shall teach not ambition, purpose,

  not obedience, but truth.

  If I falter, let my disciple strike.

  If I betray, let my name be tainted.

  So long as the fire remembers shadow—

  I am his master and he is my disciple.

  This doesn’t feel right, Hans thought. Words kept forming in his mind—unbidden, unnatural—but Reina waited, expectant.

  Goddamn it. We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.

  He spoke the words as they came, almost as if the light itself shaped them on his tongue:

  By the tree of Life, I bind to the truth.

  I swear to learn with eyes unclouded and heart unbent.

  I shall neither serve weakness nor power, only justice.

  If I stray, may my master cast me down.

  If I betray, let the world forget me.

  So long as the fire remembers shadow—

  I am her disciple and she is my master.

  As the final words fell from his lips, a chain of blue light coiled between their hands—a binding, forged by the Oathfire itself.

  The rite had succeeded.

  “From this day forward,” Reina said, “you are no longer just a rogue. You are Reina Clandor’s disciple.”

  “Yes, Master—”

  “Master sounds old. ‘Teacher’ will suffice.”

  “Understood... Teacher,” Hans said, his voice distant. Something had shifted inside him. Something fundamental. He couldn’t yet name it—but he felt it.

  He might have stood there forever, caught in thought, had Reina not spoken the exact words he hadn’t even realised he was waiting for:

  “Since this is a day to remember, I’ll teach you my first skill. We can’t have you stuck at Grade Ten forever, can we?” she said, amused.

  Hans shivered. That tone—he had never heard it from her before. Not even with the people she loved.

  Am I going to regret this? he wondered as he followed.

  First, she said, ”bring out your sword.”

  Hans obeyed without question. No hesitation. No doubt on his face. This was a trick, an old trick of Parvian time. A technique of manifestation that even pure blood of Parv was unable to conjure in current times. A privilege to the inheritor only.

  Reina studied him closely, her eyes analysing every flicker of his aura—the ravaging light that had taken sword form in his hand.

  “How does it work?” she asked.

  Hans himself didn’t know. Neither did Dietrich, who had first taught him. It just came naturally to them as breathing, so he said.

  “Breathing, you say?” Reina frowned slightly. Her eyes searched him for deception. She found none—because there was none.

  “Very well,” she said. “Then perhaps you don’t need a sword.”

  “I do,” Hans replied firmly. “A knight—an honoured one—must wield a renowned blade. That’s the bare minimum.”

  “Fine words,” Reina said with a nod. “If one day you can meet my expectations, I will bring you to the Clandorian treasury. Among the relics even we do not fully understand... there are swords. Choose one, if you earn it.”

  “How? What is your expectation?”

  “The Knight Convention. Be eligible for the next one, and I’ll grant you any sword you desire.”

  “Knight convention— means hitting grade sixty at the least. I’ve only got a few months—”

  “Is it too much?”

  “No,” Hans said, eyes sharp. “It’s a worthy challenge. Let’s begin.”

  Reina smiled. “It’s called... Regeneratio.”