Smoke curled lazily into the dusk sky, carrying the scent of seared boar, pine tar, and a dozen half-mended battlefield cloaks drying on makeshift lines.
Leo sat cross-legged on an overturned supply crate, fingers stained with ash and oil, sleeves rolled past the elbow. His saber rested nearby, propped against a stack of spent affinity crystals that pulsed faintly like dying embers. His armor hung loose at the chest, half-unbuckled, his collar damp with sweat and smoke. Around him, the fire crackled.
It was a rare moment of stillness.
No alarms. No scouts rushing in with breathless reports. Just the pop of firewood and the low murmur of voices—young warriors trading stories beneath the looming shadow of the great border wall.
"We made them retreat ten miles in three days," Kal Sonnenstrahl said, polishing his spear with slow, circular motions. "That's more than the rest of you managed in the last four weeks."
"Spare us the numbers, Kal," Celine Thorsten drawled, lounging on a boulder with a flask dangling from two fingers. Her silver hair caught the firelight, and her violet eyes shimmered with mischief. "Valor broke their lines at Redwater."
"…And lost four captains doing it," Kal retorted, though even he couldn't quite hide the trace of respect in his tone. That victory had been the spark that got the entire offense rolling in the first place.
"Never saw anything like it," Mordred Bloodsword grunted, arms crossed, one boot braced against the firepit stones. "Dad's not subtle, I'll give him that. No wonder they named him Berserker."
That drew a chuckle from the others.
Behind them, the nobles and commanders of their respective houses stood at a slight distance, observing the younger generation's camaraderie with quiet approval. War forged alliances, but firelight, blood, and banter kept them burning.
Leo sipped from his tin mug, eyes half-lidded. He didn't say much—he didn't need to. Among these prodigies, his standing was the least in title, but his reputation held up. His name was whispered in tents and trenches alike, usually with awe, sometimes with envy.
But here, there was no tension. Just quiet pride and shared scars.
"I still can't believe you took down that Sparker from the Arkanheim 3rd," Kal said, turning to Leo. "Dodged his lance like it was nothing and split him in half in one stroke."
Leo shrugged, tapping his mug against his knee. "Sloppy."
Celine let out a low whistle. "Remind me never to duel you hungover."
That earned a few laughs.
But not from Leo. He knew the truth. It didn't matter if Celine was hungover, drowsy, or barely conscious—as long as she was breathing, her Thunderclaw could fight at full strength. And Leo knew he wasn't its match. The beast was a menace. The prospect of fighting it didn't frighten him, but that didn't mean he would overestimate his chances either.
In a fair fight, he would lose at least eight out of ten times.
The conversation meandered—talk of enchantments, lucky strikes, and how many enemy squads each had routed solo. Prideful, yes, but not petty. These were the kinds of exchanges that kept morale from rotting during the long nights.
Then, inevitably, the tone shifted.
"Did anyone else hear about that engagement between House Graeven and the Virellian branch?" one of the Finsternis girls asked, eyes gleaming. "Supposedly, they're trying to create a perfect affinity through that union."
"That's nothing," said a Halla boy. "One of my cousins just got a marriage offer from the elven matriarchy. An actual proposal, sealed with an official contract."
Someone snorted. "Was that before or after he swore himself to celibacy last year?"
Laughter rippled again. Thischapter'struesourceisMyVirtualLibraryEmpire(M|V|LEMP-YR).
Leo listened with half an ear. These tales of politics and intrigue held little interest for him. Still, he never skipped their gatherings. Every now and then, between boasts and gossip, something useful emerged.
More often than not, these sons and daughters of kings and queens learned of world-shaking events long before anyone else.
"Speaking of news… anyone hear what's going on in Tradespire?"
That silenced most of them.
Kal leaned in, smirking. "You mean the whole von Hohenheim challenge?"
Leo blinked. "Wait. What?"
Everyone turned.
Kal raised an eyebrow. "You didn't hear? Your brother just got named a Merchant Lord of Tradespire. Claimed the von Hohenheim name in full view of the Council."
Leo stared, mug halfway to his lips.
"No one told you?" Mordered asked, grinning. "Guess he wanted it to be a surprise. You're official now. Leo von Hohenheim. Has a nice ring to it."
Leo lowered the mug slowly, a small, quiet smile blooming across his face.
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Merchant Lord. That was... unexpected.
And yet, somehow, not.
If Leo had to name a single person capable of making the impossible look inevitable, it would be Zeke. He wouldn't even need to think about it. His adopted brother had a mind like forged steel and a will to match. Reclaiming their mentor's name had never been a matter of if, only when.
Leo looked around and noticed the fire circle had gone quiet. He let out a wry smile. It was always the same. These prodigies, so quick to brag about their exploits, turned as quiet as a graveyard when Ezekiel's name came up.
He understood why.
What was there to boast about in comparison?
News of Zeke's achievements shook the continent with the regularity of seasons.
Grandmage at seventeen. Association records shattered. And now, Merchant Lord of the most powerful trade city on the continent.
To make matters worse, Zeke stood on equal footing with many of their parents. Whether it was Kal Sonnenstrahl, Mordred Bloodsword, or Celine Thorsten, Ezekiel had ties to each of their bloodlines. Ties forged not through lineage, but through reputation.
There was only a single exception to that rule.
"…Did you have to bring that guy up?" Celine asked.
Mordred grinned. Out of all the gathered prodigies, he was likely the one on the best terms with Zeke. He had even helped them escape Tradespire all those months ago. That was probably why he wasn't as rankled by Zeke's achievements—he saw him as an ally of sorts.
"Aren't you just grumpy because he wiped the floor with you?" he asked.
Celine's face went cold. "The fight was a draw."
Kal snickered. "You can tell the public whatever you want, Cel, but we were there, remember. He threw that fight on purpose. No doubt about it."
Lightning all but crackled behind Celine's eyes as she turned on the Sonnenstrahl boy. But he met her glare without flinching. Though most wouldn't dare antagonize Invocatia's golden child, Kal was the exception. Whether in standing, ability, or bloodline, he was in no way inferior to her.
Just as it looked like a fight might break out, Leo cut in. He didn't mind a bit of friendly sparring, but something said earlier had caught his attention.
"What did you mean by 'Hohenheim challenge'?"
Kal, who had been getting into position, snapped back to the moment at the sound of Leo's voice.
"Oh, right," he said, waving vaguely to calm Celine down. "Those Arkanheim cowards already handed your old name to someone else."
Leo gritted his teeth.
He had never liked Arkanheim, especially not the ruling families. But even he was surprised at how little respect they showed one of their former heroes. Maximilian had fought for them, bled for them, stood for them.
And yet, they treated his legacy like a toy to be tossed aside whenever it suited them.
With a deep breath, he composed himself, his expression turning serious. Most of the young aristocrats mirrored his solemn look, which didn't bode well for what this meant.
"What does that mean for our House, then?"
Kal shook his head. "Strictly speaking? Not much. You're no longer the von Hohenheim family of Arkanheim, but the von Hohenheim family of Tradespire. Logically, there shouldn't be a problem…"
"But…?" Leo prompted. He was certain things wouldn't be that simple.
Kal rubbed his chin. "With your family's history, there's no way this won't be seen as a provocation."
Leo nodded. He was almost certain Zeke had intended it that way from the start.
"But even if the Empire were willing to let it go, your brother wouldn't," Kal continued.
Leo leaned in, and he noticed many others doing the same.
"According to my aunt," Kal said, clearly enjoying the attention, "Your brother directly challenged the new von Hohenheim successor to a duel. A life-and-death one. Apparently, he said something like: 'If the pretender wants my title, he can take it from my dead hands.'"
Silence.
Not even Celine had a snide comment to make.
And then...
"...Cool!"
"...The balls on that guy."
"...Does he not fear anything?"
The floodgates burst open, and a torrent of praise followed. Leo soaked it in as if it were meant for him. If there was one thing he enjoyed above all else, it was hearing these proud aristocrats heap admiration on his brother the way they did now.
There weren't many things they all agreed on, but if Leo had to name one, it was their shared disdain for Arkanheim. The empire's setbacks were the only thing everyone here celebrated.
And Ezekiel's public humiliation of them earned approving nods even from his harshest critics.
"...Not bad," Celine murmured. The faint flush on her face made it clear how impressed she truly was.
Her acknowledgment acted like a signal, granting permission for the other young prodigies of Invocatia to voice their approval as well, prompting a new wave of cheers and admiration.
"...As expected of one of our own," Adrian Bloodletter declared loudly, though most ignored him.
It was public knowledge that Ezekiel's father had once belonged to the Bloodletter family, but few accepted that they held any claim over him after expelling his father years before Ezekiel's birth.
Leo had noticed Adrian's attempts to get close to him more than once, but he had turned down every approach. Frankly, he found it distasteful. If they wanted to forge ties with Ezekiel, they should do it openly and with integrity, not by trying to sink their hooks into the people closest to him.
After the cheers died down, one of the lesser aristocrats asked the question that had been on everyone's mind.
"…Has anyone heard what our next move is?"
It was the same question they'd been asking every day.
Now that Arkanheim had been pushed back to the very edge of its territory, one decision loomed. Would the alliance press the advantage, crossing the ancient border wall that had stood since the days of the Great Western Expansion? Or would they stop here, satisfied with the lesson they had dealt and disband the campaign?
The leadership of the allied nations had been locked in discussion over the matter for days, and from what Leo could tell, no agreement had yet been reached.
If he was being honest, he wanted to keep pushing.
The war had been almost therapeutic. All the anger, the hatred, the years of buried resentment—he had finally found a place to unleash them. And Arkanheim's legions made for a worthy outlet.
But what he wanted didn't matter.
This wasn't about his vengeance or pride. The choice before them would shape the future of the entire continent. Equinox, Invocatia, and Valor had contributed the bulk of the alliance's forces, and in the end, it would be their decision to make.
Idly, Leo wondered if Ezekiel were here, whether he would be sitting around the campfire with the rest of them or inside the command tent with the higher-ups, helping decide the fate of the world.
A slight grin tugged at his lips as the answer came to him.
Even without being physically present, his brother likely held more sway over the outcome than many of the so-called movers and shakers currently locked in discussion. Of that, he had no doubt.
"They're still undecided," Mordred said after a moment. "According to my father, we might as well get comfortable..."
That drew a chorus of groans.
The only thing worse than getting a decision you didn't want was getting no decision at all. The waiting was its own form of torture—drawn out and mind-numbing.
But just as the various groups began drifting back into their usual chatter and gossip, a sharp sound cut through the night.
A single blast of the warhorn.
Then a second.
Then a third.
"Three calls…" Kal said, his expression turning grim. "Mobilization?"
Celine shook her head. "Impossible. Even if they'd reached a decision, we wouldn't be moving this fast."
Mordred rose to his feet, signaling for his retainers to do the same. "That can only mean one thing, then. Something has happened."