"Impossible! Simply impossible!" Boris exclaimed, his voice thick with disbelief. "How could he have traversed the forest unscathed?"
Baron Elliver, overhearing the accolades being heaped upon the foreign youth, noted Boris's outburst with a mix of dismay and disapproval. His gaze was stern as he addressed the village rogue who was known for his mischief. "Silence, you disgraceful cur!" he thundered. "Your vile accusations against this brave soul could have brought dishonor upon us all. It would serve you right if I were to silence your venomous tongue permanently."
"I would gladly assist in that, my lord," interjected Knight Balfe, his tone even but resolute.
"Tongue? No, please no! My lord, I confess, I was a fool!" Boris's voice quivered with fear as he fell to his knees, pleading for mercy. "I was blind, unable to see the truth! Forgive my ignorance. Forgive me!"
Baron Elliver turned away from the groveling man, his disdain palpable, and regarded the young foreigner, Leon, standing calmly beside him. "This man has wronged you repeatedly with his baseless slurs. What justice would you see done?"
Leon paused, considering his words carefully. "My lord, I hail from Serrian and am unfamiliar with Orland's customs. May I inquire how such crimes are typically punished here? This man not only incited violence but resorted to theft using narcotics."
The baron nodded, impressed by the young man's demeanor. "In my lands, a criminal of such nature would lose his hands, face the gallows, and his body displayed to deter others. His possessions would be seized by the state."
After a moment's reflection, Leon responded, "I request he be detained for now. His crimes extend beyond what my companions and I suffered. I wish to expose his full guilt to the villagers before a collective judgment is passed."
"Additional transgressions? Very well," Baron Elliver agreed, then ordered his retainer, "Confine this wretch until we convene for his sentencing."
"Yes, my lord," the knight affirmed, seizing Boris, who was now wailing in terror, and dragged him from the room.
With the scene momentarily calmed, Leon's attention was drawn to the baron's hands, which held two swords nearly identical in make. It was clear to him the significance of these blades. Removing a beautifully crafted scabbard from his belt, Leon offered it to the baron with both hands. "My companions and I discovered this sword beside a fallen knight. Unaware of its ownership, we used it for defense. Please forgive our unintended trespass."
Baron Elliver's eyes flickered with a mix of nostalgia and sorrow as he accepted the sword. He gently slid the blade known as the Thorn Blade, a relic of his family forged from authentic dwarven steel, back into its rightful sheath. "This sword, a replica of which I carry, belonged to my father until he vanished in the forest. Your return of our ancestral sword does not go unnoticed, Leon. Thank you for bringing closure to my father's fate."
Leon nodded, a bead of sweat tracing his brow. He resolved silently never to reveal the full circumstances of how he had come into possession of the sword. The truth involved a spirit demon and a grim battle; a story too harsh to share with a son mourning his father. Leon decided some secrets were better kept, especially those involving the spectral remnants of battles fought in cursed lands, now dissipated from the world.
The souls once trapped found their rest as they returned to the Dead Sea, the waters acting almost like a sanctuary, a place where spirits could finally find tranquility.
It was no coincidence that they had journeyed to Selva Village; this had been the domain of one such noble spirit during his mortal days, making their arrival feel like a homecoming.
Within the bustling atmosphere of the village, Count Trosa, a figure of welcoming warmth, called out to the gathering group, his voice ringing clear. "Come now, don't just linger at the doorway. Someone, fetch more stools and chairs! Let's all gather inside and share tales." His smile was genial as he clapped Leon on the shoulder, drawing him closer into the fold of conversation. "And where might your companions be? I'd be honored to meet the other valiant souls you travel with."
"I'll fetch them at once," Leon replied, bowing respectfully before seizing the moment to quickly confer with Liam and Brandon. It was crucial they fine-tune their account of recent events; certain harrowing details, like their skirmish with Baron Farolis or Liam's temporary possession, were best left unmentioned. The myriad undead and the perilous environment they'd traversed were evidence enough of their trials.
As they returned to the grand hall of the village house, a structure that had long served as a meeting place for important gatherings; the nobles and knights had already convened inside. The hall, spacious and airy, could easily accommodate a lively assembly without feeling crowded.
Leon entered first, bearing the weary Brandon on his back, while the servants halted Liam, who was armed conspicuously with a halberd.
"Kindly leave your halberd here; I'll take care of it for you," a servant at the door instructed, his tone polite but firm. "While a sword may be part of a warrior's attire, long weapons must be left outside when meeting with the nobility."
"Of course," Liam acquiesced without protest, handing over the hefty weapon. The servant, unprepared for its weight, staggered under the halberd's heft, his face flushing with embarrassment.
"My apologies; it's quite heavier than it appears. I should have assisted you," Liam said, rushing to steady the weapon alongside the servant.
"It's quite alright," the servant muttered, his cheeks reddening as he finally managed to secure the halberd upright, a silent acknowledgment of Liam's unusual strength.
Inside the hall, Count Trosa, engaged in deep discussion with Baron Elliver about the ongoing war efforts, paused to address the newcomers. Observing Leon's burden, he quickly motioned for chairs to be brought. "Please, make yourselves comfortable," he insisted as the trio gratefully took their seats.
"What might your names be? And pray tell, from whence do you hail?" Count Trosa inquired, his voice rich with genuine curiosity.
"I am Brandon Flarel, Your Excellency," the young noble replied, adopting a formal gesture: a touch to the brow followed by a hand over the heart, a salute of his heritage.
"You bear the manner of nobility?" Trosa noted perceptively.
"Yes, sir. I am the son of Baron Charleman of Rolandar. Sadly, he was slain, and our lands were seized by invaders from Kantadar," Brandon disclosed, his voice carrying a blend of pride and sorrow.
As the introductions unfolded, Leon observed Brandon, impressed yet concerned about the heavy responsibilities the young noble bore.
Truth be told, throughout their travels, Leon and Liam had never delved into the histories of their families. Leon, originally from a line of commoners, was unfamiliar with the distinguished name of Baron Charleman Flarel. However, he was aware of the esteemed reputation of the Holy Land City Council, a significant entity etched into the memories of his current existence.
Now, such discussions seemed of little consequence. The Holy City had succumbed to ruin, its fall rendering the distinctions between the high and low moot.
"May your father's heroic soul find peace," Count Trosa offered solemnly to Brandon, acknowledging the noble lineage and its tragic end.
Then, turning to Liam, who stood clad in black armor, the count invited him to share his story. "My name is Liam. My father served as a sergeant in the Sword Guard of Rolandar City Guard and died defending it. My family fell victim to the same fate, save for my sister who remains captive by the Kantadar forces. Her fate is unknown," Liam's voice was low, carrying the weight of his losses.
Count Trosa offered words of comfort, drawing from local wisdom, "There's an Orland proverb that misfortune, when too extreme, is destined to reverse. I believe you'll be reunited with your loved ones in peace."
It was then Leon's turn to narrate the origins and adversities faced by the hunter family whose legacy he now carried. As he spoke, Count Trosa's fingers tapped an anxious rhythm against his chair's armrests, his mind grappling with the grim realities beyond Orland's borders. The tales of the Kantardar army's brutality; of siege machines that soared over city walls and devastating spells that shattered ancient ramparts, were worse than any dispatches had revealed.
Leon recounted their harrowing journey: from being captured and escaping from mercenaries, traversing rugged terrains, braving the wilderness, to inadvertently entering the infamous Nightmare Forest; a place shrouded in darkness, devoid of sky and fraught with perils, including aimless zombies.
"You encountered the spirit of a wizard in these accursed lands?" Count Trosa interjected, his interest piqued alongside the gathered nobles.
Leon nodded, gearing up to weave a more palatable version of their adventures. In his retelling, they chanced upon the ghost of an ancient wizard, white-bearded and wise, whose guidance had been pivotal in their escape from the cursed terrain.
The necessity of altering certain details stemmed from his reluctance to disclose the true nature of Laura's spirit. Revealing her existence might invite unwanted scrutiny or risk, not to mention his uncertainty about her willingness to be known to others.
Moreover, Leon held a deep respect for the enigmatic mage Lola; who had assisted them time and again and he did not wish to compromise her privacy or incur her displeasure.
Thus, while keeping the essence of their ordeal truthful, he credited their miraculous survival to the fictional 'Gandalf the Whitebeard', ensuring their protector's anonymity was preserved, all the while weaving a tale that was as fantastic as it was strategic.
As the tales of their journey unfolded, the nobles and knights in the hall were captivated, treating the recount like a thrilling spectacle rather than mere reportage. The boys' escapades; the rescue of an injured griffin and their defense of a village, held more allure than even the finest plays performed at the Royal Capital Theater, enriched by the authenticity of real peril and tangible triumph.
"Do you still possess the guiding spiritual lamp?" An inquisitive voice cut through the animated discussions. Leon turned towards the source and found himself facing a middle-aged man clad in half-plate armor, holding a curious hammer-headed staff, his gaze piercing.
"This is my warlock advisor, Lord Hilgard of the Northern Society," Count Trosa introduced, catching Leon's attention with the title.
Warlock? A mage perhaps?
Leon had never encountered another spellcaster from another realm, save for Miss Lola. Observing Hilgard; his burly frame, slicked-back hair, and armor that seemed more befitting a warrior than a mage, Leon couldn't help but reassess his mental image of a wizard.
"If he hadn't been introduced as such, I'd have taken him for a warrior more at home on the battlefield than in the mystical arts," Leon thought, slightly amused by the contradiction.
"Unfortunately, the lamp disintegrated when we exited the forest," Leon replied, bending the truth. The lamp's structure was indeed fragile, but it had not broken. It simply lay dormant, its magical essence spent for now. Leon felt a peculiar attachment to the device, akin to how some might cherish a lucky charm, hoping it might regain its potency.
"What a pity," Hilgard responded, clearly disappointed but quickly shifting his inquiry, "What about the crossbow bolt that struck the griffin? Do you still have that?"
Leon nodded. "It's not something Miss Lola deemed significant. Would you like me to fetch it now, Lord Hilgard?"
"No need, we can discuss this later," Hilgard waved off, his interest still piqued.
As the conversation ebbed, Baron Elliver, seated prominently nearby, posed a more forward-looking question to Leon. "What are your plans for the future?" His tone suggested a deeper interest, perhaps an offer of assistance or opportunity.
Count Trosa, observing this exchange, silently abandoned his own line of inquiry, respecting the territorial prerogative of his fellow noble.
Leon turned to face Baron Elliver, sensing the potential for support. "As you see, my friend has been gravely injured; his recovery necessitates a prolonged stay in your lands."
"And what follows his recovery?" the Baron pressed, seeking more clarity on their long-term intentions.
"We originally planned to seek work in the town, to settle and save resources," Leon explained. "Our immediate goal is to locate and rescue Liam's sister from the Kantadars. Beyond that, our paths may lead us back home, or perhaps to seek justice against those who have wronged our families, ensuring they pay for their crimes."
The room absorbed Leon's words, the gravity of their plight and the resilience they embodied resonating deeply with the assembly. The unfolding dialogue painted a vivid picture of determination and hope, setting the stage for potential alliances and aid from those moved by their story.
Baron Elliver's voice resonated with deep significance as he spoke, his gaze shifting to General Trosa who responded with an inviting smile. "Well, whether it's searching and rescuing your partner's relatives or seeking revenge against your enemies, both endeavors demand considerable strength," he noted, laying the groundwork for his proposal.
The old count nodded in agreement, facilitating the moment, as the Baron turned back to address Leon with a generous offer. "In light of your brave acts; saving this village and the return of the Thorn Blade; I am inclined to offer you two choices as a token of my gratitude. If you wish to return home, I will bestow upon you two thousand gold crowns. I will also purchase any spoils you cannot carry at market rate and provide an escort of knights to ensure your safe passage back to the Kingdom of Serrian."
Leon and his companions exchanged glances, their eyes alight with the shimmer of potential fortune. Two thousand gold crowns was a substantial sum, one that could secure a comfortable future for them, a fact made even more poignant when compared to the ransom paid by a Kantadar knight; a desperate sum that had drained his family's coffers.
Leon's heart raced with excitement, yet he remained poised, eager to hear the Baron's second option. He knew well that such propositions were often saved for last for their significance.
"Or," the Baron continued with a calm smile, "you may choose to pledge loyalty to the Kingdom of Orland. Become my knight, a vassal of the Thorn Flower Family."
The room fell quiet, the weight of the Baron's words hanging in the air. The second offer, though perhaps less immediately lucrative than a chest of gold crowns, promised something far greater; status, honor, and a permanent place within the power structures of the realm. For Leon and his friends, who had tasted the bitterness of vulnerability and hardship, the true value lay not in gold but in the power to defend and forge their own destiny.
Count Trosa's eyebrows arched in surprise. While he had considered taking the young men under his wing as attendants, the Baron's offer elevated them directly to knighthood, a rare privilege typically reserved for royals or the highborn.
In these lands, even for many noble sons, achieving the rank of a knight was a distant dream, often unattainable until their later years, if at all. Some lesser nobles remained mere servants well into their adulthood.
Standing up, Leon, Liam, and even Brandon, who rose with Leon's assistance, shared a look of silent consensus. They needed no words to communicate; their shared experiences had already forged a deep understanding among them.
Then, their decision was made; an instinctive and unanimous choice.
As Leon gazed back at Baron Elliver, his respect and appreciation deepened. The Baron was not just offering them wealth, but a future, a community, and a chance to rise. In that moment, Leon saw not just a noble benefactor but a figure of genuine leadership and strength, someone they could respect and rally behind.
Thus, their journey took a new turn, toward knighthood and allegiance to the Thorn Flower Family, sealing their fates with newfound purpose and resolve.
In his previous life, he was an ordinary man, frequently on the receiving end of his boss's reprimands. The closest he ever got to heroics was donning armor and striking poses in front of his bedroom mirror while cosplaying.
Never had he imagined that in this new existence, he'd transition from the ranks of the proletariat to the echelons of what he once would've termed an 'evil feudal aristocracy.'
"Thank you for your appreciation, sir. We are willing to pledge our loyalty to you. In this case, do we need to prepare a ceremony?" Brandon asked, his knowledge of such formalities stemming from his noble upbringing in Serrian, where the ritual of knighting was elaborate.
"No, here in Orland, the presence of knights as witnesses suffices for our coronation ceremony," Baron Elliver explained, rising from his seat. He drew his sword, positioning the tip against the ground, his demeanor shifting to one of grave solemnity.
Simultaneously, every untitle knight in the room rose, hands upon the hilts of their swords, standing in respectful silence.
One of the knights, designated as the ceremonial officer, directed the young men, "Lion of Cerrian. Liam of Rolandar. Brandon of the Flarel family. Come forward and kneel before the Lord you are about to swear an oath to."
Leon glanced at Brandon, ready to assist if needed, but the noble son smiled, indicating he could manage, and stepped forward with his companions, each feeling the gravity of the moment.
Regrettably, Brandon had no armor or formal attire, having been confined to recovery; yet, here he was, about to become a knight.
The three of them knelt, right knees to the ground, left hands resting on their left knees, right hands behind their backs. They looked up, awaiting their new titles.
Baron Thornflower touched Liam's right shoulder with his sword, declaring, "In the name of courage, facing formidable enemies, you must remain valiant and undeterred."
Moving his sword to Brandon's left shoulder, he continued, "In the name of the kingdom, you are to protect the people and resist tyranny."
Finally, the blade rested on Leon's shoulder, "In the name of justice, when you witness wrongdoing, you are to uphold righteousness and combat evil."
Lifting the sword, he held it aloft, his voice resounding through the hall, "In the name of the gods, be loyal to your sovereign, honor your promises, and renounce deceit. I, Elifuer Pharoris, hereby make you knights of Orland and grant you the fiefs of Selva, Lonca, and Pleton in equal measure. My castle's doors will always be open to you, for you shall dine and reside as my equals."
The ceremonial knight prompted the newly appointed knights, "Repeat after me, I swear..."
"...to fight for the Thorn Flower with my honor and my life. To defend Orland. To protect our lands and our people!"
Their vows echoed through the hall, strong and clear.
"Stand up, my knights," Baron Elliver concluded, sheathing his sword with a sense of relief and pride.
Leon stood, his mind swirling. The ceremony had been brief, yet incredibly profound.
Had he heard correctly? Selva, Lonca, Pleton; were these indeed the territories they were being granted? He knew Selva Village, but the others were unfamiliar. Their new lord, it seemed, had just endowed them with far more than mere titles; he had entrusted them with land and duty.