Revan cast aside the velvet robe, stripping down with hurried, measured movements. The fabric pooled at his feet, replaced by a tunic of deep blue, its sleeves embroidered with silver thread, a mark of nobility, but nothing too ostentatious.
He pulled on a doublet of fine black wool, cinching it tight with a leather belt, the weight of the metal buckle grounding him. From the dark oak wardrobe, he retrieved a pair of fitted trousers, secured them swiftly, and reached for the final touch—a leather cuirass, supple yet firm, fastened over his chest. A token of battle-readiness, not a suit of full armor, but enough to remind whoever awaited him that he was no trembling scholar locked away in a library.
'Cringe? I know, but gets the point straight-' He blinked then looked down and looked up, 'What the fuck...Who am I talking to...'
He had barely adjusted the last strap when a knock rapped against the heavy oak door. The sound was sharp, deliberate.
"Young Lord Elphonse, our guest has arrived and awaits your presence." The voice belonged to a woman—clipped, formal. A maid. No, his memories whispered the name before he could even think to ask. Caly.
Revan exhaled through his nose, forcing his thoughts into order. "Yes, Caly, just arriving in a minute—"
He bit his tongue. 'Fuck.' The words had slipped out too easily, too modern, a stark contrast to the speech of this world.
A brief shuffle outside. "Are you well, Young Lord?" There was hesitation in her tone, concern creeping through the mask of formality.
'Dumbass.' He cursed himself, face pinching in frustration. He had barely been here an hour and already he was slipping. He cleared his throat. "I am well enough, Caly. I shall be there anon—"
"There is no need to press yourself, Young Lord."
A new voice, smooth as oil, laced with an ease too deliberate to be genuine. It cut through Revan's words without a shred of deference, as if the speaker had no care that he interrupted a noble mid-sentence. That alone narrowed the possibilities of who it could be. Only a man who wielded some authority of his own would dare such a thing.
"And since you are well and whole," the voice continued, a teasing lilt beneath the surface, "might Lady Cayle permit this humble servant to step within~?" Cayle gasped behind the oak door, muttering something inaudible and he could hear the man chuckling.
Revan's jaw clenched before the realization even fully settled. A knight. Of course.
Then the voice confirmed it.
"I, Aldric Parker, knight of the Academy known as The Anvil, stand here on behalf of the Knight of God, Gottschalk."
Revan's fingers flexed, a flicker of irritation sparking at the name. 'Give me some fucking rest, prick. I just fell into this world, into the body of some shut-in noble, and you want me to entertain guests? Fuck you.' His eyes darted toward the mirror, catching a glimpse of his own reflection—of El Ritch's reflection. Dark eyes, lean face, the scar along his chin. He swallowed the irritation. He needed to play his role, at least for now.
Aldric's voice pressed on, carrying that same frustrating weight of false courtesy. "Might you grant me the honor of an audience, wherever you find yourself most at ease," he said, a pause just long enough to feel deliberate, "perhaps within the comfort of your own chambers?"
Revan sighed, running a hand down his face. "Caly, please let the gentleman in."
The oak door swung open, revealing the knight beyond.
He was not clad in armor, nor did he wear the polished steel of a man fresh from the battlefield. Instead, his coat, a rich shade of purple, draped to his knees, left unbuttoned to reveal a dark tunic beneath, tucked into fitted brown trousers that allowed for ease of movement. A man prepared not for war, but for a simple conversation. His hair, dark and unruly, framed a face that had been carved into sharp, symmetrical lines, a chiseled jaw leading up to striking dark blue eyes, cool and watchful. A simple, unreadable smile curled at the edges of his lips, neither welcoming nor dismissive.
He bowed with a grace that felt practiced, polished. "I am in your care, Young Lord Elphonse." His voice remained light, almost too pleasant. "Many a tale of your deeds has reached mine ears, spoken from the lips of men most esteemed. It is a rare delight to stand before you in person."
Revan's brow twitched.
That wasn't praise.
It wasn't even empty flattery.
It was mockery, veiled so finely beneath courtesy that one could hardly call it an insult. But the intent was there, slithering beneath each syllable, woven into that slight, knowing smirk.
And for some reason, that—that ticked Revan off in a way he hadn't expected.
Maybe it was because of the tone. Maybe it was because of that self-assured, almost amused way Aldric looked at him, as if he already knew exactly who El Ritch was. Or maybe—just maybe—it was because El Ritch's memories were still lingering at the back of his mind, whispering their old wounds and resentments.
Maybe it was that.
Or maybe it was just him.
Revan gestured toward the chair, a silent invitation. Aldric acknowledged it with a nod, sinking into the seat with the same effortless poise he had carried since stepping into the room. His smile, sharp yet unreadable, did not wane.
"Would Sir Aldric—"
"Sir Aldric has presumed the work of Sir Gottschalk," Revan interjected smoothly, cutting off Caly before she could finish. His gaze flicked toward her, steady and pointed. "I presume he is quite busy, Caly. Would you please get the door? I believe Sir Aldric has some peculiar details to discuss."
Caly hesitated for a brief moment, blinking up at him as though that was a foreign man sitting behind the body of her old Lord. Her lips parted, as if she meant to protest, but whatever uncertainty she felt was swiftly swallowed by habit. With a small nod, she turned on her heel, moving toward the great oak door. It took effort—her petite frame straining against the weight of the wood as she pulled it closed. She did not huff or sigh, did not betray any weakness, yet Revan could see it—the precise, controlled way she moved, the careful way she handled the weight without faltering.
And then, they were alone.
Revan made no effort to sit properly. Instead, he climbed onto the bed, shifting until he lay on his side, his right elbow propped against the mattress, his chin resting against his palm. His left hand draped lazily over his knee, his leg bent just enough to rest comfortably. A smirk curled at his lips, amusement flickering in his brown eyes.
"Please, by all means, speak," he murmured, voice smooth, almost indulgent. "Do not let my posture discomfort you. After all, you did suggest I make myself comfortable in my own chambers."
Aldric's expression did not change immediately, but there was the briefest pause—half a heartbeat—before he exhaled sharply through his nose.
"Pfft."
The sound was quiet but unmistakable. He brought a hand to his mouth, the corners of his lips twitching as he stifled what might have been a laugh.
Revan's brows pulled together. A frown settled on his face.
"I apologize," Aldric said at last, amusement still laced in his tone. He exhaled once more, this time more controlled, as though schooling himself back into formality. "I was told the third child of House Ritch was a rather timid boy. I merely wished to see for myself just how much of a coward you truly were…"
He sighed then, his smirk fading into something more measured. "Allow me to offer my introduction once more—Aldric Parker, a knight who holds the favor of your father. By his own request, I have come to instruct you in the art of combat, and to weigh your aptitude for tasks beyond the field of battle." He bowed his head slightly, though he did not rise from his seat.
Revan barely heard the last part of his words. His mind latched onto a single phrase, one that did not fit.
By his own request.
"My father did this for me…?" The words left him before he could stop them. Disbelief laced his voice, a note of raw confusion he had not meant to show. He had El Ritch's memories—he had lived them just moments ago. And nowhere, in any of them, had there been warmth. No kindness. No concern from his father.
This did not fit.
What changed?
His thoughts twisted, contorting in on themselves. 'Don't tell me this is some cliché bullshit—some nonsense about how a father always loved his son and simply showed it in materialistic ways.' He scoffed inwardly. 'I'd puke, I swear to God.'
Aldric tilted his head, watching him with a keen eye. "Does it astonish you, that he holds love for you?" His fingers brushed against his lips, his voice taking on a mock-wistful air. "A jest, I assure you."
He chuckled then, shaking his head. "I have no wish to meddle in the affairs of one's kin—" A pause. A shrug. "—but ponder this, scholar. Your father, who scarce ever showed you warmth, now bestows upon you a private instructor? It stirs a thought in me. I once knew a fellow at the slaughterhouse, who would tend to a pig with the utmost care—watching over it, feeding it well—only to sharpen his knife when the time came to part with it and sell the meat."
His lips curled, the smile as pleasant as it was unnerving. "But, well. One's matters are their own. After all, One does what one can."
Revan's eyes narrowed.
"What are you implying?" He shifted then, pushing himself upright, his legs folding beneath him as he sat on the bed properly. His voice was steady, though the weight of the words hung heavy in the air. "That I commit homicide upon my father?"
"Such grievous thoughts!" Aldric gave a sharp exhale, one hand pressing against his mouth in a dramatic display of shock. "Would you really do this of your own accord? Oh my~"
Revan exhaled, his irritation melting into something else—understanding.
'He's playing with me.'
Aldric was a man of words, not bluntness. He would never openly suggest such a thing, no more than he would outright deny it. This was a game. A test of wits, of reaction. And even if Revan had shown an inclination toward something so drastic, Aldric would not act on it unless he had ensured his own position remained untarnished, unstained by the blood spilled.
Still, the question gnawed at him.
Slaughter.
What had he meant by that?
Revan was to go to the Capital. To become a knight, most probably. To swear himself to the God of this world, forsaking all claims to land, all rights to marriage and children. That much, he knew. But was there more?
And if so—why now?
Why, after years of neglect, had his father chosen to invest in him? Why had he sent a knight, a man of skill, to personally evaluate him?
What changed?
Revan had read more than enough. He knew what changed.
Countless stories, countless tales of noble houses where fathers sent their own kin to the slaughter, all for the sake of securing their worthless, dwindling legacies. Sons were nothing but pieces on a board, disposable, their lives measured in usefulness and discarded when they became inconvenient. He had seen it before, in books, in history, in every retelling of dynasties built upon the bones of their own blood.
And he would not allow it. Not with his fate.
Peace. That was what he wanted, what he would carve for himself in this world. No ambitions of grandeur, no desire to play at the dangerous games of lords and kings. A quiet life, unbothered, untouched. And no one—no one—would stand between him and his peace.
'Not even the fucking God of this world.'
He did not need to rebel, did not need to wage some doomed war against the hand that sought to strangle him. There was another way. A quieter way.
"Weighing your choices, are you?"
Aldric's voice cut through the haze of his thoughts, sharp as a blade honed for the kill.
"How utterly charming."
The knight chuckled then, but this time, he did not bother to hide it. He leaned back, amusement writ across his face, the barest curl of his lips betraying a pleasure in whatever conclusion he had drawn from Revan's silence. "To scheme against your own father whilst standing before the very man sent to shape you into a warrior." He exhaled, shaking his head as if marveling at the audacity. "Tell me—what if I were his eyes and ears, set here to watch your every step?"
Revan did not flinch. Did not hesitate.
"Would you tell if you were really his ears and eyes?" His words came quick, clean, slipping between them like the edge of a dagger turned in one's palm.
Aldric's brow arched. There, a flicker of something—approval, perhaps.
"Why would I not?" he mused, tilting his head, watching him with the same sharp gaze a falcon might turn upon prey caught between its talons. "It would only make you trust me more. Reverse psychology works wonders~"
That smirk again, lopsided, deliberate. One corner of his lips lifted just a fraction higher than the other, the subtle shift changing the entire shape of his expression. A man who held his words like a game of dice, never letting them fall where one expected.
It was a good answer. A perfect answer. And yet—
Revan felt it in his gut, a deep, unshakable certainty.
This man—Aldric—was no one's ears, no one's eyes.
But Aldric's own.