Half a Month later.

Kaen sat cross-legged in his room, meditating, his body surrounded by swirling currents of elemental forces—earth, wind, fire, and water—all glowing with a soft, tranquil radiance.

Just then—

A knock sounded at the door, followed by Tifa's voice.

"My dearest King, I believe you should come take a look—there's a large crowd of refugees gathering outside the town!"

Kaen opened his eyes. The elemental energies vanished instantly as his brows furrowed in confusion.

"Refugees? What's going on?"

Tifa's voice replied from outside, slightly troubled.

"I don't know the details either. I just received a report from Cathril. Her light cavalry spotted them during a patrol."

"I understand."

…

By the time Kaen rode to the outskirts of the town,

several thousand refugees had already gathered—filthy, ragged, shivering from the cold.

Soldiers led by his officers held formation at the gates, keeping the crowd from spilling into Elariel.

From the alleyways and streets of the town, curious townsfolk peeked out, murmuring about the unexpected visitors.

As Kaen approached, the townspeople and guards alike stepped aside and bowed, clearing a path for him.

Caden and a few others came forward and saluted.

"My lord!"

Kaen's gaze swept across the mass of people, his brow tightening.

"Have you figured out what this is about?"

Cathril gave a firm nod.

"They're from the North. Their homes were overrun by orcs. They came hoping for your protection."

At her words, Kaen's expression shifted, tinged with surprise.

He moved closer to the gathered refugees and raised his voice.

"I am Kaen Eowenríel. Who among you speaks for the rest?"

A voice answered from the back of the crowd.

"It is I, Your Majesty."

A moment later—

A scholarly-looking middle-aged man stepped out from the sea of people.

He wore a thick, unkempt beard and was covered in dirt.

But despite his disheveled state, his garments were clearly once fine, made of embroidered cloth and silken thread. A few guards followed close behind him—he was no ordinary commoner.

"I am Norman Yedwéa," the man said, introducing himself with a courtly bow.

Kaen gave a slight nod and said,

"You look like a noble."

"I was."

Norman gave a bitter chuckle. "My fief was taken by orcs. My soldiers were wiped out. Without land or an army, I'm just a wandering man."

Indeed, no matter one's title—baron, lord, even king—

Without land and without followers, they were but beggars in the eyes of the world.

Kaen asked calmly, "I sympathize with your misfortune. Tell me what you seek. If it is within my power, I'll help you."

"You are gracious indeed," Norman replied, bowing once again.

"When the orcs attacked, I fled under the protection of my guards, taking as many of my people as I could. Since then, we've wandered the wilds."

"I gathered others who'd also lost their homes. At first, we meant to travel to Rivendell and plead with Lord Elrond for sanctuary."

"But on the way, we met a bard. He spoke to us of you—of your battles, your justice, your victories over trolls and orcs."

"Moved by his tales, I changed my course."

He paused, then dropped to one knee.

"We traveled days through wind and snow, all for a chance to kneel before you."

His voice rang out as he raised his head, eyes burning with hope.

"Oh great King of Eowenría, Scourge of Orcs and Bane of Trolls, I—Norman Yedwéa—humbly offer you my loyalty. Please grant us your shelter!"

Thousands of eyes turned to Kaen, awaiting his decision.

But under that gaze, Kaen only shook his head.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice calm but resolute. "I cannot accept your fealty. Not right now."

The crowd stirred.

Norman looked stunned—disbelieving.

To him, though he had lost his land, he still had followers. He still bore noble blood. Was that not enough?

He inhaled deeply.

"…May I ask why? Did I offend you in some way?"

Kaen shook his head.

"No. Not at all. If you were anyone else, I would have accepted without hesitation. But you are different—you are a noble."

"In most lands, a noble commands their own territory, rules with absolute authority over their domain."

"But this is Eowenría.

In my kingdom, nobles do not own land.

They do not legislate.

Their rewards come only from merit—honor and service."

Kaen's words struck Norman like thunder.

He had expected to swear fealty and, in time, receive a new holding from Kaen. That was how it had always worked.

A king ruled through his vassals. Vassals were granted fiefs. It was the natural order—or so he thought.

But in Kaen's realm, that order did not exist.

The nobles under his banner had no land to call their own.

Norman's expression shifted.

Leave and he might find land elsewhere… or he might die, along with those who followed him, in the cold and dark of the wild.

Stay, and they would have food, shelter—safety.

But at the cost of giving up his claim to ever rule again, not just for himself, but for his descendants as well.

He hesitated.

Torn between pride and survival.

Kaen saw the struggle in his eyes. He smiled gently and said,

"Whether you pledge loyalty or not, I will not abandon people in need. I will provide tents, food, and supplies to help you through the winter."

"As for the matter of allegiance… I suggest you take your time. Decide not with your pride, but with your heart."

With that, Kaen turned and left—

leaving Norman kneeling in silence, lost in thought.

…

To avoid disturbing the daily lives of his citizens, Kaen decreed that the refugees would not enter the town.

Instead, they were given water, food, tents, and winter supplies outside the walls.

That night—

Norman lifted one tent flap after another, checking on the refugees inside. They slept soundly, their faces calm for the first time in weeks. He glanced at the distant campfires, where guards kept watch.

They were safe—finally.

The endless fear of monsters lurking in the dark had, at last, lifted.

Tonight's watch was led by Mundar. He sat alone beside a fire, sipping from a flask of strong drink—his usual habit.

Seeing Norman pacing through the camp, he frowned.

"It's the middle of the night. Why aren't you asleep?"

"I can't sleep," Norman replied wearily. "I keep thinking… Should I swear fealty to King Kaen?"

At that, Mundar let out a short laugh.

"If you're still hesitating, then you shouldn't."

"What?"

Mundar leaned forward slightly, his voice steady.

"Here in Eowenría, loyalty that's not absolute is no loyalty at all."

Norman smiled bitterly.

"I don't reject King Kaen. On the contrary, I admire him deeply."

He sat down near the fire and sighed.

"I just… I've been a lord for too long. It's hard to let go of that power. You must understand—on one's own land, a lord rules like a king."

Mundar shrugged. "Sounds impressive."

Norman blinked. "So why? Why do you and the others serve him, knowing you'll never be granted lands of your own?"

Mundar took a long sip of his drink. Then he stared into the flames and said solemnly,

"Because some things matter more than land… more than gold… more than power."

Norman looked at him, eyes narrowing. "And what might those be?"

Mundar answered without hesitation.

"Honor.

And belief."