CHAPTER 45: NO FLOWERS FOR THE FALLEN...

Without giving it another thought, Keiser swung his legs over the bed and forced himself to stand. Pain tore through him at once... raw, unrelenting, and unfamiliar.

Muzio’s body screamed as if every joint had splintered, the ache spreading like cracks. His back arched with a soundless creak, as though the spine itself resisted bearing his weight. His shoulder dragged upward toward his ear, nerves firing wild sparks until his entire frame shuddered uncontrollably.

This wasn’t the pain he knew... the steady, tempered burn of an old wound, the sort he could bite down and march through.

No, this was unfamiliar, softer flesh rebelling in ways his own body never had. His arms shook uselessly, as if even raising them was a battle, and then numbed so quickly his fingers forgot they were his. His legs betrayed him next. knees icing over, locking stiff, while his calves turned to stone, each breath making them heavier still.

His jaw clamped shut, teeth grinding against the tremor of agony.

The knight in him screamed to endure, but Muzio’s body was a stranger to endurance. His legs buckled, threatening to fold, and instinct drove his hand forward. He caught the edge of the bedside table in a white-knuckled grip, clinging to it as though it were the only thing tethering him upright.

Then... came another hand.

Someone slipped beneath his arm, guiding it over a shoulder, steadying his wavering steps. Keiser turned his head, braced for the inevitable tongue-lashing. He could almost hear Lenko’s voice already... sharp, exasperated, railing about recklessness, about how he should be flat on the bed instead of dragging himself upright.

But the boy said nothing.

Lenko only stared ahead, his jaw set, his face carrying a quiet resolve that words could never match. When his eyes flicked toward the princess, he gave the smallest of nods.

She let out a breath... soft, steady, the sound of someone carrying both worry and resignation in the same exhale. Her gaze lingered on Keiser for a moment before she returned the gesture, answering Lenko’s unspoken thought with a simple incline of her head.

Keiser’s eyes dropped, drawn to her hand. Bandaged. Wrapped in the same fresh linen as Lenko’s. His chest tightened, a pang sharper than the pain in his bones. They had done ’Blood Scripting’... bled themselves just to counterbalance his own reckless draining of Muzio’s mana.

Bleeding together...

He knew what that meant. He had learned it long ago on the border, standing shoulder to shoulder with men who fought until the ground swallowed them whole. Out there, blood was the fastest bond... no speeches, no promises, just the raw truth of survival. That was how unfortunate souls became comrades.

And perhaps it was why, even now, he forced his broken body to move.

Step by step, they left the safety of the Guild.

Outside, the air felt heavier. Villagers loitered in the square, their eyes flicking toward the trio as they emerged from the guild hall. Some quickly looked away, shame etched into their faces, as though the truth of what had happened in Hinnom still clung to them.

Keiser held their gazes for only a heartbeat before looking elsewhere. The cause had been cut down, but the wounds it left behind were far from healed.

Time would decide what became of these people.

For now, he walked on.

They made their way toward the gate.

Now that Keiser could see it with his own eye, the place looked almost unrecognizable. The warded walls, once smeared with blood, had been scrubbed clean. The gate itself stood repaired, its frame steady and solemn. Even the path leading to it had been tidied, though dirt could only ever be made so clean.

A procession stretched along the road.

Dozens of people walked in silence, each one carrying a flower in their hands.

The air was hushed, heavy with reverence and grief.

Keiser’s gaze drifted across the line of mourners until it caught on Wally and the other children. Even they carried small flowers, their small faces somber, as though they already understood the weight of the moment... even at their young age.

At the head of the procession was a woman heavy with child, her face streaked with tears. A boy no older than three clung to her legs, looking up at her with wide, trembling eyes, his own cheeks wet as he echoed her grief without truly understanding it.

Beside them shuffled an elderly woman, her hands clasped around set of flowers she seemed to hold like a relic. Behind them walked a young man, his jaw clenched, his grip crushing the stems of the bouquet he carried... purple blossoms, pale as if washed in moonlight, gathered in a trembling heap.

Keiser took it all in quietly, the sight gnawing at him.

He had never seen this before.

In the brigades, there had been no funerals, no processions, no flowers laid down for the fallen.

They burned everything... bodies, belongings, even the memory of comrades... reduced to ash in the name of necessity.

The most anyone ever brought home was a scrap of clothing, a token, a reminder that someone had lived before the flames.

But this... this gathering of grief and remembrance... was something wholly new to him.

And it unsettled him more than he expected.

Suddenly, a flower appeared right in front of his face, close enough that he nearly went cross-eyed staring at it.

He blinked, reached up, and took it, frowning when he realized it was the princess who had push it into his hand.

"C’mon..."

she murmured softly.

With Lenko’s steadying support, the three of them made their way to the front of the procession.

As they advanced, a ripple passed through the gathered crowd. Heads turned. Voices rose in low murmurs, carrying on the air like the rustling of leaves.

"Ah... the tenth prince..."

"They’re here..."

"...goodness, look at him..."

Keiser grimaced inwardly. Of course. That night, the old mage had dragged his identity into the open, laying him bare before everyone. Now there was no hiding, no slipping past unnoticed.

He and Lenko stood in silence as the princess stepped forward, bowing her head with solemn grace. Her voice carried low but steady as she offered words of condolence to the grieving family of those who had not survived.

The procession pressed onward as the exchange concluded, yet Keiser’s gaze lingered, drawn to the old woman standing at the forefront.

Her grief was written plainly in the lines of her face, yet when her eyes lifted to meet theirs, she smiled... soft, steady, achingly kind.

It was not the bitter curse of the bereaved, nor the sharp sting of blame he half-expected, half-deserved. No, it was something far worse.

Forgiveness freely given, welcome extended where condemnation should have been.

His chest tightened.

The knight in him would have found it easier to be hated, to bear the spit and venom of mourning kin.

Anger he could shoulder.

Hatred he could match.

But this... this quiet, unyielding kindness unraveled him in a way his wounds never could. The body he wore ached with every breath, but in that moment the pain inside pressed heavier, sharper.

Somehow, her smile hurt more than the broken flesh he dragged forward.