The Bastion of Blades stood silent.
Aden lay in the center chamber, its walls once soaked in the roars of combat now hushed beneath a reverent stillness. Outside, the courtyard bore the scars of the Trial—a shattered pillar, deep gouges in the stone, dried blood flaking under the weight of ash. The air still clung to the scent of burning wrath.
Inside, he rested not in comfort, but in consequence.
His chest rose slowly beneath the bandages that crisscrossed his torso, each breath shallow yet deliberate. The fever had broken, but his body still trembled with residual heat—remnants of the fire that had consumed him during the battle with Egmund. The Wrath had not left him. It had simply… nested.
Aden's eyes were open. Unblinking. Hollow. And yet, far from lost.
They said when a man survived a trial by Wrath, he was never the same again.
Whispers crawled through the halls of the Bastion. Warriors who had once dismissed him as a boy, a usurper of a name he hadn't earned, now spoke of him like an omen. Some murmured that it wasn't Aden who had won the battle, but Egmund—the wrathful ghost of war, returned through the Vasco line. Others disagreed, swearing they saw Aden devour Egmund's fury and make it his own.
None dared to voice their thoughts aloud. Not when even the Black Knights had bled under his blade.
Outside his chamber, six of them stood in silence, arms crossed, gazes avoiding the door. They had been there that day. They had tested him. And they had lost. In the hidden corners of the Bastion, they debated in hushed voices whether he was still human—or something far worse.
Then came the heavy echo of boots.
Rudeus Vasco entered.
The other knights straightened instinctively, their armor clinking with formality. His presence alone was enough to command silence, but it was the expression on his face that quieted all further doubt—stern, unreadable, and touched by something that looked uncomfortably like pride.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Aden didn't move.
"You're awake," Rudeus said, his voice cutting through the dim.
Aden turned his head slightly. No greeting, no honorifics. Just a single blink in recognition.
"Your pulse was erratic for two days," Rudeus continued, stepping closer. "I thought you'd lost your way. That Egmund had devoured you."
Aden's voice was dry, gravel-throated. "Maybe he did."
Rudeus chuckled. "Then whatever came back is something the world isn't ready for."
He placed something on the table beside the bed—a black cloak, embroidered with the burning sigil of the Vasco line. A crimson chain rested atop it, coiled like a serpent.
"You've done well," Rudeus said, his tone now solemn. "I don't say that often. You tamed the Wrath. No, you commanded it. The Bastion saw it. The men felt it. And I…" he paused, as if admitting the next words tasted strange, "I was wrong about you."
Aden sat up slowly, his bones cracking, muscles stiff but alive. His gaze fell on the cloak.
Rudeus placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "As of this moment, you are no longer a candidate. You are a Black Knight of the Vasco House."
Silence.
Even outside the room, the knights heard it—that declaration. A ripple ran through them like a silent quake. Black Knights were the highest blades of the family—chosen not for birthright, but power. To be named among them after defeating six of their own? It was unthinkable. Blasphemous, even.
But no one spoke.
Not after what they had seen.
Rudeus gave a nod, almost ceremonial. "Stand when you're ready. But the Bastion now stands with you."
He turned, his cloak flaring behind him, and exited the chamber without another word.
Aden stared at the cloak and chain.
In the past, they were symbols he would have resented—marks of loyalty to a family that had abandoned him, that had left his name to rot under false charges and whispered curses. But now, they were tools. Shields. Armor for what was to come.
He reached for the cloak with one bloodied hand and pulled it toward him.
The room felt colder. Quieter.
Somewhere deep within, Egmund stirred.
The throne awaited, not in gold, but in shadow.
Vasco smiled—not as a man, but as the storm to come.
The world would kneel, or it would burn.
And the choice, at last, was never theirs to make.