Chapter 110: Chapter 110: Fucking commoners
The deal was made.
The words still clung to Aiden’s mind like molten iron cooling against the flesh of his thoughts. He had sealed his course—whether toward greatness or damnation, he did not yet know.
But already the armour weighed heavy upon his shoulders: new knightly armour, its steel polished to a cold gleam, its plates creaking with every stride.
On his back shone the sigil—a strange fusion of two legacies, Merlin’s spiral and Leonidus’ lion, etched deep as if into the marrow of his destiny.
The mark burned like a second spine, a reminder of what he had claimed and what he might yet betray.
Knighthood was a ladder, but the rungs were oiled and broken. Aiden knew the truth of it: the sons and daughters of nobles climbed swiftly, lifted by blood and coin, each step eased by inheritance.
Commoners, however, were chained to the first rung, condemned to bear steel and bend the knee for life. No banners of their own, no voices in council, only service—eternal and thankless.
But Aiden was not born to kneel. He would not rust away as another nameless blade in the armoury of a house that forgot his face. He would gamble. He would scar. He would brand his soul with more than one mark, though every tongue whispered it was lunacy.
And behind him, dogging his steps like a shadow too loyal to be cut, came Aethal.
The boy’s boots struck the cobbles with a frantic rhythm, his breath cutting through the night air.
He was asking questions—at first aloud, now only in the ragged wheeze of his lungs. He wanted to demand why, to pry open the vault of Aiden’s will and sift through the madness.
But what he truly longed to say was simpler, sharper: Why does a commoner knight like you dare to bear more marks than one? Why do you step where nobles tremble? Why do you make me doubt the walls of my birthright?
Oh, how Aiden laughed. Not with lips, but deep in his chest—a laughter of defiance, a laughter too sharp to be joy. Even now, Aethal’s voice echoed against stone and silence.
"Aiden!
Aiden, come on, think about it..."
But Aiden’s stride did not falter. The garrison gates loomed ahead, black iron against silver moonlight.
Beyond them, the forest swayed—a cathedral of shadow and whisper, a place where sane men did not wander.
He was already stepping out, already leaving the circle of torchlight, already vanishing into the uncharted dark.
Aethal’s hand caught his shoulder. Desperation lent strength to his grip.
"Aiden! Just fucking wait! Are you really sure? Do you truly intend to follow her? She is a slayer—for gods’ sake, a slayer! Think for a blood minute. You are weak. Very weak!"
His words cracked the night like a whip. Somewhere, an owl stirred. The torches hissed in their sconces.
Aiden turned.
His golden eyes, aglow like the last embers of a dying forge, bore into Aethal. In that instant, time itself recoiled. The younger knight flinched, stepping back as if those eyes had branded his soul.
"Do you think I am mad, Aethal?"
The silence that followed was heavy, filled with the creak of armour, the soft rasp of steel plates shifting with Aiden’s breath.
"Y... yes," Aethal stammered, throat dry. "This is madness."
Aiden smiled then. Not wide. Not kind. A smile like the first crack in a dam, a smile that promised floods.
"Then I am doing the right thing. Not for you lot. For me. Aethal, you are young, so I will tell you this: if you wish to lead your so-called house, if you wish to rule men rather than warm a chair with your father’s name, then hear me well—taking a sane step should never be an option."
The words struck deeper than any blade. They lodged in Aethal’s chest, where breath and doubt tangled into a knot.
And then Aiden turned away. He walked into the forest. Into the deep dark, where branches clawed the sky and roots broke the bones of old soil.
The moonlight clung to his armour like a shroud, silver etching him in ghostlight until the shadows swallowed him whole.
Aethal stood frozen, staring at the path that had devoured his companion. The echo of Aiden’s words rang through him, hammering at his ribs. He clenched his fists. He kicked a stone. Then another. Then the earth itself, as if the world had betrayed him.
"Owww!" he howled, pain exploding in his toes. He stumbled, clutching his foot, cursing air and destiny alike. The world answered only with the murmur of night insects.
He heaved for breath, his chest rising and falling with the rhythm of defeat. The words still gnawed at him, chewing holes in the fabric of his certainty.
"Be insane... lunacy... utter lunacy. I tried to save you, you fucking peasant, and you call me coward? Fine! Go then. Die!" His voice broke on the last word, the crack more confession than curse.
He turned toward the gates, fury lighting his steps. But just as the iron mouth of the fortress opened to swallow him, his gaze snagged on movement—a guard, standing drowsy at his post.
"Hey!" Aethal barked.
The guard jerked, nearly dropping his spear. His eyes widened as recognition dawned. "Huh? Me? Yes, my lord. Yes, yes, my lord. How can I help you?"
The man’s voice trembled. Middle-aged, lean, his face weathered by years of silent servitude.
"Go rest!" Aethal ordered, fire threading through every syllable.
"But, my lord, you don’t nee—"
"I said GO!"
The shout cracked like thunder. The guard quivered. He abandoned his post without another word, leaving his spear propped against the wall.
Commoners did not defy nobles, not if they wished to keep their tongues. And this guard knew the blue-haired heir of the Earl. He knew what defiance meant.
Aethal exhaled sharply, the anger bleeding from him like a punctured wineskin. He reached for the spear. The wood was rough beneath his palm, its weight grounding, yet foreign. He sighed.
"Haaa... what the fuck am I doing?" he muttered aloud, voice raw and ragged.
He planted himself by the gate, staring into the pathway that swallowed Aiden. The forest loomed like a maw, every leaf whispering promises of peril.
"What the fuck am I doing?" he asked again, softer this time. Not to the guard. Not to the night. To himself.