Fate of the End : Rage against the World

With the title Relentless echoing faintly in my mind, I stagger out of the weapons hall. The midday sun stabs into my eyes, but it's nothing compared to the searing pain radiating from my right shoulder. My arm hangs limp at my side, a useless weight pulled free from its place.

I don't make it far before I hear the crunch of heavy boots on gravel. Commander Glosan strides toward me, face tight with irritation. He looks me up and down like I'm a half-built training dummy someone forgot to finish assembling.

"You really need to take care of yourself more if you want to train with us," he says, his frown deepening. "You've got a duel tomorrow. Can't have you showing up like this."

I open my mouth to reply, but he's already moving.

"Hold still. I'll put it back."

He grips my wrist with one hand and presses his other palm against my shoulder. His hands are solid, sure, the hands of someone who has done this too many times to count. I tense. He doesn't warn me. He just moves.

There's a brutal tug and twist, and my shoulder snaps back into place with a sickening pop. A bolt of pain rips through me, hot and immediate. My knees wobble. My vision goes white at the edges.

I bite down hard, a half-choked grunt escaping my throat. My teeth nearly crack from the pressure.

"There," he says, releasing me. He steps back and gives me a quick nod of approval, like I'm a piece of armor he just hammered back into shape. "Now quit breaking yourself before the real fights begin."

I manage a breath, sweat slicking my face. The arm still burns, but at least it moves. Barely. But it moves.

"Thank you, Commander," I say with a nod, adding a small bow to show my appreciation.

From the morning meal to smashing down doors in the weapons hall, time has slipped away. Midday is here, and the sun blazes down with oppressive weight. Sweat clings to my skin like a second shirt. The knights have finished their drills and now lounge about, laughing and chatting in small groups. A sea of camaraderie, and I'm the lone boat drifting at the edge, unmoored and unwelcome.

No point in trying to fit in now. I turn toward the estate, already planning a cold bath and a few quiet moments of recovery. But as I reach the yard's gate, I spot Hope pacing near the entrance like a guard on patrol or more accurately, like a badly trained hound pretending to be one. His boots clack against stone with anxious rhythm, his brows knitted with worry until he sees me.

Then his face lights up like I've come back from the dead.

He runs toward me, practically wagging his invisible tail. Does he have a touch of canine blood? Eager. Awkward. Always too ready to serve. Is he a person, or a loyal mutt wearing a uniform?

But I digress.

"Young Lord!" he pants, already breathless. "Lord Demure requests your presence in his office."

"Fine," I reply. "Have a bath prepared for me first. And find some healing balm for my shoulder, I can barely move it."

"Yes, Young Lord!" He spins on his heel and bolts toward the manor, looking every bit the overexcited puppy sent on a grand mission.

The bath is blessedly hot. Steam curls around me, and for the first time today, the ache in my shoulder stops shouting. The balm numbs the sting, though the arm still hangs a little looser than it should.

When I return to my room, I find Hope waiting like a proud tailor beside a mannequin. He's laid out a ceremonial outfit, standing there with that peculiar little smile of his. Is dressing me the highlight of his day? Am I some kind of life-sized doll he enjoys playing dress-up with?

His face flickers when he notices my blank stare.

Sigh.

"Just get on with it."

Hope doesn't waste a second. He rushes to help me dress, his fingers moving with nervous precision. The shirt is crisp and white, the pants dark and unremarkable. But then comes the coat. A monstrous black garment so lavishly embroidered with gold thread that it looks like something a jester might wear to a noble's masquerade. It's a tragedy stitched in silk.

I exhale sharply, staring at myself in the mirror. Regal? Maybe. Ridiculous? Definitely.

.

.

.

Father's office greets me with silence. He doesn't lift his eyes from the stack of parchment in front of him.

"The mage who will train you is in the guest room," he says, voice flat and distracted. "Go and greet him."

"Yes, Father," I respond, but before I can turn to leave, his voice cuts the air like a blade.

"Ramain."

A knock follows almost immediately, as if he summoned the butler with thought alone. Ramain steps into the room with the grace of a man who's done this a thousand times. He doesn't bow, doesn't greet me, just looks straight at my coat and lets the corners of his mouth twitch.

Did he just smirk at me?

"Escort Uvar to the guest room," Father orders without looking up. "Introduce the mage."

Ramain turns smoothly and walks out. I follow.

"The mage's name is Adrain," he says, voice clipped and professional. "He hails from the White Tower in the capital. By our records, he's a Tier 3 ice mage."

"Has he trained anyone before me?"

"Yes," Ramain replies without missing a step. "He was tutor to the late Third Princess Maysil."

Ah. No pressure then.

We arrive at the guest room. Ramain raps the door twice with measured knuckles and opens it without waiting for a reply.

The first thing I notice is the cold.

It's not the polite kind of chill you get from shade or a breeze, it's deliberate. Controlled. The temperature inside the room is several degrees lower, sharp against my skin like the air inside a winter fortress.

The mage is definitely here.