(Irori's POV)
That night, I barely slept.
No bed. No blanket. Just cold stone beneath me, leeching the warmth from my skin. I curled up in the corner of my tiny room—if you could even call it that. Four bare walls. A cracked ceiling. A door that locked from the outside. It felt less like a home and more like a forgotten cell in a place built for people stronger than me.
My muscles screamed with every twitch. The aches from training had settled deep in my bones. But it wasn't the pain that kept me awake.
It was the silence.
That heavy, suffocating silence that wraps around your chest and whispers the things you've been trying so hard to forget.
I missed my mother.
She used to brush the dirt from my cheeks and hum lullabies in the dark. Her hands were always rough, but her touch was gentle. She was the only one who ever looked at me like I was enough—even when I wasn't. Even when I failed.
She stop my father so I could live.
And now here I was… curled up on a stone floor, owned by a girl who didn't even bother to remember my name.
I swallowed back the lump in my throat.
"Mom... save me. Please. I'm scared."
I whispered it into the dark, hoping—just for a moment—that the walls might answer.
But there was only silence.
Eventually, exhaustion dragged me under, into a shallow, restless sleep.
SPLASH.
I jolted upright, gasping as ice-cold water soaked my chest. It hit like a slap to the soul—sharp, shocking, merciless. My soaked shirt clung to me. My breath caught in my throat.
A shadow stood over me.
"Get up."
The voice was low. Gruff. Familiar.
The knight again. The one with the scar that split his face like a jagged line of fate. No warmth in his voice. No patience in his stare.
"You're late."
He tossed a towel at me. It flopped to the ground, limp and useless.
"You've got ten minutes to get to the training grounds. If you're late again, I'll break both your legs and drag you there myself."
Then he left. The door slammed shut behind him like the final note in a funeral song.
For a moment, I didn't move. I just sat there—soaked, shivering, heart hammering in my chest.
Part of me wanted to crawl back into the corner and vanish.
But something else stirred.
Small.
Quiet.
Unwilling to break.
I stood.
I dried off as best I could, pulling on the scratchy uniform left by the door. The shirt was three sizes too big, the pants hung off my waist, and the shoes didn't match. But they were mine, for now.
And I had ten minutes.
The morning air bit through my clothes as I stepped onto the training field. Mist clung to the ground like a ghost that didn't want to leave. The field was massive—easily larger than my entire village—lined with hay dummies, rusting targets, and wooden posts worn down by years of strikes.
Trainees were already out there. Dozens of them. Boys and girls alike. Most older than me. Taller. Stronger. Faster.
Some wore scowls. Others looked bored. But they moved like they belonged here.
Me? I felt like a stray dog who wandered into a wolf den.
Then I saw him—Sir Andrew. Towering, unshakable, arms crossed, watching everything with a gaze like a sword drawn and ready.
"FORM UP!"
His voice cracked like thunder.
In seconds, the chaos turned to order. Rows of bodies straightened into formation. I scrambled into the last spot at the edge of the line, trying not to look completely lost.
Sir Andrew stepped forward, every movement precise.
"I am Sir Andrew, Vice-Captain of the White Moon House."
He began to pace, hands clasped behind his back. His voice was calm—but sharp enough to cut steel.
"You are here because someone believed you were worth saving. Because someone thought you had potential."
He stopped walking.
"I don't."
His words hung in the air like a blade over our necks.
"To me, you're numbers. Tools. Steel waiting to be sharpened—or thrown away."
No one dared to blink.
"This house lost its lord and lady to Nightmare Creatures. Monsters that tore them apart in their own home. They died protecting their daughter—Lady Syra. She's alive because others gave everything."
He let the weight of that truth settle over us.
"Now she needs protectors. Real ones. Not spoiled nobles. Not scared peasants. Knights."
He turned, facing us head-on.
"You will train until your hands bleed and your lungs fail. You will suffer. And you will still be expected to stand."
His eyes narrowed.
"Anyone who slacks off—will regret it.
Anyone who disrespects this house—will be punished.
And if you ever endanger the young mistress…"
He drew a single finger across his throat.
"I'll kill you myself."
Silence.
A sharp gust of wind cut through the ranks.
Then—his voice rose, powerful and defiant:
"But… if you endure…"
He met each of our gazes. I felt mine lock with his—and I couldn't look away.
"If you crawl through this hell…
If you rise, when every bone in your body begs you to stay down…
Then you might become a knight."
He stepped back.
"You might protect someone worth protecting.
You might earn a name that history remembers."
Then—
"So. What are you?"
A thunderous roar:
"KNIGHTS IN TRAINING, SIR!"
"WHAT DO YOU FEAR?"
"NOTHING, SIR!"
"WHAT WILL YOU BECOME?"
"THE SHIELD OF LADY SYRA!"
His nod was sharp. Final.
"Dismissed. Grab your wooden swords. Meet me outside the city walls. Today, we train in the wild."
"YES SIR!"
The formation exploded into motion. Trainees dashed for weapons, shouting orders and laughing like warhounds unleashed.
I stood still for a heartbeat.
So this was what it meant to fight.
To earn something.
To become someone.
As I reached for the wooden sword at the rack, my fingers trembled. Not from fear—but from something else.
Hope.
For the first time in a long time, I wasn't running from pain.
I was running toward it.
As soon as Captain Andrew left the training field, the silence didn't last long.
A few of the older trainees began to circle around me like sharks smelling blood.
"Hey, kid," one of them sneered, arms crossed. "Where you from?"
I hesitated but answered quietly, "Nazareth Village."
They exchanged glances, then burst into laughter.
"Nazareth? That backwater dump?"
"You sure you're here to swing a sword, not wipe the enemy's ass?"
"Maybe he's the mascot. Do we toss him treats when he finishes training?"
The group burst into laughter. My face burned, but I kept my mouth shut. They were all older—stronger too. Some had the muscle and posture of seasoned fighters. Compared to them, I looked like a malnourished stray.
I wanted to say something. Anything.
But nothing came out.
That's when a voice rang out—cool, calm, but firm.
"Enough."
The others turned. I did too.
A boy walked toward us, his gait slow but confident. He was around my age—twelve, maybe thirteen—but carried himself like he owned the entire field. His deep blue hair was tied neatly behind his neck, his uniform crisp and spotless.
His presence alone made the other trainees step back.
"That's not how we treat fellow swordsmen," he said flatly. "Back off."
"Tch... Here comes the noble brat," someone muttered before walking away. The rest followed, grumbling but retreating.
I was still crouched on the ground, unsure whether to feel relieved or embarrassed. The boy walked up and held out his hand.
"You alright?"
I stared at him for a moment, then slowly took his hand.
His grip was firm—commanding, but not cruel. He pulled me to my feet.
"Name?"
"Irori Konuari."
He blinked once, then smiled slightly.
"Unusual name. Sounds foreign. But strong."
I nodded, unsure how to respond.
"So," he said, tilting his head, "you're not here to steal Lady Syra's heart… right?"
"What?! No!" I said quickly, straightening up. "Of course not."
He burst out laughing.
"Relax, I'm just messing with you. I like your attitude."
Then his tone shifted—his voice colder, quieter, but somehow heavier.
"Because if you were... I'd have no choice but to kill you."
My chest tightened. "What…?"
"I mean, think about it," he said casually. "A young boy—red eyes, unusual look, suspicious background—joining this elite training program? If I didn't know better, I'd say you were a noble's son who saw her once at a party and decided to chase after her."
He chuckled. "But if you were that reckless, I'd consider you a threat. And I don't take threats lightly."
I swallowed hard.
"But you're not here for that," he said, tone shifting back to casual. "So... why are you here?"
"I'm... Lady Syra's slave," I said quietly. "She put me in this program. I didn't choose this."
For a moment, he stared at me. Then he burst into laughter again, this time less mocking, more entertained.
"That's rich. I see. So you're not competition. You're her property."
He looked pleased.
"Well, since you'll technically belong to her, and I plan on marrying her after earning my place as her knight... that means you'll belong to me eventually, too."
He flashed a grin.
"So go ahead—get used to calling me Master Alston. Consider it... a head start."
I stared at him.
And said, "Yes... Master Alston."
"See? Obedient. I like that."
He leaned closer, narrowing his eyes slightly.
"If Syra hadn't claimed you first, I'd have taken you myself. You'd make a fine personal dog. Loyal. Quiet. Unthreatening."
He stepped back and smirked.
"Yeah. I think I'll call you 'Crow.' Black hair. Pale skin. Red eyes. You look like something out of a funeral. The name suits you."
"Yes, Master," I said, voice steady despite the heat boiling in my chest.
He patted my shoulder mockingly, then turned and walked away, whistling like this was all some kind of game.
I stood there alone, fists clenched, jaw tight.
Crow, huh?
Let them mock me.
Let them laugh.
Let them forget that even crows can peck out the eyes of kings.
To be continued…