The carriage rolled onward, its wheels humming low against the road, soft and unhurried. Inside, it was silent save for the occasional creak of wood and the steady rhythm of hooves.

  The girl sat with her hands folded on her lap, the worn strap of her bag looped around her wrist. Her back was straight, but not tense. She didn’t speak. Neither did the man seated across from her.

  Arkmarschall Leopold Strauss von Einhart sat like a statue draped in shadow and silver. Now, in the dim, enclosed light of the carriage, she noticed more.

  His coat, black and fitted, bore trim of silver thread. Tarnished, as if it had seen too many seasons under too many suns. The ornaments across his chest weren’t excessive, but each one had weight. Age. Purpose. A few looked older than the orphanage she came from.

  The girl shifted slightly. The weight of uncertainty, the sense of impending threat, it gnawed her mind. What will happened to me? She said. Rather than letting her mind wander off to an uncharted territory, she refocused on the man in front of him.

  Every part of him felt chosen. Every detail held intent. It wasn’t just nobility. It was armor made of habit and precision.

  Then her gaze moved to the carriage itself.

  It was, like its owner, meticulously composed. The interior was paneled in dark wood, unpolished but smooth, and edged in dull silver. There were no lavish cushions, no embroidered curtains, no gilded crests.

  And yet, what caught her eye most wasn’t the trim or the woodwork.

  It was the books.

  They rested in a small shelf built into the side, secured by leather straps. Some were old, their spines cracked with use, others newly bound and sealed. She recognized none of the titles, but even from where she sat, she could sense their value.

  Her fingers itched. It was the perfect distraction, something to divert her mind from constantly thinking about what horrid experiment they would do to her. After all, the Arkmarschall had outright said that he used and studied the child he took. If he hadn’t seen the necessity to even lie, that meant he didn’t care at all whether she would even survive the experimentation or not.

  Her gaze lingered too long.

  Without a word, Leopold lifted two fingers from the grip of his cane. A subtle movement—barely a gesture.

  One of the books slipped free from its strap, rose gently into the air, and floated across the space between them. It landed on the bench beside her with a soft thud.

  The title, written in silver leaf, read: "Foundations of Magic combat: Volume I."

  Not too advanced. Not too simple. A beginner’s primer for real study.

  She looked up at him. However, she didn’t dwell on it; her mind was still trying to keep the incoming dread at bay—a desperate barrier against the flood of panic threatening to drown her entirely. And she needed that book to patch the leaks. Still, a bit of courteousness was in order.

  “Thank you, Arkmarschall.”

  He did not look away from the window. He gave a slight nod.

  The road zigzagged like a snake slithering away. Sometimes she glanced up at the man in front of her, thinking that maybe looking at him would give the slightest hint of what she had agreed to.

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  But no, it was like staring into endless blankness. He neither frowned nor smiled; it was the perfect neutral, the impeccable zero, the middle line. If anything, looking at his face only brought more apprehension into an already muddled mind. So she decided to fully focus on her book.

  Hours bleed. She hadn’t noticed that it was slipping by, too invested in the pages of the book to keep track of anything else. The steady movement of the carriage, the quiet presence of the Arkmarschall, the book now resting in her lap—it all blurred together.

  But then the air changed. The wheels shifted with a subtle jolt. She looked up.

  Outside the window, the world was no longer forest or road.

  It was a littered wasteland.

  Rusting helmets, broken shields, snapped weapons, and shattered sigils—scattered like fallen leaves across soil that had not yet healed. Scorch marks marred the ground. Sections of earth were blackened and torn as if clawed by massive beast. Imperium banner lay collapsed, tangled in spears.

  It was a battlefield but not really, no, something was amiss in this scenery.

  There were no corpses. But the weapons and equipment felt as though they had been intentionally left behind—arranged not by chaos, but by choice. As if someone had wanted the scars to remain visible, a quiet warning or a grim reminder of what had come before.

  Beyond the battlefield, the first sign of civilization emerged—a wall. Tall, wide, and silver-veined, the outer wall of the castle town loomed like a threshold between two worlds. It was not made to be beautiful, but it bore a kind of somber elegance in its proportions. There were no cracks, no ivy, no wear.

  As the carriage rolled past the gates, the silver towers of Leopold’s citadel became clearer.

  They shimmered faintly in the light. Its stone walls bore the sheen of polished silver, untouched by ash or blood. The structure was tall and sharp, angular in design, almost cathedral-like in its proportions. High spires stretched into the sky, their peaks catching the fading sunlight like mirrors in twilight. A town spread out in measured grids and clustered lanes surrounding the tower. Stone buildings with steep roofs stood with quiet order, their colors muted by distance and ash. Here and there, the flicker of lanterns marked life.

  The girl leaned forward slightly.

  The battlefield around it felt raw, scorched and angry. Unearthed trenches gaped like open mouths. Spears jutted from the dirt like broken teeth. The smell of old metal, of oil and distant fire, clung to the wind. It should have made the castle look ominous.

  But it didn’t.

  Instead, it looked like a beacon. A place that stood untouched, unreachable by ruin.

  She stared, awe combined with unease creating a terrified wonder.

  This was no lone fortress. It was a castle town. And yet, it felt strange.

  Despite the battlefield at its gates, the town inside the walls appeared untouched by war. There were no signs of damage, no boarded windows or charred rooftops. The buildings stood neatly aligned, unscarred. It was almost eerie, as though conflict had never passed through its gates—or had been deliberately scrubbed away.

  What struck her even more was the color. Or rather, the lack of it.

  Every structure within the town bore the same palette: black, white, and silver. Roofs of dull slate. Walls of pale stone. Shutters painted in muted charcoal. Not a flowerbox, no decoration, not even a child's chalk drawing broke the monotony. It was like stepping into a painting made only with three pigments—a quiet, orderly world drained of warmth, yet not lifeless.

  The girl’s fingers curled slightly against her lap. She couldn’t tell if the uniformity was beautiful or unsettling. The pristine silver, the sharp edges, the quiet distance—that felt oddly familiar to her. As if the town itself floated above the pain it emerged from, unreachable and serene. Her thoughts flicked, unbidden, to the moon she had watched so many nights before: distant, cold, yet impossibly beautiful. This place felt the same. Suspended. Untouched. Out of reach. And in its center, above all, stood Leopold’s citadel like a polished blade.

  The streets were not empty. People moved about—merchants sweeping stoops, children carrying bundles of kindling, smiths talking quietly as they examined tools. Soldiers patrolled in well-kept formation, their steps measured and firm, but what struck her most was not their presence. It was the reaction of the townsfolk.

  Every person who saw the carriage gave a subtle salute—not hurried or fearful, but with steady, practiced grace. And on their faces, there was no intimidation. No dread. Only respect. Deep and total.

  This was a place that had seen war. But it was not cowed by it. Not broken.

  Few banners flew in the streets—none bearing the crest of the Reich. Instead, the banners that did hang bore only the sigil of House Einhart: a silver ouroboros, curled tight, its form smooth and unbroken, encircling the faint suggestion of an eye at the center.

  And in their eyes, as they gazed upon the sigil of the Arkmarschall, she saw a blaze that felt impossible to fake: reverence.