Chapter 86: Farewell and the Past

The three of them finished recounting their experiences. Baldur returned to the chapel, while Lucas was taken away by a Whitewing Knight—the Saintess intended to recruit him into the church’s order of knights.

The viscount went to inform the people of Violet Bastion of the holy decree: those conscripted as militia would be released, and those who feared the coming war would be evacuated to the rear. Most of the outsiders would leave the city. As for those willing to stay, they would not be forced out; Violet Bastion still needed some of its population to keep daily life and logistics running smoothly.

The residents here had yet to truly taste the brutality of war. Their homes were in Violet Bastion—many would still choose to remain. But as the Icelanders’ front advanced and the breath of death pressed ever closer, those still clinging to illusions would eventually depart, wouldn’t they?

Leaving while there was still a chance was the wise choice. Unfortunately, most would not display such wisdom.

Though Viscount Quentin could see a little further into the future, he had no intention of abandoning Violet Bastion. This was the land his father and ancestors had passed down to him. He’d grown up in this city, and as the eldest son, he’d wielded a knight’s sword from an early age under his father’s strict tutelage, following him in campaigns against bandits, monsters, and pirates from across the icy sea.

He had followed his father’s teachings and the family’s legacy, becoming a professional warrior and mastering the Quentin family’s signature martial technique. Only those who comprehended the family’s heart-blade could inherit the title. Every Quentin viscount had been a valiant guardian knight, and Colton Quentin was no exception. This was the land where he had grown, where he had put down roots, and where he would one day die.

He had already chosen his grave, wishing to be buried beside his father, unwilling to disappoint that man in death. He had resolved to entrust his most trusted lieutenant, Filippo, with sending his children to the rear, to the protection of the Simone family, with whom his eldest daughter was to marry—a family with whom theirs had long been allied, their ancestors having once fought side by side on the battlefield.

The Quentin bloodline would continue on. As for himself, Colton Quentin would uphold the glory of his forebears, defend the Quentin stronghold, and safeguard the people who remained. The strength of the Quentin family came from this will to protect; he would never forget his father’s teachings.

His horse’s hooves thundered as the viscount galloped toward the castle at the city’s edge.

Meanwhile, beneath the chapel’s statue, Lucas swore an oath. His old companions hurried in—a young ranger, a short-statured rogue, a swordsman, and a towering man carrying a tower shield.

Among the four, only the archer seemed truly young, perhaps just past twenty; the other three had clearly entered middle age, the years etched onto their faces.

They had been summoned by the guards, as the viscount sought witnesses to confirm Lucas Porter’s identity. But they arrived a little too late; the viscount had already departed.

Still, they were overjoyed to be reunited with their comrade after a year apart, staring in slight shock at Lucas, battered and covered in wounds.

He hardly looked the same. The night before Lucas had left, he’d drunk with them till dawn, laughing loudly, swapping tales of old adventures. Then, Lucas had seemed little more than a middle-aged man, but now there was something different in his eyes—a new presence entirely.

Where once he’d seemed easygoing, now he was like a blade, red-hot from countless hammer-blows. Between professionals, one could sense another’s aura—it was mysterious, hard to explain, but in battle, you could keenly feel another’s strength, the conviction in their heart.

No one felt Lucas’s change more than those who had fought by his side for years.

The shield-bearer asked, “Lucas, did you break through?”

Lucas nodded to his four friends, a genuine smile finally appearing on his face. “Zeno, Harlin, Marius, Joniva—it’s good to see you all again.”

“Lucas, your wounds... what happened to you? Are you about to become a paladin?” the ranger asked.

Lucas replied, “I’ve simply decided, like you, to stay and defend against the invaders.”

“It feels like the old days, the five of us on a mission,” the swordsman said with a smile.

The rogue, a little sour, added, “We’d planned to visit you and your sheep when the snow melted, never thought you’d reach silver rank first.”

Lucas laughed heartily. “I may not be able to teach you how to shovel dung anymore, but at least we get to fight together again, don’t we?”

The rogue said nothing, just punched Lucas’s shoulder with a clenched fist.

Under the gloomy sky, old friends reunited, letting them forget their sorrows for a moment.

Yet Lucas cast a worried glance toward the interrogation room. York had been left there by the Saintess and had yet to emerge.

After some time, the dwarf finally appeared, crossing the corridor with a Whitewing Knight following behind. The dwarf stopped in front of Lucas.

“Porter, York must part ways with you,” the dwarf said. “They’re going to take him to Saint Peter’s City by gryphon and riverboat.”

Lucas turned to the Whitewing Knight. “Honored knight, my friend may have made mistakes in the past, but he is not an evil man. Could you please petition Her Highness on my behalf? I wish to see her once more.”

“It’s all right, Porter,” the dwarf said. “Her Highness has assured York that no harm will come to him. He’s just to spend a while in Saint Peter’s City, answering some questions. They’ll even stop in Opal along the way. As a dwarf, York has never seen his ancestral homeland—visiting where his grandfather grew up might do him good. Maybe he’ll find relatives there.”

“Are you leaving of your own will, York?” Lucas lowered his gaze to meet the dwarf’s eyes.

“Don’t worry, Porter. Her Highness hasn’t forced me. But I must say farewell. Who knows if we’ll meet again?”

“No matter where we are, I’ll never forget the road we traveled together,” Lucas said.

“Thank you, Porter,” York replied.

Lucas bent down and hugged the dwarf. “May your journey be safe, my friend.”

Tears shimmered at the corners of York’s eyes. “And may you find safety too, Porter. Since my grandfather passed, you’re the first to hug me. I hope you stay safe. I’ll write your story down, Porter, tell it to others like a bard would.”

Lucas smiled and addressed the Whitewing Knight. “Please, sir knight, take good care of my friend. He may seem timid, but when it matters, he can be relied on. He’s a skilled alchemist and an excellent healer, learned and kind-hearted. Even the loss of a kitten would move him to tears. Please don’t be too harsh with him.”

The Whitewing Knight glanced at the dwarf and nodded slightly. “Come, Master York. I, Percival Elliott, will escort you to Saint Peter’s City. On my honor as a Whitewing Knight, I swear no evil will befall you.”

The dwarf sniffled, wiped his eyes, and followed the knight to the place outside the city gates where the gryphon had landed.

Lucas waved farewell, and the dwarf waved back with all his might.

“Goodbye, Porter.”

“Goodbye.”

They both knew this might be their last farewell.

In the confessional, the Saintess stood by the window, silently watching the reunion and parting below. A Whitewing Knight with chestnut hair approached, holding a tray.

“Your Highness, I’ve brought their food,” the knight said, setting the tray on the table. “Are there any issues with these cookies and oatcakes?”

The Saintess turned and gazed at the pastries. “Nothing, Vanessa. I was just reminded of old times.”

“Your Highness’s old times?”

“Would you like to hear, Vanessa?”

“But... about Your Highness’s past...”

“I have now inherited the name of Seraphia, one of the Five Saints. Those things are no longer taboo. If you wish to hear them, Vanessa, I can tell you.”

“I wouldn’t dare presume.”

“Then sit and listen. That’s an order.”

“This...” The Whitewing Knight hesitated, then sat down. “As you command, Your Highness.”

“It was more than a decade ago, Vanessa. Back then, I had no inkling I would become the Saintess, nor did I know that my strict tutor, Charlotte, was the Mother Superior. She taught me harshly in a place filled with sunlight. Every day was exhausting, but at least once a month, she’d grant me half a day off to taste my favorite sweets.”