On the day when imperial forces crushed the capital, Princess Selena of Altia Kingdom faced an inevitable choice amid despair. Her father fell pierced by arrows on the throne, her siblings scattered in flight. With her mother's ring in hand, she abandoned the castle.
On the road, when a swarm of monsters attacked, a single man appeared. Dressed in ash-grey cloth with an old scar across his face, the taciturn mercenary's name was Galen. Without hesitation, he cut through the beasts. Selena hired
A roar tore through the night.
It was not just one.
From the depths of the grass, two, three, and more beyond. A herd of black-tusked boars was slowly tightening its arc around Selena Altis, who stood at the fork in the road. In the indigo darkness before dawn, the black silhouettes of beasts exceeding one meter in height wavered. One creature's eye reflected the faint light of approaching dawn and gleamed.
Selena did not move.
Her mind told her that running would be futile. Her feet were already heavy. Ever since leaving the castle, she had walked without rest, and her legs no longer possessed the strength to outrun these beasts. She had no weapons. No luminous crystals. Nothing to start a fire. Her thoughts methodically inventoried possibilities, and every shelf came up empty.
In her left hand, there was the weight of a ring.
A silver circle left behind by her mother. It had not come loose even in muddy water. Selena clenched her left hand around it. She was not without emotion. Something was crawling up from the depths of her feet, something real. But in this moment alone, she refused to give it a name.
The foremost beast of the herd kicked at the ground.
It's coming, she thought—
A flash of the blade ran forth.
It was not the speed of a line of light. Light is flashy. This was a quieter movement. A gray overcoat, melting into the indigo of night, fluttered. The blade traced an arc and entered precisely into the neck of the charging black-tusked boar. The beast fell. There was not a shred of wasted tension in that motion. Only the necessary muscles moved at the necessary moment in the necessary amount—that was the kind of movement it was.
The man stepped over the fallen boar and moved toward the next one. He did not turn around. He did not check on Selena. The blade moved with only one purpose: to sever one corner of the encirclement. The second beast fell, and the remaining creatures flinched for just an instant. In that gap, the man stepped half a pace to the right, slipped past the third boar's charge by shifting his body's trajectory only slightly, and drove his blade through its belly from below.
Selena watched.
Strangely, she had no room to feel fear. Her eyes simply followed the man's sword movements. Several trajectories remained as afterimages in her mind. The sword was calculating. The shift of weight, the charging speed of the beasts, where the next one would come from—it was moving with all of it factored in simultaneously.
The last beast charged straight at the man.
The man did not move. One second. Half a second. The moment she thought he had closed the distance, his body drifted just slightly to the right, and the blade passed through the beast's right temple. The black-tusked boar collapsed to the ground, spraying mud. Silence returned.
The man sheathed his sword. That sound echoed faintly across the night plains.
Only then did he turn around.
The lingering glow of a bonfire—a small one left behind by someone at the fork in the road—illuminated his face. Dark brown hair with a grayish tint, cut short. Silver eyes. A single old scar ran diagonally across his left cheek. His tall frame of 185 centimeters was naturally draped in a worn gray overcoat. No introduction came. No words came. The man simply looked at Selena. A gaze that seemed only to confirm whether she was alive.
Selena loosened her grip on her left hand slightly. The mark of the ring was etched into her palm.
"...A mercenary?"
It was not a guess but a confirmation. That movement was not that of a trained soldier. Soldiers fight within orders. This man's way of moving had the texture of someone who judges everything for himself. A mercenary—those who make combat their profession, a profession established as legal on the Versias continent—and one with the skill of someone who had survived for a considerable number of years among them.
The man nodded. Once.
Selena quickly assessed her body's condition. Her feet were one step away from being unusable. She had walked without rest for hours since leaving the castle. She was hungry. She had nothing in her hands. Her mind was functioning, but the body supporting it was nearing its limit. She could not cross the road to Ravaria alone—it was a fact she had already recognized during tonight's escape.
Words of gratitude did not come.
"I would like to hire you as an escort," she said quietly, deliberately suppressing any tremor in her voice. "To Vilnest, the public capital of Ravaria, to the northwest. I guarantee the reward in the name of the House Altia."
The House Altia. When those words left her lips, something creaked thinly deep in her chest. The kingdom had fallen tonight. The king was dead. And yet the name of the House Altia still held meaning in this moment—on the Versias continent, the House Altia was not merely the ruler of one nation, but the bloodline of mediators who had brokered the continent's trade routes and treaties for three hundred years. That blood and seal would retain their validity as guarantees for contracts exchanged between nobles and merchant houses even after the kingdom's fall. A nation might disappear, but the accumulation of trust does not vanish so easily—at least not so thin as to become worthless in a single night. Selena herself understood better than anyone how much weight the name of the House Altia carried tonight. Yet she used it. She had no choice but to use it.
The man was silent for a while.
His eyes examined Selena. Her face, her ring, her mud-stained clothes at her feet—in order. It was not an appraisal but an assessment of the situation. This man was not doubting whether Selena was truly of royal blood, but calculating whether this commission could be completed while keeping them both alive.
"The amount," he said—Galen Raizen—in a low, brief voice. Only what was necessary. No embellishment.
Selena stated a figure. Precisely, with basis. She had estimated the maximum amount she could withdraw from the public palace in Ravaria after arriving, then worked backward to arrive at a sum that would feel extraordinary for a mercenary. A number born from calculation, not emotion.
The man was silent again.
This silence was shorter.
He nodded. That was all. There was no handshake. No words of oath. This thin contract was concluded here tonight.
They began walking northwest.
──
The moon had tilted.
The night road was largely unpaved, and a gravel path of questionable width for a street continued on. To reach Ravaria, they first had to avoid Fergen, the Seiran River crossing point about sixty kilometers north of Eldenshia, then proceed via the southern foothills of the Volg Mountains toward the pass—the regular route likely had imperial army checkpoints. The man made that judgment silently. They walked along the edges of farmland, avoiding the regular route.
Selena walked three paces behind the man.
There were no words. The man made necessary judgments, and Selena followed them. The formation's meaning was determined naturally. The one in front conducted reconnaissance; the one behind was protected—but for Selena, the position of "being protected" was an unfamiliar sensation.
She observed the man's gaze movements.
Not just ahead. The farmland to left and right, the number and position of distant bonfires, the moment the wind direction changed. The man's attention was directed toward such things. He seemed to be reading the deployment of imperial army patrol units from something. From the spacing and pattern of bonfires scattered at the edges of farmland, he was inferring the movements of the sentries—knowledge that slightly exceeded what an ordinary mercenary would possess.
How does he know this?
That question settled quietly. Not as vigilance, but as doubt.
Selena did not ask. There was a judgment that now was not the time to ask, but simultaneously—she thought this man would not answer even if asked. To ask a question knowing the answer would not come was a small waste.
Meanwhile, the man was beginning to perceive something as well.
Selena's footsteps became slightly irregular at specific points on the road. The accumulation of exhaustion was seeping into her walking rhythm. Trying not to be noticed, Selena steadied her breathing and attempted to maintain an even pace. The traces of that "attempt to maintain" caught the man's observation instead.
This man is listening to my footsteps.
When that recognition solidified in Selena, there was an odd sensation. Not vigilance, not displeasure. A sensation with a more complex texture that could not be precisely put into words caught small and deep somewhere in her chest. Without examining it, Selena continued walking. Walking came first now.
──
When they reached the forest's edge, the man stopped.
After confirming the surroundings once, he turned his gaze toward Selena. There were no words. Only the fact that he had stopped was the signal.
A decision to make camp, Selena understood.
The forest's edge was a place where the open view of farmland cut off, and difficult to confirm from outside. When imperial army patrols passed through the road, the likelihood of reconnaissance reaching this far was low. It was a rational choice.
The man gathered dry branches, arranged them with stones so the flames would not spread too wide, and made a small bonfire. There was no excess in his movements. It was clear he had repeated this action many times. He was selecting dry branches so smoke would not rise.
Across the bonfire, the two faced each other.
The man silently removed the leather pouch from his waist and pushed it toward Selena. Not an order, not a suggestion. The pouch simply moved in Selena's direction. When she opened it, dried meat and desiccated fruit were inside. Traveling provisions carried by those accustomed to journeys, and from the drying method, something prepared with the assumption of extended camping.
Selena paused for a moment, trying to interpret the intent.
Then she let the interpretation go. She ate. The dried meat was hard, its flavor thin. The desiccated fruit had concentrated sweetness. The texture was entirely different from castle food—the quality of travel provisions. She was not eating frantically, but there was definite relief in having something in her stomach.
The man ate his portion quietly.
The orange light of the bonfire illuminated the space between them. The scar on the man's left cheek moved through shadow and light as the flames wavered. It was an old wound. From the texture of the skin, it was clear it had been there for years. How it came to be, she could not determine. From the angle and depth of the scar, she could tell it was from a blade. Beyond that, she could not know.
Galen Raizen—that was what he introduced himself as later. Beyond that name, the man said nothing. His origin, what mercenary unit he had served with, why he was walking here tonight—none of it.
The man's gaze touched Selena's left hand.
For just an instant. Before their eyes could meet, his gaze had already moved away. But he had definitely seen the silver circle on her left ring finger. The ring left by the queen consort—what those close to her called proof of the House Altia's legitimacy, a simple silver band. The man said nothing. He did not ask.
Selena was aware of that gaze.
She did not explain. Why she had this, what it was, what meaning it held—she did not choose to put these into words. Partly because the man did not ask. But not only that—when the man did not inquire, something small and reassuring was born somewhere in Selena's chest.
She did not understand the meaning of that reassurance.
It was good that she was not asked. Why was it good? If asked, she would have answered; the content was something she could answer. Yet there was reassurance in not being asked. That contradictory emotion's outline, Selena tried to confirm within herself—and then stopped.
The bonfire's flame wavered. Wind had com
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