Chapter 98: A Promise to the Fallen

A few days before Sir Peter’s departure to House Bluemoon

Peter stood silently by the tall arched window, gazing out over the sprawling courtyards of the captured Vane Estate.

"Vice-Leader," Corbin and Drake spoke in unison as they entered the room. Drake had arrived only a few days prior, his body still wrapped in bandages as he recovered from the severe injuries sustained during the battle.

Peter turned slowly to face his two Knight Commanders. His voice was rough, strained by internal trauma that still throbbed painfully within his chest. "What is it?"

"Sir... what do we do now?" Drake asked, his brows furrowed in utter confusion. He still could not comprehend why they had turned on Count Thorn, nor why the Bluemoon forces hadn’t executed them on the spot. The sole reason they had fought so fiercely under Thorn was to secure an elixir capable of healing the old injury Peter had suffered years ago—an injury even the greatest healers had failed to treat despite the enormous fortune they had spent searching for a cure.

"It seems neither of you yet understands what transpired at Blackstone Ravine," Peter smiled faintly, his thoughts drifting back to the mysterious boy in black armor.

Corbin and Drake nodded eagerly. During the climax of the battle, both commanders had been too deeply locked in their own clashes to fully process the terrifying display of combat between Peter and the young warrior. Afterward, they had simply obeyed Peter’s orders without question.

"Please tell us, Vice-Leader," Drake pressed, his tone hesitant. "Even our mercenaries are demanding answers. They don’t understand why House Bluemoon spared us, why you are following their orders, or who that mysterious black knight really was..."

"It seems you two have grown far too accustomed to the mercenary life," Peter said, a sudden edge of cold sharp anger entering his voice. "So much so that you have forgotten why our organization was established in the first place."

The moment those words left Peter’s mouth, both Corbin and Drake stiffened. The sudden anger from a leader famed for his unflappable calm sent a chill down their spines.

Peter glanced sharply at Corbin. "Your battle instincts are dulling. How could you fail to recognize it?"

"What do you mean, Vice-Leader?" Corbin asked, his heart skipping a beat.

Peter leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, heavy whisper that struck their ears like sudden thunder.

"We have found the King’s Successor."

For a moment, neither Corbin nor Drake moved.

Then—

"Whattt?!" Drake blurted out, his eyes widening in shock. "Vice-Leader... is that true?!"

Corbin’s mind reeled, flashing back to the clash at Blackstone Ravine. He remembered feeling a strange familiarity in the posture and fluid footwork of the black knight while Peter fought him.

No way... Corbin realized, his breath catching as he finally understood why Peter had singled him out. "Then... the knight in black armor... he was..."

"Yes," Peter confirmed calmly. "He is the Successor."

"Then we should bring him with us immediately!" Drake declared impulsively.

"No," Peter countered softly. "The Supreme Leader remains in deep seclusion and will not emerge for several years. Until then, our absolute priority is to support and protect the Successor from the shadows." Peter thought back to the helplessness he had felt when that sudden pressure descended upon them, leaving him feeling as though he had knocked on death’s door. Then came the mysterious feminine voice that had emerged after it vanished, taking Ethan away while promising to return him later.

"But didn’t he vanish right after the battle?" Corbin interjected, his brows knitting together.

A heavy silence fell over the room. The long-sought heir to their ancient legacy had appeared, only to disappear back into the mist.

"We should ask Countess Luna," Drake suggested. "She must know where he went."

"Don’t worry," Peter said, a rare flick of uncertainty crossing his gaze before he smoothed it away. "She assured me he will return."

"He has to," Drake said, his eyes burning with renewed fervor. "We’ve searched for centuries. Even if we have to comb every corner of this continent, we will find him."

Peter smiled quietly, looking out the window once more. "We will return to House Bluemoon soon. Once the Successor returns, we will hold a meeting."

The Bluemoon Estate — Morning of the Funeral

The morning mist hung heavily over the cobblestones of the Bluemoon Estate courtyard, damp and unyielding under the gray dawn sky. Arranged in five precise rows stood fifty wooden caskets, each draped in pale blue cloth—the color of House Bluemoon—and marked with a hand-carved name token laid across the chest.

At the head of the courtyard stood Countess Luna. For the first time since the war ended, her formidable spear was nowhere to be seen. She wore formal mourning robes of dark charcoal, her blue hair bound tightly back. Beneath her eyes lay faint shadows of lingering grief, yet her posture remained unbroken.

To her left stood Teresa, her hand resting heavy and motionless on the pommel of her sword, her knuckles bone-white. To her right stood the Head Butler, Sir Ben, holding a parchment list of the deceased that he knew he would never need to read—every name was already burned into his memory.

A short distance away stood Sir Peter, Corbin, Drake, and a few of their mercenaries. Though Peter had initially objected, Luna had personally requested them. She knew Peter had played a crucial role in bringing down Thorn, and she recognized their strange, unyielding connection to Ethan. Though she didn’t fully understand the dynamic, Ethan’s order to spare them had proven deliberate—he had foreseen every piece of this victory from the beginning.

Behind them gathered the grieving families—mothers holding small children, aging fathers leaning heavily on wooden canes, and wives staring blankly at the pale blue banners. The silence in the courtyard was absolute.

A priest of the God of Life stepped forward, clad in simple ivory robes devoid of gold ornamentation. Carrying a shallow silver basin of consecrated water, he walked slowly down the first row of caskets, using a sprig of dried olive wood to cast a single drop onto each wooden surface.

"Life is a thread borrowed from Mother Earth, and to her embrace we return when our time has come," the priest intoned softly, his clear voice echoing through the morning chill. "We ask not for the living to understand the weight of loss, but for the strength to carry the memory of the fallen, until the loom is complete."

Finishing his blessing, the priest stepped aside and bowed to Luna.

Luna stepped forward, holding a carefully drafted speech prepared by the estate’s scribes—words of grand political unity and noble sacrifice. But as her eyes swept over the fifty blue-draped caskets and met the tear-streaked faces of the families, the formal words felt hollow and meaningless.

Slowly, without a word, she folded the parchment and handed it back to Sir Ben.

A quiet murmur rippled through the crowd, but Luna simply took a slow, steady breath.

"I cannot tell you what their last words were," Luna began, her voice cutting clearly through the damp morning air. "Nor can I promise that their loss will hurt any less as the months pass. They did not march onto the battlefield for grand glory or praise. They marched because their children, their wives, their parents, and their homes were behind them... and they believed it was worth protecting."

She paused, looking directly at a young boy holding his mother’s hand in the front row. "To the families who lost a son, a husband, a father, or a brother—House Bluemoon lives today because of their blood. I give you my solemn word: the future we build on these lands will be worthy of the price they paid. Your families will never starve, your sacrifices will never be forgotten, and as long as I draw breath, no tyrant will ever march across our borders again. And if they dare... I will be the first to make them pay in blood."

Then, Countess Luna did something that stunned every noble and veteran officer present. She did not offer a formal, hand-over-heart noble salute. Instead, she stepped back, bent her knees, and bowed deeply from the waist—a humble, genuine gesture of absolute reverence reserved only for equals, an act entirely unheard of for a reigning noble.

Standing nearby, Sir Ben’s breath hitched in his throat. He looked at the young woman he had protected since childhood, now bowing before the common soldiers who had given everything for House Bluemoon’s survival. A quiet, fierce pride swelled in the old butler’s chest.

A second priest—clad in dark leather and iron, bearing the mark of the God of War—stepped into the center of the courtyard. His words were short, hard, and devoid of gentle comfort.

"They stood their ground. They did not break. Their blood nourishes the realm, and their honor remains stainless. May the Great Forge welcome their souls!"

He slammed his iron staff against the cobblestones.

CLANG.

At the signal, veteran knights stepped forward to lift the caskets. The procession began its long, somber march toward the eastern hillside—the traditional burial ground of House Bluemoon.

Luna walked at the very front. Though Sir Ben had quietly offered her a carriage, she refused. For nearly three hours, she matched the slow, agonizing pace of the funeral march on foot, climbing the winding dirt paths that led up the grassy slopes.

Teresa walked a few paces behind her, her sharp eyes catching the subtle tremor in Luna’s shoulders and the way her steps slowed near the peak. Yet Teresa remained silent, respecting the Countess’s unyielding resolve to walk every step of the journey alongside her people.

By early afternoon, fifty fresh grave markers stood neatly lined across the eastern hill overlooking the valley below, under a clearing blue sky.

The families slowly began to disperse, escorted back to the lower city by estate attendants to receive their compensation and grain rations. Soon, only Luna remained standing on the quiet hillside, the cool wind tugging gently at her charcoal robes.

"I promise you," she whispered quietly to the quiet earth, repeating her vow to the silence.

A single tear slipped free, tracing a slow path down her cheek before falling silently into the grass at her feet.

Then, a hand rested gently on her shoulder.