By dawn, the castle was already murmuring.
Roland walked the halls with his head lowered, the faint echoes of whispers trailing behind him like ghosts. Servants paused mid-step when he passed. Guards straightened sharply, faces unreadable. No one spoke directly to him, but he heard them anyway.
“He spared the boy.”
“A prince who shows mercy in Inferna…”
“If the undead rise inside the capital, whose head will roll?”
Each fragment cut deeper than Carmilla’s blade ever could. He kept his hands clasped behind his back, forcing himself to walk steadily despite the weight settling on his shoulders. He told himself he had done the right thing — that saving that boy at the execution was what the girl from his past life would’ve wanted. That mercy was strength.
But every stare told him otherwise.
Roland stopped at a narrow window overlooking the training courtyard. Below, guards sparred in pairs, their movements sharp and efficient, each strike punctuated by discipline and control. No hesitation. No mercy.
A bitter taste crept into his mouth.
He didn’t notice Leon until the older boy leaned casually against the opposite wall.
“You made quite the scene yesterday,” Leon said quietly, arms folded. His tone carried no judgment, only observation.
Roland looked away. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Leon shrugged. “Depends who you ask. For Carmilla, it seems she is waiting at the courtyard to tell you her opinions about it.” He turned and left without another word.
Roland immediately caught the meaning behind Leon's words.
Because now, it is time for his lessons.
***
The courtyard air was cold, carrying the faint metallic tang of steel and sweat. A thin mist clung to the flagstones as Roland stepped into the open square, wooden sword clutched tightly in hand.
Something was wrong.
Servants lined the walls, whispering in low tones. Guards stood at attention, their faces tense. Leon leaned against a pillar near the edge of the courtyard, arms crossed, his usual smirk absent. Even Flora was there, pale and stiff, her hands twisting the hem of her apron.
Roland turned to her. “Flora… why is everyone here?”
She hesitated, eyes darting toward the center of the courtyard where Carmilla stood, her back turned.
“Be careful,” she whispered.
Carmilla turned at that exact moment, dressed in plain black training clothes. Her braid was neat, her stance perfect, her wooden sword hanging loosely at her side. Her crimson eyes locked onto Roland’s, cold and sharp.
“Defend yourself,” she said simply.
Roland froze. “Wait, I—”
CRACK.
The first strike came without warning.
Pain blossomed across his ribs as the wooden blade slammed into his side. Roland staggered back, gasping, clutching his sword instinctively. Carmilla didn’t give him time to breathe.
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“You hesitated,” she said calmly, stepping forward. “Hesitation opens wounds.”
Her meaning wasn’t lost on him: you were too kind.
Roland raised his sword just in time to block the next strike. The impact rattled his arms, sending vibrations through his bones.
“Your grip is too soft,” she said quietly, circling him. “A blade without conviction cuts nothing.”
You forgave them, her words implied. And now Inferna questions you.
Roland’s teeth ground together. He lunged forward, trying to counter, but Carmilla flowed around his swing like water.
THWACK.
The wooden blade struck his forearm, numbing his fingers.
“You lower your head when you swing,” she murmured, her voice carrying across the silent courtyard. “When you bow, you invite the axe.”
Servants flinched at her tone. Flora pressed her hands together tightly, whispering something under her breath.
Roland forced his aching body upright, panting. “I’m trying,” he muttered.
“Trying gets you killed.”
She advanced again, each step slow and deliberate, her presence suffocating. Roland swung, desperate to regain ground, but Carmilla met every strike effortlessly. Wood cracked against wood, echoes bouncing off stone walls. Her movements were perfect — precise, elegant, merciless.
“Your guard is open,” she said softly, stepping inside his stance. Her blade tapped against his shoulder. “One weakness spreads. One link snaps, and the chain follows.”
She shoved him backward with a single push. He barely kept his footing.
“You rush forward blindly,” she said, her blade spinning lazily at her side. “And blind men fall first.”
Roland gritted his teeth and lunged again. This time, he tried feinting left, then cutting right.
CRACK.
Pain exploded in his thigh as her wooden blade struck cleanly, sweeping his legs from under him. He hit the ground hard, breath knocked from his lungs.
“Up,” Carmilla ordered.
He pushed himself to his feet, chest heaving, body screaming in protest. His grip tightened on the sword. He raised it once more.
And then Carmilla broke him.
She stepped in, parried high, twisted low, and brought the full weight of her strike down.
SPLINTER.
Her wooden sword shattered against his ribs, shards scattering across the stone.
Roland collapsed, the world tilting violently. He gasped, every breath like fire in his chest.
Carmilla stepped forward, raising the jagged hilt — ready to strike again.
Leon moved.
His hand caught her wrist mid-swing, grip like iron. “Enough, Lady Carmilla,” he said, low and steady, but his voice carried across the courtyard.
Carmilla’s crimson gaze slid to Leon slowly. Silence stretched taut, sharp as a drawn blade.
Finally, she released the hilt.
Wood clattered onto stone.
She crouched beside Roland, her voice soft — too soft.
“If you cannot withstand me, little brother…” Her breath brushed his ear, warm and venomous. “…you will not survive Father.”
Then she stood and walked away, leaving the shattered blade on the ground.
Roland lay there, chest rising and falling in ragged gasps, surrounded by silence.
***
Later, Roland woke to warmth.
He lay in his chambers, shirt discarded, sunlight spilling faintly through half-drawn curtains. Flora sat at his bedside, sleeves rolled up, her hand resting lightly against his ribs. Crimson light glimmered softly beneath her fingertips — the delicate glow of her sigil.
The pain dulled almost instantly. It was warm, soothing, like sunlight breaking through clouds.
Roland exhaled shakily. “Your sigil…”
Flora smiled faintly, not looking at him. “Just a touch closes the wound. It doesn’t erase the pain entirely — only enough to keep you moving.”
He glanced at his side, where faint pale lines etched across his skin like threads of glass. “Scars,” he murmured.
Flora’s voice softened. “Small reminders. The body heals, but it remembers.”
Her tone faltered slightly. For the first time since the courtyard, she let her worry show.
Roland’s gaze hardened. “I can’t keep doing nothing,” he whispered. “If I let things stay the same, Inferna will never change.”
Flora froze mid-motion, looking at him with wide, uncertain eyes.
“I want them to understand,” he continued, voice steady despite his exhaustion. “Mercy isn’t weakness. I’ll prove it to them — even if I have to start small.”
Flora hesitated, then reached up, brushing her fingers gently through his hair. “Then start small, my prince,” she whispered. “And I’ll make sure you live long enough to try.”
Leon appeared briefly at the door, leaning against the frame. His usual smirk was gone.
“Your fight isn’t with her,” he said simply. “It’s with the kingdom itself. I came here to check on you.”
Roland nodded “Im alright.”
Leon smirked “Good. Carmilla postponed your lectures for now. Consider it an opportunity will you.”
He then left without waiting for a reply.
Roland sat quietly, Flora’s hand still warm against his ribs, and stared at the ceiling.
“If they can’t understand mercy,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else, “then I’ll make them.”
The faint scars on his body burned softly, a promise etched into skin.
For the first time since his rebirth, he felt it — not just hope, but resolve.
This was the beginning.
