The summons came just after dawn.

A faint knock, barely more than a brush of knuckles against wood, stirred Atheon from the map he'd been studying. He lifted his gaze, jaw tightening instinctively.

Only one person knocked like that.

"Enter," he said.

The door creaked open, and First Lieutenant Maren stepped inside.

Still in half-armor, dirt smudged across her cheek, hair braided back in a curt, efficient sweep—she looked like someone dragged straight from the front lines rather than someone preparing for a political briefing. Her eyes, sharp as cut steel, studied him for a moment.

"You're wanted in the east hall," she said softly. "The adept commanders are waiting."

Atheon didn't move right away. He let his gaze rest on her longer than necessary.

"You came yourself," he noted.

Maren shrugged. "Someone had to drag you out before you overthink us into a useless battle."

He grunted something that might have been a laugh and finally stood.

As they walked through Vester's interior corridors—the stone still damp from night condensation, the torches giving off the dull scent of old smoke—Maren kept pace beside him, shoulder brushing his once as the hallway narrowed.

Usually she kept a professional distance.

Not today.

Something in her posture was tighter. Hesitant. She was hiding it well, but Atheon could read tension the way others read words.

"You're troubled," he said.

"No," she answered.

Then, after two steps:

"Yes."

Atheon turned his head slightly. "Say it."

Maren's throat flexed.

"You're walking into a den of snakes. And I'm… tired of watching you bleed for people who don't deserve it."

His steps slowed.

"Maren."

She kept walking.

"So let's get this over with," she muttered. "Before I say something I can't take back."

But Atheon already knew.

And that knowledge sat heavy in his chest as they reached the great doors.

…

The east hall was already stirred awake: candles lit, chairs arranged, maps unrolled. Adepts Rowan Kadesh and Vaelith Crownhold stood near the oval table—one built from darkwood polished so many times it gleamed under torchlight.

They looked up when Atheon entered, Maren taking her place near his right shoulder.

Rowan's voice boomed first. "Fist of Men. Lieutenant Maren I take it. Good—you're both here."

Vaelith offered his polite, snake-smooth smile.

"We've matters to settle before Outpost Vester tears itself apart."

Atheon stepped forward, arms folded.

"Then speak."

Vaelith gestured to the map. Lines divided the outpost into sectors, arenas, noble boxes, trial zones, and sponsorship halls.

"This outpost is a battleground," Vaelith said plainly. "Not just against the Shroud, but between the Houses. The Trials determine future funding, elite resource flow, and political leverage."

Rowan continued:

"You know most of this already. What you don't know is the rule structure. If you enter as an independent unit, you must adhere to them."

He lifted a finger.

Squad Formation

"Your squads must be formalized under a banner, with a recognized color. Rank assignments, combat roles, and internal hierarchy must be documented."

Atheon's jaw set.

"We've chosen burnt orange."

Rowan nodded approvingly.

Arena Combat

"Every week, squads face off in controlled arenas. Not to the death—but bones break easily enough. And the nobles… enjoy a performance."

Vaelith smirked.

"You'll be pleased to know wagers on you are already climbing."

Atheon glared.

"You're encouraging soldiers to kill each other for the amusement of nobles."

"It's better than the Shroud killing them, plus the benefits are impeccable." Rowan countered.

Maren shifted behind Atheon, a muscle ticking in her jaw. She hated this politics almost as much as he did.

Trials Scoring

Vaelith spread a parchment.

Monster hunting quotas

Arena wins

Patrol success rates

Survivability scores

Resource protection missions

"The top three squads will receive rare cores, enchanted weaponry, advanced medical rites, rank promotions, and—"

Atheon cut in:

"Sponsorships from Houses who don't care if we die."

Vaelith didn't deny it.

Noble Interference

"No squad may be owned by a House," Rowan said, "but Houses may invest resources."

"Bribes," Atheon muttered.

"Incentives," Vaelith corrected.

Maren stepped forward, Atheon's silent support at her back, her voice low yet steady.

"What you're offering isn't survival. It's a gamble."

Vaelith met her gaze. His words casual with a sweet calming tone.

"In the Shroud, everything is a gamble."

Atheon was silent for a long moment.

Then he asked the question that froze the room:

"I really want to know. What happens if we refuse?"

Rowan and Vaelith exchanged a single look.

Then Rowan answered:

"You won't be forced.

But without Trial access, you'll receive the lowest resource priority. Lowest reinforcements. Lowest medical support."

Vaelith folded his hands behind his back.

"You'll be outmatched, outnumbered, and eventually—"

He tapped the map where Grimm Hollow once stood.

"Outrun."

The message was clear:

Refuse, and Atheon's squad would die quietly.

Accept, and they might die loudly.

But dying loudly meant something.

Atheon's fingers curled into fists.

"I accept."

He turned sharply, cloak snapping behind him, Maren following close.

…

They walked through the hallway again, slower this time. Torches flickered over their armor, each shift in flame casting shadows across Maren's features.

She broke the silence.

"Why did you accept? You know you're no good at fighting in the noble's backyard—politics isn't your strength."

"It might save my men… at least the ones we still have."

"It might kill them faster."

Maren stopped walking. Atheon stopped too, several paces before the barracks door—just far enough that no one else would see them.

Her voice dropped.

"Atheon. You're afraid."

"I'm not afraid of the Trials," He said.

She stepped closer.

"Then what?"

His breath hitched, barely perceptible.

"You," He whispered.

The admission lingered in the narrow hall like a fragile thread stretched between them.

Maren swallowed.

"Atheon…"

"Don't." He looked away, jaw trembling before stiffening again. "If you enter the Trials as an initiate—even a high-ranking one—you'll be pushed harder than most. Every advantage will cost you blood. Every fight demands you throw yourself in completely, without holding back. I've watched you come close to death for years. Those times, at least, were for fighting abominations. This… this is just for some pompous prick's amusement."

A pause.

"Eventually, there won't be anything left of you."

Maren's chest tightened—an emotion far rarer than fear.

"I'm not easy to kill," She said softly.

"That isn't what I'm worried about."

He finally met her gaze.

"I'm worried about what you'll become."

The honesty struck her harder than any blade ever had.

As they made their way to his room in the east quarters, Atheon lifted a hand—slowly, giving her space to pull away. She didn't.

He touched her cheek with the back of his knuckles, brushing away dirt she hadn't noticed. Maren's breath stilled.

"You're not my lieutenant right now," he murmured.

"And you're not my commander," she whispered.

Their foreheads nearly touched.

Her eyes flicked down to his mouth for half a second—one heartbeat too long.

That was all it took.

Atheon cupped her jaw gently, thumb tracing her cheekbone.

Maren leaned in—

A breath apart—

Then paused, searching his eyes.

"This is not right," she murmured.

"So is everything else."

The kiss was soft.

Careful.

It was not a claim nor a conquest—just a confession long overdue.

When they pulled apart, Maren exhaled shakily.

As he led her into his room, she hesitated for a moment. He brushed a hand against her, drawing a shiver from her lips, grabbed the buckle keeping her clothes compact and pulled. There was a tension between them—rough yet careful, commanding yet tender.

She moved closer, letting herself return his touch, as her hands slipped into his clothes feeling his shaft , a connection she hadn't anticipated. She rubbed her hands on them stimulating it as a salvo of liquid wax released from it intermittently.

The air between them seemed to thrum, filled with anticipation and unspoken desire. Each glance, each brush of skin, was electric.

Atheon's usual dominance softened slightly in her presence, though it was still there, undeniable. He ripped her shirt as he scooped her up, her ass cheeks firmly pressed on his hands. She met him halfway, daring and curious, as the atmosphere thickened with emotion, placing his directly at her breasts as he suckled it. The moment felt like it could stretch on forever, a silent acknowledgment of the pull between them.

Atheon pulled his zipper down from his uniform as his shaft was made to breath the stale air of the room. Maren's eyes met his, and she understood the gravity of the moment, the invisible line about to be crossed between them.

And then it did ( 1000 words later)

The bond between them would never be the same. The Fist of Men was a force to be reckoned with in these parts, and First Lieutenant Maren was formidable in her own right. Yet she remained a reflection of a vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to feel. It was well known that a blade could end a life in an instant—but emotions could be just as lethal, if not more merciless.

For some enemies—sadistic to their core—true strength did not lie in open-field battles, breaking bones and taking lives as a vanguard. No, they thrived as weapons, honed in the hidden corners of a garden. But this was no ordinary garden—it was the backyard of a noble, nourished with lies, watered with distrust, and pruned with hatred for what it lacked. Power, strength, wisdom, and skill were all necessary—but a trace of relentless cruelty was often the difference between being the gardener shaping the garden and the fruit ripe for consumption.

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