The city of Roa pulsed with life, though its scent was far from noble. A blend of hot bread, sweat, horse manure, and cheap alcohol hung heavy in the air.
Paul walked through the bustle, idly spinning a leather strap from his scabbard between his fingers. Merchants shouted, street kids darted through the crowd with practiced ease, and lazy guards chatted while eyeing the throng.
At the gates of the citadel, two guards stepped forward. One reached for his weapon, but the other laid a calming hand on his shoulder.
"Relax. It's Paul," he said with a nod. "Go on through."
Paul smirked and strode past them.
The garden beyond was quiet. Only the gentle trickle of a fountain and the distant clang of metal broke the stillness.
At the far end of the courtyard, a man moved across the grass. Shirtless, he carved invisible patterns through the air with a blade. His movements were fluid, but carried a dangerous precision.
Paul stopped and watched. Philip was good. Too good. It annoyed him. A few servants stood nearby, silently observing their master with reverent awe — they knew they were watching a true swordsman.
"Hah. You swing that sword like some housewife airing laundry. My grandma could outduel you in her sleep," Paul called out with a laugh.
Philip glanced up at him but didn't stop. The blade continued its graceful arcs until the final form was completed. Paul folded his arms, watching.
"You gonna keep flailing around or are you trying to impress the gardener?"
Philip exhaled, wiped his neck with a towel, and walked over.
"Just waiting for you to open your mouth and make a fool of yourself again."
Paul grinned. Philip reached out his hand. They clasped forearms — a solid, firm grip, his palm calloused with years of training.
"Good to see you."
"You too."
Philip gave a brief nod.
"Still afraid of duels, I take it?"
"What's there to be afraid of?"
Philip raised a skeptical brow.
"Seriously? After three losses in a row, you're still feeling lucky?"
Paul shook his head and stepped closer.
"No, Philip. Just wanted to remind you of something."
"And that is?"
Paul clapped him on the shoulder.
"If I ever fight seriously, you might get hurt..."
"Then maybe we should test that." Philip flipped the sword in his hand and stepped forward. "I wouldn't mind putting you back in your place."
Paul laughed.
"Alright. First blood. If I win, you're buying — and not that piss they serve in your place. I'm talking real stuff… Red Lion, for example?"
"And if I win?"
"You won't."
Philip smirked and tossed his sword at Paul's feet.
"Keep underestimating me, and you're gonna regret it. I'm still a Boreas."
"Then prove it."
Philip struck first — a sharp thrust aimed at Paul's shoulder. Paul shifted sideways, his blade flashing upward to deflect the blow. Philip flowed into a new stance instantly, bringing his sword down in a diagonal arc. Paul barely raised his weapon in time — steel clashed with a jarring vibration that shot through their arms.
"You've slowed down," Philip noted.
Paul didn't answer. He stepped forward abruptly, closing the gap. Philip jerked back, but Paul was already ducking under his guard, swinging low toward his ribs. Philip parried hard, then countered with a swift riposte.
"Dirty tricks now?"
"I'm thirsty."
Their blades flashed, ringing through the quiet, mixing with the hum of insects. Paul shifted slightly to the side, luring Philip into a favorable angle — but Philip didn't bite. Instead, he abruptly changed rhythm — one, two, three rapid strikes, forcing Paul to retreat.
Then Philip lunged. His sword slashed downward, and Paul barely caught the strike. But Philip wasn't done — he pivoted his stance, twisted his wrist, and his blade slid down Paul's edge before flicking sharply.
A thin red line opened on his own shoulder.
"Looks like I'm buying," he muttered.
A laugh answered.
"Damn right you are," Paul called from the side.
Philip looked down at the cut — narrow but bleeding.
The servants watched in stunned silence.
They stood there a moment before Paul lowered his sword and smirked.
"Enjoy your evening. And don't forget your purse."
He turned and walked off, leaving Philip alone, who stared after him with a crooked grin creeping across his face.
"Bastard…"
***
Walking down the corridor of the manor, Paul let his gaze drift across the massive walls draped with lavish tapestries and paintings. Everything looked the same as on his last visit. The air still carried that familiar scent — money, power, and the stale sweat of old nobility.
Turning the next corner, he saw a young woman in the doorway. White hair. An eyepatch over her right eye. Dark skin marked with a fine web of scars stretched across her body.
A chill crawled down his spine. His fingers instinctively tightened on the hilt of his sword — then he forced them to relax.
"Hey, Ghislaine. Long time."
Ghislaine, a master of the blade, lifted her head and stared at him. Her lips were pressed in a flat line, her expression unreadable. Paul knew she was one of the few people who could turn him into minced meat in seconds.
"Yeah."
Her left ear twitched. A cat's ear — because she was a beastfolk. Her voice was low, raspy, brimming with quiet strength and authority.
"Didn't expect to hear you took a job with the Boreas family. As a bodyguard, no less."
"Yeah."
Same bored look as always.
The fact she'd settled down surprised him. Ghislaine was far stronger than he was, but he never would've pictured her trading adventuring for manor security. Honestly, it stung a little — Sauros hadn't offered him the job. Though, even if he had, Paul would've refused.
"How's life treating you?"
"It's fine."
She crossed her arms, tilted her head. Her ear twitched again, eyes holding that lazy, predatory glint — like a cat right before it pounced.
"Life in the manor?"
"Why the fuck are you here?"
Sharp-tongued, like her sword. She never cared for small talk.
"I need to see Sauros. Where is he?"
"Listen. You'll hear."
Paul grimaced, but obeyed. His aura stirred — hearing sharpened, and the world burst into sound. Heartbeats. Footsteps. The rustle of servants' clothes. Hinges creaking. Voices behind walls.
And clearly — from one particular room:
"Come here."
Sauros's voice.
"Ahh… oh…"
A woman's voice.
Paul turned away from the door and looked at Ghislaine. She didn't blink.
"Looks like he's... busy."
"Yeah."
"When's he free?"
Ghislaine eyed him lazily.
"Soon."
"So, wait here? Or come back later?"
"There's space."
Paul sighed, dropped into a chair, and glanced around, looking for anything to pass the time.
"So how'd it happen? You, working for a noble house?"
He waited for the usual "yeah," but instead Ghislaine's brow twitched.
"Fuck off."
"Got it. Quiet it is."
He bit his tongue — when she showed any emotion beyond boredom, it was better not to push it.
The door creaked open, and a cat-eared maid stepped into the corridor. Bright blue eyes, twitching ears, a satisfied smile. She glanced at Paul and Ghislaine, then disappeared around the corner.
Then came another. Then a third. A fifth. A seventh…
All dressed differently, but clearly: maids.
Paul snorted.
"Looks like the old man hasn't changed."
Ghislaine didn't flinch.
"WHO THE HELL IS STILL OUT THERE?!"
Sauros's voice boomed down the hallway like he was chasing off cattle, not calling for someone.
Last time I showed up unannounced, he threw a roasted chicken at me. Here's hoping I don't catch a bone to the head this time.
The thought passed through Paul's mind as he pushed open the door.
***
The room reeked of sweat, wine, and some sweet incense that failed to cover the rest. Visually, it looked like a storm had torn through: pillows on the floor, an overturned pitcher under the desk, and a lone stocking dangling absurdly from a chair.
Sauros sat behind a massive desk, flushed and content, a goblet in one hand and a huge slab of meat in the other. He was just about to take a juicy bite when he saw Paul—and frowned, like a fly had landed in his wine.
"Oh. It's you…"
The old man set his goblet down with a grunt, wiped his greasy fingers on the edge of his cloak, and waved a hand lazily.
"What the hell do you want?"
"Just checking if you're still alive. They say old age starts when it takes longer to recover than to perform."
Sauros snorted and slapped the table with his free hand.
"Paul, tell me something—do you show up only when I'm in a good mood just to ruin it? Or is that some kind of curse you've got?"
"More like a natural gift," Paul said, eyeing the trashed room. "Though I've got a theory: you do a damn good job of ruining it yourself."
"Go to hell..." Sauros muttered, cramming more meat into his mouth. "Fine, you're here. Say something useful."
"I need a word."
"Not about morals, I hope."
"Still searching for those?"
"Hah! I gave that up. Morals? That's just what poor folks talk about to feel better. The rich have money. Warriors got swords. Whore's job? Sucking my cock. Philosophers? They just fucking whine."
"Solid logic. You forgot to mention nobles have taxes—and servants to wipe their asses for them."
"Exactly. Though, sadly, the servants can't enjoy the booze and women for me. Shame, really…"
Paul rolled his eyes and dropped into a chair opposite.
"My boy's got a talent. Magic."
Sauros froze with his goblet halfway to his lips, then slowly set it down.
"Bullshit."
"I wish I were. The kid grabbed a grimoire, read something by himself, and boom — the attic looked like a bunch of swordsmen tore through it. Everything was cut up, and he was elbow-deep in blood."
"Now that I understand! Kid's got some steel in him. No sword, sure, but who am I to judge?"
"Yeah, and he almost sliced his own damn arm off…"
"Eh, happens. You started throwing punches before you could speak."
"The difference is, I used fists. He—"
Sauros snorted and waved a hand.
"Means he's not stupid. If he didn't drop it after that, he won't."
"Exactly. That's why I need a teacher. Someone who can make sure he doesn't die the next time."
"And you came to me? I'm good at many things, but magic's not on the list."
"But you can find someone who is."
"Oh, that I can." Sauros smirked. "Let me guess: you want me to file an official request with the Mages' Guild?"
"Exactly. But don't say who it's for. Just write that you need a mage who doesn't ask questions."
"Oh, Paul, Paul… You want me to find you a teacher who doesn't know who they're teaching and doesn't ask why. Do you even realize what kind of people say yes to that?"
"As long as they know their stuff."
Sauros scratched his chin, thoughtful.
"You know, I like your style. It's like hiring an assassin and saying, 'Don't ask who, just kill.'"
"Perfect analogy. You'd know."
"Alright, fine, you talked me into it. I'll file the request. But if this mage turns out to be nuts, don't come crying to me."
Paul blinked. Then again.
"That's it?"
"What do you mean, 'that's it'?" Sauros raised a brow.
"You're just… agreeing? No shouting? No rant about how you don't owe anyone anything?"
"I can shout it if you want."
"No, it's just…" Paul grimaced. "I figured I'd be begging you for half an hour."
"Yeah, usually I enjoy being begged," Sauros drawled. "But you've been coming to me with crap for so many years, I've learned to tell when it's serious. And when you show up not for yourself, but for someone else — that's rare."
He stretched, his neck cracking, and sighed.
"Or maybe I'm just getting old."
Paul smirked.
"Don't say it out loud. You'll scare me."
"Scarier than it already is?" the old man snorted. "Especially with that redheaded hurricane in the house, either sparring with the guards or swinging a blade till her arms fall off."
"Eris?"
"Well, who else? I even tried making her into a proper lady, sent her to a noble finishing school. A week later they sent her back with a letter saying, 'Your granddaughter broke three students, two more are in tears — please don't send her again.'"
Paul choked on a laugh.
"You're kidding."
"I wish!" Sauros barked, half outraged, half amused. "So I thought, screw it, let's try at home. Hired tutors. Guess where the fifth one is now?"
"Ran off?"
"Yup. Fourth jumped out a window to get away from her."
"And you still wonder why your hair's turning grey?"
"Don't remind me. If you think you're the only one with a monster kid — forget it. Yours blows up attics with magic. Mine's burying me alive, one tantrum at a time."
Paul shook his head.
"You want her? I can throw in a granddaughter. Two-for-one deal."
"Don't you dare."
"Then get the hell out of here before I change my mind. And—Paul."
"What?"
"You're a good father, you know. Caring like this."
Paul snorted, rising to his feet.
"You're a shit philosopher, Sauros."
"But I'm a goddamn genius when it comes to drinking myself unconscious."
"Can't argue with that."