Anthesis of Sadness
Chapter 67: The March of Honors

Chapter 67: The March of Honors

One day, Olfred came to find me, his face grave but tinged with a satisfied gleam.

He told me that the crystals had been found, that the beast had been slain, and that, in recognition of these successes, the lord was planning to organize a ceremony in my honor.

An official reward, laden with pomp and politics, where it would not only be a matter of gratitude, but also of alliances, weighted glances, and silent promises.

The visible part of a debt that was never truly forgotten.

That day, I had laid down my weapons, abandoning for a time the harshness of the warrior.

I had taken care to shave, to trim my beard precisely, and to discipline my unruly hair.

When I finally looked at myself, dressed in my kimono with elegant and sober lines, I easily recognized the effort made to conform to the finery.

At my side, Lysara walked with fierce grace, dressed also in a kimono — or rather a fine armor, recently forged for her, hugging the shape and elegance of a traditional garment with almost supernatural precision.

Together, we advanced, no longer simply as warriors, but as figures sculpted for the stage that awaited us.

Olfred’s staff had taken great care to prepare her appearance.

They had made her up with meticulous precision, highlighting without burdening the delicacy of her features.

To my eyes, she was magnificent, my student, transformed without being betrayed.

They had chosen a bright red for her lips, a vivid shade that starkly contrasted with the delicate paleness of her skin and the discreet refinement of her kimono-armor.

She stood tall, silent, impassive, true to herself — a statue of determination.

But to my eyes, behind that restraint, she shone with a fierce light, eclipsing anything the ceremony could offer.

And we arrived at the palace.

In front of its immense black doors, imposing as walls of night, a crowd had gathered.

A sea of faces, eager glances, and hushed whispers.

It was as if the entire people had assembled there, drawn by the promise of spectacle, by curiosity, or by the simple rumor of a grandly bestowed reward.

The air vibrated with a muted tension, made of anticipation, excitement, and perhaps also a hint of fear.

I didn’t know why, but a strange, dull, and persistent sensation began to creep over me.

Something was off, imperceptible but very real.

Beneath the applause and cheers, a deeper tension vibrated, almost palpable, like an invisible thread stretched to the breaking point.

This ceremony... it was not just a reward.

It concealed something else, a truth lurking behind the smiles, the gilding, and the protocols.

And already, deep inside, a part of me was on alert.

A long strip of red fabric had been laid out in the midst of the dense crowd, like a solemn artery opened at the very heart of human murmurings.

It cut the mass in two, imposing a single, relentless direction, leading straight to the great doors of the palace.

Olfred led the march, his dignified and impassive bearing defying the stares.

I followed closely behind, my back straight, my eyes fixed straight ahead, forbidding myself the slightest distraction.

At my side, Lysara advanced with the same rigor, her steps perfectly matched to mine, silent and focused, like a faithful shadow ready to share everything — the honor as well as the peril.

Her face, though made up with remarkable care, remained frozen in a mastered expression of indifference.

But I knew her too well to be fooled.

Behind that smooth façade, I read the tension in her slightest gestures: that slight, almost nervous movement of her neck, that tiny clenching of her fingers, which no one else would likely have noticed.

She was ready, of course — as always — but not at ease.

Beneath her calm appearance, she stood on a razor’s edge, alert, aware, she too sensing that something was amiss here.

Despite the inner turmoil, my heart beating harder than I would have liked, I knew I had to keep up appearances.

Each step had to be controlled, each gesture, measured.

I walked slowly, shoulders squared, as one ascends toward an altar... or toward judgment.

The crowd parted in our path, moved by a mixture of respect, sometimes tinged with fear.

The glances settled on us, heavy with multiple meanings: some bore sincere admiration, others barely concealed mistrust.

Every whisper, every brushing of fabric seemed to feed the invisible fabric of rumors, which always traveled faster than the truth itself.

Here, reputation preceded facts, and what people thought they knew already carried more weight than what had actually happened.

We finally arrived at the steps of the palace.

The staircase, wide and majestic, carved from dark stone veined with natural shadows, rose before us like a spine of pride and power.

Each step seemed to bear an ancient weight, engraved by generations of forgotten ceremonies.

At the very top, an imposing balcony overlooked the square, towering above the crowd like a symbol of silent domination.

It was there, under that gaze of stone and authority, that the lord awaited us.

There that honors would be bestowed... or that other, darker designs might reveal themselves.

Lysara briefly turned her head toward me, her gaze meeting mine for a moment.

No word was exchanged — none was needed.

We understood silence better than any words.

A mute agreement, forged by trust and clarity.

Then, in a single movement, we began the ascent of the steps.

Each step echoed softly against the stone, heavy with the solemnity of the moment.

And when we finally reached the top, my gaze rose, relentless, to settle on him — the lord who awaited us, frozen in the stark light of the balcony.

The lord stood there, upright, immobile, like a living statue shaped in raw will and unshakable authority.

His cape, heavy and majestic, fell in powerful drapes over his shoulders, woven from fabric so rare it seemed at once to absorb and reject the light, as if hesitating between revealing its richness and concealing its origin.

Every fiber exuded respect, luxury, and testified to the abundance of resources that few realms could boast of possessing.

On his brow rested, as always, that strange, unfathomable crown — not sparkling with jewels, but heavy, almost oppressive, bearing an invisible weight.

It seemed to enclose ancient secrets, forgotten oaths, and inspired less admiration than caution, even the mute fear of those who dared look at it too long.

His two hands rested calmly on the hilt of a sword standing before him, the blade firmly planted in the balcony floor, like a ritual column anchored in the stone itself.

It was not a ceremonial weapon, meant to flatter the eye; it was an ancient blade, every engraving, every imperfection whispering forgotten stories.

It seemed to absorb the ambient noise, imposing around it an almost sacred circle of silence.

A latent power emanated from it, dense and suffocating, as if the steel still bore the echo of the oaths and battles it had seen.

He dominated this region — not only by his title, but by the sheer force of his presence.

An indefinable power emanated from him, subtle and yet impossible to ignore.

His aura did not crush by brutality or ostentation: it imposed, naturally, inevitably, a form of respect that was anything but forced.

It was an authority that weighed on the shoulders without ever bowing the back, that inspired admiration without seeking to charm.

A being of mythical rank, forged from a substance that few men could even comprehend, and this invisible essence vibrated in every fiber of the air around him, like a silent wave.

Behind him, a dozen people, dressed with carefully calculated elegance, formed an impeccable, almost ceremonial line.

Judging by their extravagant finery, studded with precious embroidery and rare stones, they could only be the high nobility — those who lived at the top, far from the tumults of the people.

Their clothes seemed almost provocative in their opulence, shamelessly displaying the excess of their wealth.

Yet their gazes betrayed more complex feelings: some were cold, distant as ice; others, curious, evaluating, weighing every detail; and there were a few, rarer still, where one could glimpse a fleeting flicker of worry, as if the certainty of their power had wavered, if only for an instant.

And then there were the four generals.

Imposing, each in their own way, they stood there like pillars of steel, unshakable and silent.

Their armors, though different in their ornaments, all shared the same aura of contained brutality, of absolute discipline.

They did not move, not even a breath, but their silence was heavy, almost crushing, charged with a muted tension.

It was the kind of silence that spoke louder than any speech: a mute warning, a demonstration of pure force, ready to be unleashed if the slightest threat dared to rise.

I stopped a few steps from the balcony, Lysara standing at my right, straight as a drawn blade.

She seemed to vibrate with controlled tension, her whole being stretched in silent discipline.

The wind, discreet accomplice to the scene, brushed her kimono in an almost ceremonial whisper, making the fabric ripple with sober and solemn grace.

In this suspended moment, every detail — the breath of the wind, the tension in the air, the silence of the palace — seemed charged with a meaning that only those present here could feel.

Before us, history was about to be written — or to slam shut abruptly, like a door closing on a possible future.

Every heartbeat seemed to weigh in the air, every second suspended on the edge of the unknown.

We were on the brink of a decisive moment, where fate left no room for hesitation, where a single gesture, a single word, could seal what came next — or destroy everything.

I went down on one knee, my right hand solemnly placed on my heart, exactly as I had been taught for those occasions where protocol mingled with survival.

At my side, without the slightest delay, Lysara did the same, her movement as fluid as mine, perfect in its synchrony.

No word was exchanged, no glance was necessary.

Only the gesture mattered, charged with respect, caution, and that silent tension floating around us.

The moment seemed suspended, fragile, and all that existed then was the held breath, beating in unison with our restrained hearts.