Charm, drinks, and a party.

Such was the feast that unfolded, a wild celebration of camaraderie.

Had there ever been a party like this before?

Enkrid tried to remember.

It seemed like the first in years. For the Border Guard, it was undoubtedly a first, and for Enkrid personally, it was one of the few moments in his life where such revelry had even crossed his path.

He had experienced something similar during his mercenary days.

But what had he done back then?

Merely wet his lips with a drink and immersed himself in reviewing battles.

"Come on, Commander, have a drink."

Plenty of people pressed cups into his hands—Finn, the company commander, and even Rem joined the chorus.

"When it's time to play, you play. Don’t be such a bore," Rem teased.

So, he drank. He never said he couldn’t drink—only that he didn’t enjoy it.

Gulp.

A sip. The sharp aroma teased his nose as the sweet liquid slid down his throat, warming his stomach.

"Not bad."

He wasn’t a connoisseur or a drinker by nature, but years of wandering had honed his palate.

After all, it’s said that a poor wanderer eats anything, yet learns to evaluate everything that enters their mouth.

"Must’ve cost a good amount of krona."

The battalion commander seemed to have spared no expense—or rather, the Border Guard itself must have footed the bill.

Surely, this hadn’t come out of Marcus's personal funds.

Regardless, he ate, drank, and allowed himself to relax.

If he resolved to rest, he did so with the same focus he brought to training. He understood too well that proper rest was essential preparation for what lay ahead.

Yet...

"Such a beautiful night under the starlight."

The sky was a tapestry of stars and moonlight, almost too precious a sight to pair with mere drinking.

"A sip is enough, brother. Would you care for an arm-wrestling match? Good, let’s go."

Audin’s voice carried from one corner, filled with delight.

"You bastard, always so picky?"

Rem’s confrontational tone followed.

"It simply doesn’t suit my taste."

Ragna shot back with his usual bluntness.

Where had Jaxon gone? To the city? Jaxon didn’t seem like the partying type.

Enkrid leaned back in his chair, surveying the scene.

Most were busy drinking and talking. Excited chatter, some soldiers boasting—half with curses—about their exploits.

Many approached Enkrid to speak with him, not just Finn and the elven company commander. In fact, Enkrid seemed to be the center of attention.

"I always knew you’d shine someday."

It was Vel speaking—a soldier Enkrid had once saved from an arrow, altering his fate entirely.

"So? Want to spar?" Enkrid joked.

"Spar? No way! I heard you’ve been taking down Border Guard veterans."

"That was just luck."

Luck. It had become a habitual phrase of his.

"Is that really just luck?" Vel muttered, chuckling with a bright smile.

Then Venzens approached.

"And you? What's on your mind?"

Venzens sighed deeply before dismissing his own question and asking for a drink instead.

Once, Enkrid wouldn’t have understood his mood. Now, he could.

Even seated, Enkrid offered a few words of comfort.

"The world is wide."

His tone carried the essence of the infantry’s mantra.

"And there are plenty of women."

Clunk.

Venzens stopped in his tracks. The emotions behind his earlier sigh—jealousy, envy—were transparent.

Having seen the elven commander and Finn offer Enkrid a drink, and noting the lingering glances of several female servers, Venzens’s frustration was clear.

Had the words been effective?

Venzens turned halfway back, his eyes blazing like ghostly flames.

"You bastard!"

Enkrid noted with satisfaction that his words had lit a fire in Venzens, replacing his despondency with determination.

"Jenny?"

Feigning surprise, Enkrid glanced past Venzens.

Venzens whipped his head around, only to see no one there.

The sound his neck made was something akin to a skeleton soldier coming to life.

"You son of a—? Let’s spar."

A spar? On a night like this? He had hoped to rest, but it seemed inevitable now.

"Fine."

Enkrid rose, and Venzens immediately regretted his challenge.

He knew from experience that Enkrid was far beyond his league.

But how could he back down now?

"They’re fighting!"

"Who?"

"Venzens, and..."

"The charming commander!"

There it was again—"charming."

Enkrid ignored most of the chatter, but that word clung stubbornly to his ears.

It felt so ill-suited to him.

There had been a time when Audin had called him stubborn.

That wasn’t true either, he thought. Just as "charming" wasn’t true.

This was all a misunderstanding.

"Hold up! A proper match needs stakes!"

Kraiss burst into the circle, having reappeared out of nowhere.

He glanced between Enkrid and Venzens.

"Did you know? Venzens here has secretly mastered an assassin’s art. Any takers for betting on him?"

No one answered.

The duel commenced without wagers.

Venzens swung his blade with all his might.

Enkrid, ever watchful, met the attack with precision.

He deflected the strike, tripped Venzens with his foot, and struck his thigh with his knee.

A seamless mix of fundamentals and improvisation.

"Argh!"

Venzens collapsed, clutching his leg.

"Hmm."

Enkrid felt unsatisfied, as though something had been left incomplete. A single move had ended it.

For someone aspiring to the upper ranks, it was disappointing.

"What did Rem say about soldier rankings? Something about it being... theatrical nonsense?"

Enkrid looked around, half-hoping for a new challenger.

Instead, he found himself met with gazes full of admiration.

He frowned briefly. It wasn’t reverence he sought—he wanted someone bold enough to attack him.

Recent challenges had dwindled, and the veterans of the Border Guard seemed reluctant to step forward.

Even the first company commander and the Border Guard veteran he’d spotted earlier avoided eye contact. Both were holding drinks and seemed uninterested in fighting.

"I was going to ask you for a drink."

The company commander muttered as he turned away, muttering something about "that lunatic."

Enkrid glanced behind himself, half-expecting to see Rem lurking there.

There was no one.

"What an amusing character," muttered the Border Guard veteran before walking off as well.

Enkrid noticed Finn and the elven commander watching him from a distance.

Beneath them, Esther yawned, her blue eyes gleaming under the torchlight.

The panther turned her head sharply, and for a moment, Enkrid wondered if she’d tried to cover her mouth with a paw.

"A panther that acts like a human..."

He mused as he prepared to sheathe his sword.

Though the situation left him with a lingering sense of incompleteness, he accepted that no worthy opponent had stepped forward.

Just as he was about to let it go—

"Are you serious about this?"

"Yes."

A conversation from one side caught his ear, accompanied by a palpable sense of resolve.

Enkrid instinctively placed a hand on his hilt, his body ready to move.

Turning toward the source, he saw Andrew.

Srrk.

Andrew wasn’t merely standing—he had drawn his blade, prepared to strike.

The way he held his weapon conveyed an unwavering determination.

The interplay of starlight and torchlight danced across his face, one side illuminated in blue, the other in red.

Calm and steady, Andrew spoke:

"I learned the Gardner family’s swordsmanship. I’ve honed it in battle and discovered that true mastery knows no surrender."

Mack, who had been standing beside him, quietly stepped back, as did the other soldiers.

A space opened between Andrew and Enkrid—a stage for their confrontation.

One stood with a hand on his hilt, the other with his blade already drawn.

Andrew’s fiery eyes met Enkrid’s. There was no reverence in them, only raw determination.

"I seek your guidance."

Enkrid studied Andrew for a moment.

The unwavering intensity in Andrew’s gaze—free of doubt, full of fiery resolve—pleased him immensely.

Somewhere nearby, the crackle of torches blended with the cool night breeze.

Spring’s magic, they always said.

"That saying," Enkrid thought to himself.

Enkrid tilted his head up toward the sky instead of answering.

The night was awash with starlight, a dazzling display shining through the moonlight. A world of cascading stars filled the heavens above.

Lowering his gaze once more, Enkrid spoke, his voice carrying a subtle weight.

“A perfect night for a duel, isn’t it?”

He meant it sincerely. Such a night, where the stars shone so vividly upon him, felt wasted on a mere banquet. On another evening, perhaps he would have immersed himself fully in the revelry, but not tonight. This night was different—too precious to simply let pass by.

“So be it,” Andrew replied, brandishing his sword.

Enkrid met him with a steady stance.

What had once begun as a tense relationship between scout and superior had evolved dramatically, now culminating in this moment. Andrew’s blade moved with a dancer’s precision, quick and unrelenting—a technique honed for finding and exploiting weaknesses.

Enkrid faced him with care, his focus sharpened to the utmost. He responded to Andrew’s determination with his own unreserved effort, matching him strike for strike.

Esther, observing from the sidelines, tilted her head curiously.

‘What an interesting night,’ she mused.

It was indeed an unusual evening, thick with magic. Sensitive individuals often described such nights as different, almost otherworldly, and perhaps that explained Enkrid’s restless, boundless energy.

The fight wasn’t long. The outcome was decisive.

“Alright, those who placed bets, get ready!” Kraiss’s voice rang out, vibrant and enthusiastic, as if it carried the energy of the entire gathering.

Thud.

Andrew fell backward, hitting the ground with a dull sound. Their exchange hadn’t even reached ten blows before the winner was clear. Enkrid stood over Andrew, offering him a hand and pulling him to his feet.

With Andrew upright again, Enkrid asked, seemingly out of nowhere, “Are you leaving?”

Andrew, catching his breath, nodded firmly. “Yes.”

“Why?” Enkrid probed further.

“There’s something I must do.”

If that was the case, there was no stopping him. Those who decide to leave must be allowed to go.

“I enjoyed this,” Enkrid said simply.

“So did I, Commander,” Andrew replied with a smile, one that carried the air of a younger sibling’s admiration.

“I’ve learned so much from you.”

Enkrid nodded in acknowledgment. To some, this banquet was merely a chance to drink themselves into oblivion. To others, it was an opportunity to gamble away their hard-earned currency in a flurry of excitement. For a few, it was a time to solidify bonds of camaraderie. But for Enkrid, under the starlight, this was a night to fight—a banquet perfectly suited for dueling under the celestial glow.

The night progressed, and as more spirited challengers stepped forward, Enkrid greeted them with open arms. The atmosphere shifted, energized by the heat of the moment, and he relished it.

By the end of the festivities, the night had been filled with drinking, laughter, and the clash of blades. Finally, Enkrid retired to rest, only to rise again at dawn, as if the night’s revelry had never occurred.

Morning marked the beginning of training, as always. Whether it followed a lively banquet or an uneventful evening, the routine remained steadfast.

But as Enkrid stepped onto the training grounds that morning, he was met by an unexpected guest.

***

The party carried on deep into the night.

The duty of maintaining the watch fell to another battalion, one that had not participated in the recent battles.

“My thanks,” Marcus said, addressing the subordinate commander who had taken on the task at his request.

“No need for thanks,” the commander replied, readily accepting Marcus’s request.

And why wouldn’t he?

Marcus was no ordinary battalion commander.

Upon his return to the capital, Marcus would hold a new status. He was a noble—one of the core members of the five most powerful families, wielding authority few could challenge.

“Very well.”

The commander departed, leaving Marcus to set down the bottle of wine he had been holding.

He had participated in the festivities more for the morale of his troops than out of personal enjoyment.

Marcus preferred tea over wine and often mixed the two when he did drink. He also had a strong preference for quiet settings over raucous ones.

‘Perhaps it’s due to my upbringing,’ he mused.

The tea ceremonies taught by his family had likely influenced these habits.

It was not a matter of importance; these preferences had become second nature, a habit not worth altering.

Marcus sipped his tea leisurely.

Even in his quarters, the boisterous sounds of the celebration echoed.

Although he had forbidden the summoning of courtesans, there were bound to be men who, under the influence of alcohol, would venture to the red-light district.

Tonight, however, was a time for leniency rather than strict control.

He decided to let most things slide.

As time passed, a few familiar officers stopped by to see him.

Some came out of a sense of deference, aware of his growing power.

Others, drawn to the legend of the “war fanatic” or inspired by his battlefield reputation, sought his company for their admiration.

Almost all the company commanders had made an appearance.

‘Almost,’ Marcus thought, noticing one absence.

The elven company commander was nowhere to be seen.

‘Not that it matters.’

Whether she sought to curry favor or avoided the gathering altogether was of little concern to him.

He shared tea and conversation with those present until dusk fell and the moon rose.

Eventually, Marcus retired early, slipping into a deep, dreamless sleep.

In the quiet hours before dawn:

Knock, knock.

“Commander,” came the voice of one of his guards, stationed as a sentry outside his quarters.

Marcus opened his eyes.

“What is it?”

He glanced toward the window. The light of the moon mixed with the faint pre-dawn hues of deep blue and soft orange—those fleeting moments signaling the arrival of a new day.

“You have a guest,” the guard reported.

It was far too early for visitors.

Who could possibly arrive at such an hour?

Whoever it was, their visit likely ignored human etiquette and noble decorum.

Marcus remained calm.

While the timing was unexpected, he had a suspicion of who it might be.

‘I thought they’d arrive tomorrow at the earliest.’

The war had only recently concluded, and he had heard that the battlefield was still being cleared.

Had this “gift” been sent in haste?

Or perhaps they, too, harbored a sense of anticipation.

“I’ll be right there.”

Marcus slipped a jacket over his shirt and stepped out into the corridor.

The "gift" had arrived, and now it was time to deliver it.

This gift had been carefully considered—meant for one specific person.

Enkrid.

The man who had earned it.