The atmosphere in the manor's reception hall was completely different from usual.
Baron Foslin's customary calm expression was nowhere to be seen behind the mahogany table. In its place was Darko's tightly furrowed brow.
The faint sounds of fighting drifted in from the manor's main gate outside, mixed with the clamor of servants rushing about to put out fires. Those sounds were like invisible sledgehammers, pounding again and again against the taut nerves of the young nobleman.
At last, Darko sprang to his feet.
The dancing flames atop the candelabrum cast his restless silhouette onto the oak floor, twisting and warping as he paced back and forth.
On his third pass by the fireplace, he suddenly stopped, seized his sword, and strode toward the door.
"Young Master Darko!"
The instant he pushed open the oak door, a vigorous voice halted him in his tracks.
Though the old steward Charles's hair had turned completely silver, his upright figure was like the century-old pine in the courtyard.
The old man hurried forward, his eyes falling on the sword hilt clenched in the young man's hand. Worry appeared on his wrinkled face.
"Captain John is coordinating the battle. You really don't need to—"
"Uncle Charles."
Darko cut off the old steward. His knuckles had gone white from excessive force, and the family crest on the scabbard had left a deep imprint in his palm.
"When the soldiers are bleeding on the front line, I can't hide in the reception hall like a coward!"
The old steward's aged hand hung suspended in midair, his lips trembling.
"But—"
Darko shook his head. His gaze passed over Charles, and his voice lowered, carrying a trace of self-mockery.
"When Father was my age, he was already wielding a sword in the Border Legion. He had personally slain