Arthur's gaze returned to Brin. He remained silent for a moment, then made a decision that no one, especially Brin, could understand.
He said to Brin and the nine men behind him, "You may go."
What? Everyone stopped their movements. Both Arthur's soldiers and the kneeling captives turned their gazes to Arthur, their minds blank.
Brin suddenly looked up, his eyes filled with error. His brothers behind him also exchanged glances. He wondered what he was saying, suspecting he had misheard.
Arthur did not explain. He raised the first Lion Sword forged in the Lion's Den with one hand, a longsword with a lion emblem inlaid on its hilt.
He gripped the scabbard, extended his arm forward, and raised the sword horizontally to his chest. This was a gesture of presenting a sword.
"What?" A faint smile appeared on Arthur's lips. "Don't dare to step forward and take the sword?"
"Or rather, do you not need the goodwill I am showing you?"
Brin was completely stunned. He had imagined being cut down by a flurry of blades, being humiliated, being tortured, but he had never imagined this development.
He looked at the fine sword in Arthur's hand, then at Arthur's unfathomable eyes. For a moment, he didn't know how to react.
His brothers behind him tugged at his clothes, signaling him with various looks not to go, that this might be a trap.
Brin ignored them. He released his grip on the battle-sword he was leaning on, letting it fall into the mud. He took a step, and under everyone's gaze, he walked step by step towards Arthur.
Arthur's guards were signaled by Arthur to stop, forced to sheathe their half-drawn longswords.
Brin walked up to Arthur and stopped. His gaze fell on the Lion Sword; its magnificent hilt was completely out of place with his identity.
He extended his blacksmith's hand, full of calluses and scars, and gently touched the cold hilt.
Then, he still withdrew his hand and shook his head.
He refused.
The surrounding soldiers were surprisingly angry, and Lucien was also extremely annoyed. They had all been guessing who Lord Arthur would bestow this first sword upon. How could this person be so ungrateful? This was the first Lion Sword of the Lion's Den.
"Truly a fine warrior." Arthur said nothing, only took back the sword and returned it to the guards.
He turned to the side, not angered by Brin's second refusal to be recruited, and still cleared the only path for them.
Brin's eyes widened in shock. He gave him a deep look, then turned and whispered something to one of his brothers, Colin, and the bandits he was protecting behind him.
Colin hesitated for a moment, but finally, under Brin's stern gaze, he and the bandits threw down their weapons and walked into the group of captives.
Having done all this, Brin led his remaining eight brothers and silently walked past Arthur. They did not say goodbye, did not look back, their footsteps heavy and firm.
The entire camp was deathly silent. This was Lord Arthur's command and decision. The declaration had been made earlier. No one dared to speak, no one dared to stop them. As their figures were about to disappear into the dark forest at the edge of the cliff, Brin finally couldn't resist. He stopped and gently looked back.
There were no pursuers, no ambush, no trap. He was truly letting them go. He truly kept his word.
Brin's gaze seemed to pierce through the cliff, as if he saw the young lord known as "Black Lion."
He was truly letting them go.
When Arthur finished all his affairs and led the main force back to Hake's temporary camp, it was already late at night.
The smell of blood on the cliff lingered. Now that he had left Offshore Cliff, he could finally breathe deeply and freely.
Torches illuminated the camp as if it were daytime. The soldiers were clearing spoils of war, lighting bonfires, and organizing their gear.
"Alert!! Alert!!!"
Suddenly, the patrolling soldiers ahead caused a commotion, shouting for an alert. The soldiers quickly entered combat readiness.
At the end of the torchlight, in the dark forest, several figures emerged.
The leader was Brin. He came out of the darkness with his remaining eight brothers.
Arthur signaled the soldiers not to attack, not to obstruct, and to clear the way.
They walked through the crowd of soldiers, ignoring their strange looks, and stopped in front of Arthur.
Brin's expression was very complex, no longer the resolute defiance from the cliff top or the acceptance of his impending end. Instead, it was mixed with confusion, and a hint of rekindled flame—this flame was hope.
He once again harbored a belief in revenge. It had been many years; if not for his hatred, he would have given up his life long ago. But assassinating a Great Lord of Westeros was not an easy task. Except for the first time, he had never been able to get close to the opponent again.
Under the influence of these mixed emotions, he spoke: "Can I trust your promise!"
Arthur said nothing, only nodded, making no vow.
In Arthur's view, sometimes human words were all lies, and only body movements could express the true thoughts of the owner.
Brin glanced at his brothers beside him, then, this blacksmith who had decided never to bow to any noble, this man who would rather die than kneel, took a deep breath.
His tall body sank slightly, as if he was about to kneel on one knee.
But a pair of strong arms steadily supported him, stopping his kneeling motion.
Brin looked up, seeing that it was the young lord supporting him, unsure of his intention.
"Your return is your own choice." Arthur looked into Brin's eyes and slowly said.
He released his hands, stepped back, and his gaze swept over Brin and the eight silent warriors behind him. Their faces were also filled with complex emotions.
"I don't need your knees, nor do I need vague vows."
Arthur's voice was exceptionally clear in the quiet night.
"People do not become loyal by kneeling or making vows."
"You trust me, and I will trust you."
"That is all."
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