The guest room of Ozuna's Inn was quiet, the only sound the crackle of the hearth and the distant, rhythmic thumping of the city outside.
Cecil sat upright now, her back against the headboard. The color had returned to her cheeks, but her eyes—deep, burning red—seemed to be looking at something far beyond the wooden walls of the inn.
Arthur sat on the edge of a wooden chair, leaning forward. Alfia, Meteria, and Nana stood by the door, their initial territorial prickliness softened into a heavy, respectful silence as Cecil began to speak. She didn't speak of the ritual first. She spoke of the snow.
"Solingen was a place of white and iron," Cecil began, her voice steady but hollow. "A small village in the shadow of the northern peaks. We weren't much to the world, but we were everything to each other."
She described a life that sounded like a tapestry of silver and steel. Her father, Erwin, had been the village's shield—a warrior whose laugh was as loud as his sword-stroke.
Her mother, Carla, was the fire—a master blacksmith who had taught Cecil that a blade was not just a tool, but an extension of one's soul.
Under the grueling tutelage of Vladimir, a veteran with more scars than stories, Cecil had grown strong. She had spent her days sparring with Ryan, her best friend, dreaming of the day they would leave the frost behind to see the golden fields of the south.
"The elders said the mountains were safe," Cecil whispered, her fingers knotting in the wool blanket. "They said the ancient wards would hold. They were wrong."
The attack hadn't been a skirmish; it was an erasure. Under the cover of a magical blizzard, a tide of monsters—frost ogres, ice bears, and a disciplined horde of goblins—had poured over the palisades.
"I remember the smell first," Cecil said, her gaze dropping to her hands. "Burning pine and wet fur. My father pushed me toward the central plaza, his shield already splintered. Vladimir... he stayed at the north gate. He told us to run, that he was too old to flee and too stubborn to die quietly. He bought us ten minutes. It cost him everything."
She told them of the desperate flight through the woods. Of how she had watched her father fall beneath the clubs of the ogres to give her a chance to breathe. And finally, of Ryan.
"We reached the frozen creek," she said, a single tear tracing a path through the faint soot still on her cheek. "A goblin sniper... he didn't miss. Ryan fell in the snow. He didn't cry. He just looked at me and told me to live. He made me promise. And then his eyes went quiet."
Arthur felt a phantom ache in his own chest. He knew the 'lore' of this world was often tragic, but hearing it from a girl whose grief felt as tangible as the stone under his feet was different. This wasn't a quest description. It was a eulogy.
"I wandered for days," Cecil continued. "I was a ghost. I had no home to return to, and no strength left to find a new one. But the Yatan Church... they had been watching Solingen. They didn't want the village; they wanted a sacrifice. They saw a girl who had lost everything but her will, and they thought my blood would be a 'pure' offering of despair."
They had ambushed her in her sleep. Exhausted, starved, and broken-hearted, she had still managed to draw her sword, taking two of them down before their dark magic had turned her blood to lead.
They had dragged her to the ruins of Patrain, biding their time until the moon was right to open their dark gate.
"I sat in that darkness for three days," Cecil said, finally looking up at Arthur. "I thought Ryan's promise was a lie. I thought there was no point in surviving if it was only to end up on a stone slab. And then... the wall exploded. And I saw you."
The silence that followed was heavy. Nana bit her lip, her hand dropping from the hilt of her sword. Even the competitive fire in Alfia's eyes had been replaced by a somber reflection. They had all lost something to this world, but Cecil had been stripped to the bone.
Arthur sighed, the weight of his 'Legendary' burden feeling heavier than ever. He wanted to tell her to stay here, to find a quiet life in Patrain. But he saw the set of her jaw. If he left her here, she wouldn't heal; she would simply fade away.
"You're a warrior, Cecil," Arthur said, his voice low and serious. "And you come from a line of smiths. You're not built for a quiet life behind a bar."
Cecil nodded. "I have no home to go back to, Lord Arthur. My purpose died in the snow. If you let me follow you... I can find a new one. I can be the Spear you don't have time to draw."
Arthur looked at the girls. Nana gave a sharp, reluctant nod. Alfia and Meteria exchanged a look and sighed in unison.
"Alright," Arthur said, running a hand through his hair. "If this is what you really want, you can travel with us. But I have one condition. One rule you never break."
Cecil leaned forward, her red eyes wide. "Anything."
"You have to value your life," Arthur said, his tone dropping into a deadly, unyielding seriousness. "I don't care about 'servitude' or 'debts.' I don't care if you think you owe me your soul. You fight to survive. You don't throw your life away for me, or for glory, or for some misplaced sense of martyrdom. If we walk into the fire, we walk out together. Do you understand?"
Cecil felt the weight of his words. It wasn't a command; it was a recognition of her worth. "I understand," she whispered. "I promise. I will live."
"Good," Arthur said, standing up. He felt the Level 12 fatigue finally beginning to lift as his mana regenerated. "By the way... I realized I never asked for your full name. If we're going to be traveling together, I should know who's watching my back."
The girl straightened her shoulders, a spark of her mother's pride returning to her posture. A soft of a smile touched her lips—the first real light he had seen in her.
"My name," she said clearly, "is Cecil Blackliza."
Arthur froze for a fraction of a second. Blackliza. In the hidden lore of the northern kingdoms, the Blackliza clan were known for their high grade battlegears.
He looked at her hands—calloused from the forge and the hilt. He hadn't just rescued a victim. He had found a legacy.
"Blackliza," Arthur repeated, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "Well, Cecil Blackliza, welcome to the party. Try to keep up. We have a lot of levels to make up for."
Outside the room, Nana crossed her arms. "Fine. She can stay. But I'm still the rearguard."
"And I'm still the one who handles the mana calculations," Alfia added, though her voice lacked its usual bite.
Arthur walked out into the hallway, flanked by his growing, complicated family. He was a Level 12 with a legendary heart, a fallen prince in a world of giants, and now, he was the leader of a group of girls who had all, in one way or another, been forged in the fire of loss.
"Airgid!" Arthur shouted down to the common room. "Bring up some stew! We have a long walk to the Earl's manor tomorrow, and I think we've earned a decent meal."
As the smell of savory beef and root vegetables wafted up the stairs, the shadows of the Yatan Church felt a little further away. The Sun was still low on the horizon, but for the first time since the mountain, Arthur felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.