Armor didn't fit right.
Too big in the shoulders. Too tight around the ribs. Every step felt like walking in a cage, and the damn thing creaked loud enough to wake the gods.
Still… he didn't stop.
This was it.
The Hall of Banners was dead silent. Just wind slipping through old windows, stirring the flags that hung above. Crimson. Gold. Blue. All faded. All from kingdoms that didn't exist anymore.
Igris walked to the center, knelt, and laid his sword across his palms. Blade up. Hands steady.
He didn't feel ready.
Didn't matter.
A heavy voice cut through the stillness. "Igris of House Varcan."
He looked up.
Commander Vellor stood tall in front of him, flanked by two knights in full plate. No faces. Just polished steel and silence.
"You come to take the First Oath," the commander said. "Do you understand what that means?"
Igris swallowed. "Yes, sir."
"You'll obey without question. You'll die without hesitation. Even if your king asks you to burn your own blood—you do it."
"I understand."
Vellor stepped forward, pulled a short blade from his belt, and took Igris's hand. The edge slid across his palm—quick, practiced, like it was nothing. Blood welled fast.
"Say the words."
"I, Igris of House Varcan… swear my life, my sword, and my soul… to the Crimson Order and the will of the King."
Blood dripped onto the steel, soaking into the hilt.
No cheers. No ceremony.
Just a weight that settled in his chest like stone.
Vellor handed him a helmet—crimson plume, polished plate, too heavy for one head.
"You are The Bloodred now."
Outside, nothing had changed.
The world still turned. Markets shouted. Guards marched. Somewhere below, a kid was crying over a scraped knee while his mother scolded him like it was the end of the world.
Igris stood by the overlook, helmet tucked under his arm, blood still drying on his hand.
Didn't feel like a knight.
Didn't feel like anything.
"Not what you expected, huh?"
He turned.
A girl stood a few steps away. Lean frame. Black braid. Healer's robes. Civvie, definitely. She wasn't supposed to be up here.
"…Do I know you?" he asked.
"Nope." She walked up anyway. "But I know that look. You're thinking about running."
He didn't answer.
She sat down next to him like they were old friends. Like the silence belonged to both of them.
"I'm Lyria," she said.
"…Igris."
She gave him a small smile. "Yeah. I figured."
They watched the city in silence. Bells chimed somewhere far off. Clouds moved slow across the rooftops.
He didn't speak again. Neither did she.
It was the first time all day something had felt… real.
That night, Igris lay in his bunk, staring at the helmet beside him.
The crimson plume caught the moonlight like fire.
He didn't sleep.
Not really.
The barracks were quiet, but his thoughts weren't. Every creak of wood, every breath from the other bunks, pulled him further from rest. His hand throbbed from the cut. The blood had crusted dark against his palm, half-smeared from where he'd wiped it on his blanket.
Was this what it meant to be The Bloodred?
Because right now, it just felt like being alone.
"You're up early."
Igris blinked. Morning already? Pale light slipped through the shutters, painting the barracks in gray. A knight stood at the doorway, arms folded, sharp eyes studying him like a ledger.
"Report to the training grounds. Full gear. Now."
He dressed without a word.
The armor still didn't fit.
The training yard stank of sweat, steel, and dry dirt. Rows of recruits shouted, clashed, stumbled. No elegance. Just raw limbs and louder grunts.
Igris stood straight in line, helmet under his arm.
Sir Calden, the weapons instructor, paced the line of new oath-takers, boots dragging dust with every step. He tapped one sword with the flat of his own. Too loose. Another. Too stiff.
Then he stopped in front of Igris.
"You. The Bloodred, huh?"
Igris didn't answer. Just nodded.
"Hmph." Calden raised his blade—and smacked the side of Igris's helmet. It rang like a bell, sharp in his skull.
"Don't let that title get to your head," the knight said. "It's not an honor. It's a target."
He tossed Igris a wooden training sword. Heavy. Unbalanced.
"Show me how you hold it."
Igris did. Feet grounded. Shoulders square. Grip solid.
"Passable. Now survive."
Survive?
Three others were already circling him.
No time to ask questions.
It was chaos.
He dodged the first swing. Blocked the second. Caught a third strike to the ribs that sent air punching from his lungs.
Too slow.
Too stiff.
He moved like someone trying to remember a lesson they hadn't finished learning.
But he didn't drop the sword.
Didn't fall.
He caught one attacker in the knee. Another in the shoulder. He got bruised, battered—but not broken.
And when it was over, he stood there. Barely breathing. Wooden blade cracked.
Calden smirked like that was the first real test.
"You might live after all."
Later, while the others limped off, Igris stayed back, nursing his ribs and watching the dust settle in the yard. The same girl from before Lyria appeared again, sitting on a wall like she'd been there the whole time.
"You fight angry," she said, kicking her heels.
"I fight to win."
"That's what I said."
She jumped down, walked over, and held something out.
A clean cloth. And a small glass vial.
"Your hand's still bleeding, idiot."
He stared at it for a second too long, then took it.
"…Thanks."
She grinned. "Don't die, okay? I'm kind of invested now."
And just like before, she walked away before he could reply.
That night, he finally slept.
It wasn't restful.
He dreamed of fire.
Of a battlefield he hadn't seen yet.
And of a voice he didn't recognize whispering from the dark
The Bloodred bleeds first… but never last.