“Kneel.”

The word echoed through the hall and rang in Stephan’s ears. He had long understood that he was an unwanted, accidental witness—too inconsequential to matter, a fly on the wall. Unable to find a moment to leave, he resigned himself to invisibility.

But that single word made an involuntary noise of protest catch in his throat.

The sound brought the High Warlord’s attention to him—a split-second look swept over his frame. Deeming Stephan too irrelevant, he turned back.

A chill ran down Stephan’s spine; he instinctively pressed himself closer to the wall.

No matter how terrifying that single look was, Demyan was not Stephan; he met the High Warlord’s eyes as an equal.

So how could Demyan kneel?

Despite his past transgressions, Demyan was not that kind of man in Stephan’s eyes. He was a leader, a dominating force who had banded together thousands of ruffians and managed to turn them into Knights. Only his indomitable nature could achieve that. Stephan could hardly imagine that spirit bending for anyone, even the High Warlord.

“If I prostrate myself, you’ll accept my apology, and my debt will be repaid?” Demyan asked.

Taking a step back as if to give room for the humiliation to come, the High Warlord nodded.

“By the power vested in me, I will accept it on behalf of the Kingless Knights,” Leksa confirmed. “I will even help you make amends. No amount of gold can buy your salvation in the eyes of those who lost their friends and family to your hand, but your goodwill can help somewhat. Your written words boasted thousands of horses—” he reminded, skeptical—“I’ll bite. Two thousand horses, and when we need your manpower, you join our forces. Under my command.”

Demyan hummed in contemplation. He didn’t rush his answer, letting the ambiguity simmer.

“Do we have terms?” the High Warlord pressed.

He was tightening the encirclement. Stephan knew you couldn’t give an opponent time to find a way out.

A sinking feeling tugged at Stephan’s stomach—Demyan didn’t look for an out. He was only dragging it out to save himself a little face. He was preparing to forsake his pride today.

“One thousand horses, and we join forces when needed. But my Knights are mine; they listen to me.”

Unexpectedly, Demyan pushed back.

He negotiated, made of steel—as if a thousand lives didn’t stain his hands. The notion Stephan still struggled to reconcile. He had killed his fair share of southerners, but his own people? Stephan wouldn’t be able to look anyone in the eye, much less bargain over the terms of his forgiveness.

“One thousand five hundred,” Leksa countered, “and you listen to me.” He paused, letting the words hang heavy in the air.

The hall was large and grand, yet it seemed to shrink into a suffocatingly small space.

Seeing that Demyan was about to reply, the High Warlord suddenly raised his hand to stop him. He turned around and glanced at Stephan again.

“And I want his dagger.” Leksa flicked his gaze to the weapon on Stephan’s belt—the one Demyan had gifted him only days ago.

Caught as a bargaining chip, Stephan pressed his back against the wall and clutched the scabbard. He had a very bad feeling about this. Swallowing bile, he helplessly looked at Demyan.

Calm, resolute eyes met his.

A drop of sweat trickled down Stephan’s temple. So it was like that.

“We have terms,” Demyan accepted.

Still half-turned, his back to Demyan, the High Warlord smiled upon hearing the admission. A glint of something flashed through Leksa’s eyes, similar to when Rador gave up and pleaded with him to stop. Not merely a cat playing with a field mouse, but a lion toying with a puppy, pawing at it with sheathed claws—eager to let them out.

With a brisk turn, Leksa faced Demyan and nodded.

“Good,” he replied.

A swish of fabric followed. Demyan swept his golden-threaded robes to the side and fell to his knees in one swift move. It was probably an illusion, but the candles seemed to dim. The stone chafing Stephan’s back grew colder.

“I, Demyan of the House of Stal—” loud, sure, not a tremble, “—the Warlord of the Pouring Knights, recognizing no king or lord above me and serving no crown, beg you to accept my apology for the lives I took from the Kingless Knights.”

Grave and earnest, the Warlord prostrated himself. With his hands clasped on the floor before him, Demyan bowed low enough to rest his forehead on top of them.

Kost, who had been silent since his outburst, grunted in displeasure. He turned his head away, refusing to watch. Wishing to do the same, Stephan found himself unable to shift his gaze. It was akin to observing a butcher skin an animal—an ugly, primal curiosity.

Leksa—not the High Warlord—it was Leksa who claimed the defeat. Bathed in the glory of it. How could the tragedy of a thousand lost lives be reduced to a tool of personal gratification? Was his heart made of stone?

“I, Leksa of the House of Marmor, legitimately chosen as the High Warlord of the Kingless Knights, conveying their will, recognizing no king or lord above me and serving no crown…” He fell silent, stretching the moment for as long as it seemed possible.

Looming over the kneeling man, Leksa stared down at him, motionless. Not a single sound, not even a breath. Only his eyes shifted. From the dark hair spilling over the floor to the tense shoulders, he took in each detail as if wishing to commit even the tiniest speck of dirt on Demyan’s robes to memory.

“…accept your apology,” Leksa finally said. With a faint smile, his eyes softened. “You may rise.” Leksa’s voice took on a note of benevolence. It never sounded so wrong in Stephan’s ears.

Raising his head and straightening his back, Demyan remained on his knees, wary. He was a tall, broad warrior—even kneeling, he was a presence to be reckoned with. Leksa’s frame was leaner, if only by a bit; his unnaturally delicate-for-a-man face was deceivingly kind. They would be a picture of profound wrongness, and yet… Stephan didn’t see a single weakness in Leksa. Nothing to latch onto, not a flinch, not a tremble of guilt or shame. He took everything he could from Demyan and it didn’t crush him one bit.

For a long time, Stephan believed Demyan to be unmatched. Apparently, that wasn’t the case.

“Is it done, then?” Demyan asked.

The High Warlord gave a slight nod. “It is done.”

As if a string was cut, Demyan let his back relax and breathed out.

“And that’s all?” he asked, faintly surprised. “Are you harboring warm feelings toward me, that you’re letting me go this easily?”

Stephan choked on air.

With a chuckle, Leksa stepped closer to Demyan. He leaned down, stretched out his hand and cupped Demyan’s cheek in his palm. Closer, so they were a whisper apart, he said something only they could hear. Demyan stilled.