Chapter 32: Departure

Five days passed far more quickly than Sigurd expected.

By early morning on the fifth day, the enormous gates of Sylvia’s estate stood completely open, revealing a convoy of carriages waiting along the broad stone road beyond them.

Calling them carriages almost felt inadequate. Each was large enough to contain several rooms, constructed from dark lacquered wood reinforced with black metal and decorated with the silver crest of House Zierghardt.

Armored guards occupied perfectly measured positions along both sides of the convoy, some mounted while others stood beside the carriages with weapons resting against their shoulders.

At the center waited a carriage considerably larger than the rest, its exterior trimmed with silver and deep crimson, its reinforced windows covered by engraved metal frames, and the Zierghardt crest displayed prominently across both doors. That carriage belonged to Sigurd.

Even the creatures pulling the convoy reflected the ridiculous wealth of the clan. They resembled enormous warhorses at first glance, but each stood nearly twelve feet at the shoulder, with powerful bodies covered in short midnight-black coats that possessed an almost metallic sheen.

Curved ivory horns grew backward from their temples, while dark silver armor protected their chests and necks. Every breath released pale mist from their nostrils despite the warm morning, and heavy hooves occasionally struck the stone road hard enough to leave hairline cracks.

They were Grimhorn Warsteeds, a domesticated species of Demonic Beast bred by Zierghardt for endurance, speed, and the ability to continue traveling through environments that would exhaust ordinary horses within hours. Four pulled each of the smaller carriages.

Eight had been harnessed to Sigurd’s.

Sigurd stood beneath the towering estate gates watching the final preparations while Sylvia adjusted his clothing for what had to be the fifth time.

The clothes she had selected were formal enough to announce exactly who he was without sacrificing practicality.

A structured double-breasted tunic of such deep navy that it appeared black beneath shadow covered his upper body, its high collar and fitted edges traced with narrow gold piping.

Two rows of polished silver crest buttons descended across the front before continuing around the waist, while matching gold detailing followed the cuffs.

A silver-white fringed epaulet rested upon his left shoulder, connected to thick braided aiguillettes that swept elegantly across his chest.

His right shoulder carried a short white fur capelet patterned with irregular black spots, taken from a northern snow predator and secured by dark jewel clasps whose small ornaments hung beneath the fur.

Over everything rested a longer black traveling mantle attached beneath the shoulders, heavy enough to protect him from weather without interfering with his sword arm.

A silver cross hung from a chain around his neck, resting prominently against the dark tunic.

His sword remained at his waist.

The weapon ruined some of the ceremonial elegance Sylvia had apparently been aiming for, but there had never been any possibility of Sigurd traveling without it.

Sylvia stepped backward, examined him, frowned, then immediately stepped forward again to straighten his collar.

"Mother, you’ve already fixed that."

"I know," Sylvia replied without looking at his face as she smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from the fabric.

Her fingers lingered there before moving toward the aiguillette. "And don’t let anyone convince you that skipping meals is part of training. I know how you become when you’re focused on something. You forget everything else exists. Make sure you eat properly, and if you’re injured, go to a healer immediately. Don’t sit somewhere pretending it isn’t serious simply because you can still move."

Sigurd nodded obediently. He had learned years ago that attempting to interrupt Sylvia when she entered this particular state only extended the conversation.

Behind her stood several maids who had served the estate throughout his childhood, and they weren’t handling the departure any better. Two were already wiping their eyes.

Another had been pretending for several minutes that something had gotten into hers. Mira stood among them with her arms folded beneath her chest, attempting to maintain considerably more dignity than everyone else, although the redness around her eyes ruined the effort.

They had watched him grow from an infant who couldn’t lift his own head into the ten-year-old standing before them.

Sigurd understood why this affected them.

More surprisingly, he understood why it affected him.

Ten years ago, Viktor wouldn’t have known what to do with this kind of farewell. People came and went. Operatives transferred. Teammates died. Missions ended, and everyone moved on because becoming too attached to anyone in their profession was another weakness waiting to be exploited.

Yet when Sigurd looked at Sylvia struggling not to cry while adjusting clothing that no longer needed adjusting, something tightened quietly inside his chest.

She was his mother.

There was no longer any qualification attached to that statement.

Sylvia Di Zierghardt was his mother.

Apparently satisfied with his clothes at last, Sylvia reached toward Mira. The older woman immediately handed her a thick leather-bound book.

Sigurd raised an eyebrow.

Sylvia placed it directly into his hands. "Read this on the journey. I’ve compiled everything I could obtain about the people you’re most likely to encounter at Helheim, particularly those from the Seven Great Branch Houses and the more prominent Vassal Houses.

Their known Martial Souls, training backgrounds, notable achievements, personalities, habits, and whatever reliable information I could obtain about their current strength are inside."

Sigurd looked down at the book.

It was thick. Very thick.

His eyebrow climbed higher. "You compiled all of this?"

Sylvia’s expression became completely serious. "Of course. Several of them will be your competition. Some may become allies, others rivals, and there are a few I don’t trust. I’ve marked those separately. Don’t underestimate the Branch Houses simply because you’re from the Main Line, and don’t assume the Vassal Houses lack monsters of their own."

Something warm settled inside Sigurd’s chest again.

His mother had apparently prepared an intelligence dossier for his first journey away from home.

Viktor would have approved.

Sigurd closed the book carefully and held it against his side before giving Sylvia a genuine smile. "Thank you, Mother. I’ll read everything."

Only then did he look past her toward Osric.

The emotional atmosphere surrounding the estate apparently hadn’t reached his instructor.

Osric stood several yards away beside one of the stone pillars, drinking from his usual flask with the bored expression of a man waiting for everyone else to finish making a spectacle out of something perfectly ordinary.

His clothes were the same practical dark garments he wore during training, his rough beard hadn’t been trimmed for the occasion, and he seemed considerably more interested in whatever was inside his flask than Sigurd’s departure.

Sigurd stared at him for several seconds before asking, "Instructor, your favorite student is being sent to a place everyone keeps describing as hell, and you’re standing there drinking. Aren’t you supposed to be at least slightly emotional?"

Osric lowered the flask and snorted. "I survived that hell myself, Tenth Young Master. I’m reasonably confident you’ll survive it too. Crying at the gate won’t improve your chances."

Sigurd looked at him speechlessly while several of the maids glared at Osric on his behalf.

The instructor ignored them.

After another drink, however, Osric sighed and pushed himself away from the pillar. The usual amusement in his expression softened as he approached Sigurd, and when he spoke again his voice had lost most of its teasing edge.

"Jokes aside, be careful at Helheim. That place doesn’t care that you’re the Tenth Son of Malhazar Di Zierghardt. Once you’re inside, every student is supposed to stand beneath the same rules. Princes, heirs, clan descendants, children of generals, it doesn’t matter. Your name won’t win your battles for you."

Sigurd listened without interrupting.

Osric’s mouth slowly curled upward before he added, "That doesn’t mean being a Zierghardt suddenly becomes useless, of course. You’ll discover soon enough that equality and having access to certain privileges aren’t necessarily the same thing."

Sigurd immediately became suspicious of that smile.

Osric offered no explanation. Instead, he placed the flask against his shoulder and continued, "Remember what I’ve taught you. Don’t underestimate someone because their cultivation appears weaker. Don’t reveal everything you can do simply because someone annoys you. Watch before you move whenever circumstances allow it, and when circumstances don’t allow it, trust the instincts you’ve spent five years building. If you remember those things, you’ll be fine."

The instructor paused, then glanced toward the waiting convoy before adding with a quiet chuckle, "Truthfully, I’m more worried about everyone else than I am about you."

Sigurd rubbed the bridge of his nose and shook his head. "You somehow make encouragement sound threatening."

"That’s a talent."

Sigurd almost smiled, but another thought had been sitting in his mind since the previous evening. He lowered his hand and studied Osric for a moment before asking, "I heard you’re leaving too. A mission."

The change was subtle.

Osric became silent.

Only for a moment.

Then the instructor smiled and shrugged as though the matter carried little importance. "Word travels quickly around this estate. Yes, I’ve been temporarily called out of retirement, but it isn’t anything serious. A few members disappeared, and they want someone to investigate what happened. I’ll probably be back within a month."

Sigurd watched him carefully.

Years beneath Osric had taught him enough to recognize when the man deliberately simplified something.

But this wasn’t the time to interrogate him.

Sigurd nodded and allowed a small smile to return. "Then I’ll see you when you get back."

Osric held his gaze for a second before nodding once. "You will."

Footsteps approached across the courtyard before either could say more. The captain responsible for Sigurd’s escort stopped several feet away, placed one fist against his chest, and bowed deeply. His dark armor carried the Zierghardt crest across the breastplate, while a sheathed longsword and shorter secondary blade rested at his waist.

"Tenth Young Master," the captain said respectfully, keeping his posture rigid as he addressed Sigurd, "all personnel have been accounted for, the supplies are secured, and the route has been confirmed. We are ready to depart whenever you give the order."

Sigurd looked toward the convoy.

The Grimhorn Warsteeds were waiting. Guards had taken their positions. The door of the enormous central carriage stood open.

It was time.

Sigurd nodded to the captain, then hesitated.

He turned toward Sylvia. His mother was still smiling, but tears had finally escaped her eyes.

Sigurd stepped forward and hugged her.

Sylvia froze for barely an instant before wrapping both arms around him tightly. Sigurd said nothing. Neither did she. For several seconds, there was no need. When he eventually pulled away, Sylvia placed one hand against his cheek and gave him the kind of smile he had seen throughout almost every stage of his second life.

Sigurd turned toward the maids and Mira, raising one hand in farewell. Mira smiled through wet eyes while several of the maids abandoned any remaining attempt at dignity and waved enthusiastically back.

Finally, Sigurd looked at Osric.

Teacher and student held each other’s gaze.

Sigurd gave him a slow nod.

Osric returned it.

That was enough.

Sigurd turned away from the estate and walked toward the central carriage, his traveling mantle shifting behind him while the sword at his waist moved against his side. He climbed the short set of steps, paused at the doorway, and looked toward the road stretching beyond Zierghardt territory.

Five years of training beneath Osric were behind him.

An entirely different world waited ahead.

A grin slowly appeared across Sigurd’s face as determination settled into his iron-grey eyes.

"Helheim, here I come."