When morning came, Leon didn't dress in uniform. He wore black instead—old cloth, scarred at the sleeves, cut loose enough to move in. The kind of clothes you bled in without guilt.
He left early.
No fanfare. No detours.
The Northern Tower loomed quiet in the haze, its windows catching the sunrise like slivers of molten glass. Leon climbed the outer stair alone, passing no one. The third bell hadn't rung yet.
But the man was already there.
Older. Tall. Not in armour, but still imposing—like someone who'd worn it too long to ever really take it off. He stood near the edge, hands clasped behind his back, watching birds scatter over the trees.
"You came," the man said without turning.
Leon stopped two paces away. "I was told to."
The man finally faced him. Grey eyes. A thin scar cutting through his right brow. No insignia on his cloak. But Leon didn't need it. The presence was enough.
"You fought well. Not clean, but honest. That matters more than form."
Leon stayed quiet.
