The Ruthless Thunder Knight

A wooden bucket struck the cobblestones with a dull crack, spilling its lukewarm water across the stone. Around the courtyard, snow fell in large, heavy flakes, smothering the rest of the estate in white silence.

Damian knew he was late for the training grounds. Yet he always stopped when something caught his eye.

The young stablehand rushed to retrieve it, but Damian had already picked up the bucket before the water could spread any further. The liquid was already evaporating slowly where it touched the heated cobblestones, which were warmed by fine threads of blue light running along the walls. An older guard patted the stablehand on the shoulder with a knowing smile before offering a respectful bow to the boy.

“Thank you, young master,” the servant murmured, taking back the vessel.

Damian smiled at him, then ran his hand over the muzzle of a large dark destrier that a squire was leading to the stables. The animal exhaled warm breath against his palm and gently rubbed its muzzle against his sleeve.

“You walk rather slowly this morning, young master.”

Damian turned. Michael stood there, draped in his impeccable livery in the colors of House Ardan. Above them, the gray and gold family banners floated slowly along the façade, heavy with snow. The butler held a warm towel and a steaming goblet between his gloved hands, perfectly unmoved by the wind.

“I was only watching the runes, Michael. They were shining brighter.”

“Mistress Célia has ordered a general inspection at dawn, young master,” replied the butler in a perfectly calm tone, offering him the goblet. “And if my memory serves, your father has been waiting for you these past ten minutes. Unless, of course, you would prefer Captain Dalia to fetch you herself?”

A shiver ran down Damian’s spine—not from the cold.

“No. Better to join my father.”

Michael’s lips curved into the faintest smile. He gently adjusted Damian’s scarf, wrapping it more securely around his neck to block the drafts, then handed him a pair of warm mittens.

“A decision of remarkable wisdom. Drink your infusion. It will fortify you before training.”

Damian took a sip of the honeyed brew. Warmth spread immediately through his throat, radiating a welcome comfort all the way to his fingertips. Michael guided him at an even pace down the lane lined with enchanted lanterns, occasionally stopping to exchange kind words with servants hurrying to clear the secondary paths.

When they reached the great moss-covered arch that led to the training grounds, the sharp sound of wooden swords clashing already echoed against the high stone walls.

On the cleared esplanade, some fifty knights in dark steel armor were practicing in pairs.

At the center, Captain Dalia stood as straight as a blade, her arms crossed over her silver breastplate marked with the gray and gold Ardan seal. Her piercing gaze moved from one knight to another, missing nothing.

“Elbow too low, Thomas!” she called out. “Your flank is exposed. Again!”

The knight immediately raised his shield, his face dripping with sweat despite the cool air.

Apart from the group, a massive silhouette stood motionless. Silas Ardan, dressed in only a simple tunic of thick linen, had his eyes closed. A wooden sword lay on the ground before him. The air around him seemed strangely still.

A young apprentice knight saluted Damian with a warm nod of the head as he dodged a strike from his opponent.

Silas opened his eyes. His gray gaze softened at the sight of his son.

“You are late, Damian,” he said in his low, measured voice.

“I was helping in the stables... and Michael gave me the infusion.”

Silas glanced briefly at the butler, who bowed slightly before stepping back. The lord of the estate picked up the practice sword and handed a second one, smaller, to Damian.

“Guard.”

Damian grasped the leather hilt. He settled into his stance, feet spread wide, his torso slightly turned—the fundamental position of House Ardan.

Silas advanced without hurry. He placed the tip of his blade against his son’s and applied steady pressure. Damian grimaced, locking his arms to resist, but the push threw him off balance by a step.

“Do not stiffen,” said Silas. “Absorb. Redirect.”

This time, Damian let the blade glide along his own, shifting his hips to deflect the force. Silas stopped his movement just inches from the boy’s shoulder and gave him the smallest nod of approval.

Not far away, Dalia, who had been observing the exchange from the corner of her eye, slowly uncrossed her arms and released a brief breath through her nose.

“He learns,” she noted before turning back to her men.

“Better,” said Silas to his son. “A blade does not exist only to strike. It protects those who stand behind you.”

Next time, I will not step back.

Dalia approached again, greeting Silas with a simple gesture.

“The border patrols reported nothing this morning, my lord. All is quiet.”

“Good, Dalia. Let the men rest and double the hot rations,” ordered Silas. He placed his large hand on Damian’s head, tousling his dark hair with barely restrained affection. “Go see your mother. She has been looking for you since this morning.”

Damian returned his sword, saluted his father, and made his way toward the main building. The scent of ink, parchment, and wood smoke replaced the smell of iron and sweat as he made his way deeper into the manor’s corridors.

At a turn in the corridor, Damian passed an administrator leaving the office with a signed order to distribute more wood to the village families. After knocking on the great door, he entered.

“Come in, Damian,” answered a gentle voice.

The boy pushed open the heavy oak door. Célia sat behind a large desk piled with ledgers and maps. She wore an elegant gown the color of plum, her hair pinned up with a clasp bearing the family’s coat of arms.

“You still have sweat on your forehead,” she said with a warm smile.

She took a linen handkerchief from the edge of her desk and gestured for him to approach. Damian stepped forward. Célia wiped his face gently before placing a quick kiss on his cheek.

“Was your father too hard on you this morning?”

“No. He showed me how to redirect the pressure.”

“That is a good thing,” she murmured tenderly.

Célia set down her quill and turned fully toward her son.

“Tell me, Damian. Can you go find Yonna in the East Greenhouse? Tell her I need her to check the stores of medicinal plants.” She paused, then added more quietly: “And try to find out if she still prefers gray to blue for her clothes. She will be sixteen in a few days. I would like to surprise her, so ask her discreetly.”

She handed him a small bound notebook.

“I will take care of it, Mother!”

Damian left the office at once, the notebook clasped to his chest, and made his way through the glazed galleries of the manor.

The East Greenhouse was a vast building of magically heated glass where rare flowers bloomed. When Damian pushed open the door, a wave of warm, fragrant air engulfed him.

Among a bed of fragrant leaves, a young girl was crouching. Yonna was picking each stem, sniffing the foliage to check its freshness before cutting it with a precise motion. Several pots of salve were cooling near her, each marked with the infirmary’s seal.

Yonna’s head snapped up, her long hair tied back in a slightly disheveled ponytail. Her face lit up with a teasing smile.

“Well, the little knight comes to visit me,” she said, standing up in one fluid motion and wiping her hands on her apron. “Are you here to help, or are you looking for an excuse to skip your writing lesson?”

“Mother wants you to check the medicinal plants,” Damian replied, showing her the notebook. “And I never skip my lessons!”

“Never?”

Yonna stepped closer and ruffled his hair before he could react. Damian tried to brush her hand away, but she had already stepped back.

“You always make that serious face when you’re trying to look grown up,” she laughed.

“Yonna, stop!” protested Damian, fixing his hair back in place despite not being able to help but smile.

She took the notebook from the boy’s hands and glanced at it carefully.

“Do you still prefer gray?” he asked abruptly.

Yonna narrowed her eyes, amused by the sudden question.

“Blue. Why?”

“For nothing!”

“For nothing, right...” she replied, shaking her head at her brother’s awkwardness. “All right, I will take care of it. But in exchange, you have to promise me something.”

Damian looked at her with enthusiasm.

“What?”

“When the snow melts in spring, you will come with me to the great stream at the bottom of the valley. We will go fishing together, with no guards and no Michael to tell us to maintain perfect composure. Promised?”

She held out her pinky finger with a knowing wink.

Damian did not hesitate for a second. He hooked his pinky firmly around hers.

“Promised! We will catch more fish than the guards.”

“It is settled!” she exclaimed joyfully. “Come on, it is almost time to eat. If we are late, Dalia will make us clean the guard hall again.”

They left the greenhouse side by side, their footsteps echoing softly through the corridors as the evening lanterns lit one by one.

The Great Hall of the Ardan Estate gleamed. An immense stone fireplace crackled at the far end of the room, casting a golden and comforting light across the wood paneling and the gray and gold shields hanging on the walls. The long table of solid wood was set simply: roasted meats, stewed vegetables, and warm breads filled the hall with savory aromas.

Silas sat at the head of the table, freed from his armor. Célia was seated beside him, while Yonna and Damian faced each other. Dalia and Michael shared the table with them—indispensable family companions.

“The First Line will have a quiet winter, then,” quipped Yonna, picking up a piece of vegetable.

“The winter will be peaceful,” confirmed Silas with a measured nod, “but vigilance remains necessary, Yonna.”

“A very good thing for the estate,” added Célia with a gentle smile. “We will be able to prepare serenely for the season to come.”

Halfway through the meal, Damian grabbed a piece of hot bread and began eating it so quickly that he coughed slightly. Michael, seated to Damian’s right, handed him a glass of lukewarm water before even Célia could react.

“Slowly, young master,” said the butler with dry irony. “The bread is not going to run away.”

Barely had Damian recovered before Yonna reached over and stole the rest of his bread from under his nose with a stifled laugh.

“Hey! That was mine!” protested Damian with a frown.

“You should have been faster, little brother,” she replied before taking a big bite of it.

Michael observed the theft with feigned gravity and shook his head.

“It seems Miss Yonna’s lessons on speed apply only to food.”

Laughter erupted around the table. Silas, with an amused glint in his eyes, silently broke off half of his own bread and placed it on Damian’s plate. The boy looked up at his father with grateful eyes, who offered him a slight nod.

“Do not encourage her, Silas,” smiled Célia, placing an affectionate hand on her husband’s arm.

“A knight in his growing years must eat his fill,” said Dalia in her dry voice.

I wish all meals could last this long.

Damian chewed his meat while listening to the conversations around the table. Between the warmth of the fire, the scent of fresh bread, and the presence of his family, he felt perfectly safe.

Suddenly, rapid footsteps rang out in the outer vestibule.

The doors to the Great Hall opened.

A guard entered first and bowed.

“An imperial messenger, my lord.”

Silas inclined his head.

“Show him in.”

The conversations ceased at once. Dalia straightened, attentive, while Michael was already rising from his seat.

A young imperial officer entered with stiff steps. His cloak was damp with melted snow, and his face was reddened by the bite of the wind. On his leather breastplate gleamed the double-headed eagle of gold and purple—the symbol of the Crown.

“Lord Silas Ardan,” declared the messenger in a hoarse but firm voice, bowing deeply. “I bring you a personal summons from His Majesty the Emperor.”

He held out a metal case sealed with a large wax seal of red.

Michael went to meet the messenger, took the object with impeccable politeness, and handed it to Silas.

The family did not move. Yonna had set down her bread. Célia did not take her eyes off Silas.

Silas broke the wax seal with a calm gesture. He unrolled the thick parchment and scanned the tight lines that covered it.

Damian watched his father’s face. Silas reread the document a second time. His jaw tightened barely—a movement so subtle that Damian nearly missed it.

Silas rolled up the parchment without a word. He lifted his eyes to the young officer.

“Michael,” ordered Silas in a perfectly measured voice. “Take this man to the kitchens. See that he is served a warm meal and a room prepared for the night. His mount is to be taken to the stables.”

“Very well, my lord,” answered the butler, gesturing for the messenger to follow.

The rider bowed again before leaving the hall.

Silas turned toward the table. Célia had not looked away.

“Eat before everything grows cold,” said Silas in a neutral tone, tucking the parchment under his tunic. “We will speak of it after the meal.”

As he sat back down, Silas exchanged a brief glance with Dalia. The captain remained motionless. Her fingers slowly tightened on the edge of the table.

Damian did not understand that look.

Beneath the table, his hand sought out his mother’s.

Célia seized it immediately and gently closed her fingers around his.

END OF CHAPTER 1