Chapter 15: Responsibility

As the last echo of footsteps faded into the deeper alleys, Ethan stood in silence, chest heaving. The weight of the moment of everything finally came crashing down on him like a wave.

The adrenaline that had pushed him through the market, the chase, and the confrontation began to crash. His muscles ached, his legs felt like lead, and the rapid beat of his heart turned sluggish with fatigue.

With a heavy breath, Ethan stumbled to the nearest wall and slid down, landing on the ground with a thud. He leaned back, head resting against the cool stone. Sweat clung to his brow as he closed his eyes for just a second, feeling the sudden crash of exhaustion settle deep into his bones.

Nearby, the boy hurried to his sister’s side, falling to his knees and gently tugging at the ropes binding her wrists. His hands trembled not from fear, but urgency. Relief.

“You okay?” he asked, voice strained.

His twin, tears already welling in her eyes, nodded shakily. As soon as the last loop of rope was undone, she threw her arms around him and started sobbing into his shoulder.

“Kite...” she cried, “I-I just wanted to help...”

He held her tighter, stunned. “Why are you even out here? You were supposed to stay home.”

She hiccupped through her tears. “I wanted to help you make money... I thought if I followed your usual run, I could do what you do. I didn’t mean to get caught...”

Kite’s expression crumpled, a mix of guilt, anger, and helplessness flashing across his face. He said nothing, only held her tighter as she cried against him.

Ethan, still slumped nearby, cracked open one eye and watched the scene unfold in silence. Omen remained quiet too, no sarcasm, no biting remarks. Just silence.

And in that stillness, the weight of the city felt heavier than ever.

After a few moments, Ethan lifted his head slightly, wiping the sweat from his brow. His voice came out hoarse but steady. “Hey... what’s your name, kid?”

The boy looked up, still holding his sister close. He hesitated, then slowly let go and turned to face Ethan.

“Kite,” he said at last. “Name’s Kite.”

Now that Ethan got a better look, he noticed the boy’s wiry build clearly used to running, surviving. His clothes were ragged and patched, but there was a sharpness in his eyes that didn’t match his age. He had scruffy blonde hair, tanned skin from being out in the sun too much, and a light scar near his right eyebrow that gave him a roguish edge. Despite the dirt and bruises, he carried himself with a defiance that suggested this wasn’t the first scrape he’d been through.

Ethan gave a small nod. “Figures you’d have a name that sounds like someone who doesn’t stay in one place for long.”

Kite managed a tired smirk, then gestured to the girl beside him, who was still clinging to his sleeve. “This is my sister Lynn.”

Ethan turned his eyes to her, finally getting a good look. She was the same age as Kite, clearly his twin but where Kite was sun-kissed and rough around the edges, Lynn was delicate and pale, her white skin marked only by a few scrapes and smudges of dirt. Her blonde hair was cleaner than his, falling in soft waves past her shoulders, and her eyes were wide with a mix of fear and awe as she peeked at Ethan from behind her brother.

She clutched Kite’s shirt tightly, eyes still glossy with tears, but she gave Ethan the faintest, polite nod.

“She doesn’t talk much,” Kite added quietly. “Not to strangers, anyway.”

Ethan gave a tired exhale and extended a hand toward Kite, palm open and expectant.

Kite blinked, then realized what he meant. He dug into his coat and pulled out the stolen coin pouch, offering it back without a word.

Ethan took it with a slow nod, then pushed himself up from the wall with a groan. His legs protested, but he managed to stand tall, brushing dust from his pants.

He turned to leave, but before he could take a single step, Kite's voice called out behind him.

"Wait!"

Ethan paused, looking back.

Kite stood protectively in front of his sister, eyes wide with desperation. “Take her with you. Please.”

Ethan blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“You saved us,” Kite said quickly, as if the words might disappear if he didn’t say them fast enough. “And... and you’re with House Duskmere, right? She’ll be safer with you. Just take her.”

Ethan stared at him, incredulous. “You mean to tell me... the kid who pickpocketed me, led me on a chase, and then had to be saved... is now asking me for a favor?”

Kite didn’t back down. “I don’t care what it sounds like. I just want her safe.”

Ethan furrowed his brow. "Why would I even take her in the first place?"

Without another word, Kite dropped to his knees in a full, desperate bow forehead pressed to the ground, hands flat on the dirt. His voice trembled, not from fear, but from desperation. “Please… I’m begging you.”

Ethan blinked, stunned at the display.

Kite remained in that position, not lifting his head. “My sister… Lynn, she’s special. She’s innate with arcane magic. I don’t know how it works, but she’s had it since we were little. People out here… they’d use her, sell her, or worse. I can’t protect her anymore, but you you’re with the nobles. You can.”

Ethan stared at the boy for a long moment, then sighed. “Look… even if I am a Kingmaker, I don’t hold that much authority in House Duskmere. I’m not the one calling the shots.”

Kite slowly lifted his head, eyes hopeful but wary.

Ethan continued, his voice steady but firm. “Even if I took her with me, the final decision wouldn’t be mine, it would come from someone else. Probably someone a lot more intimidating than me.”

He let the words hang for a second before adding, “And for the record… you shouldn’t just hand your sister over to a stranger. Even if he helped once.”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Before Kite could respond, Ethan reached into his pouch and pulled out a small handful of coins. He stepped forward and pressed them into Kite’s hands ten Crowns and ten Copper Crowns.

“That should last you both a few months,” Ethan said. “Keep the coppers for day-to-day needs. Save the crowns for emergencies.”

Kite stared at the money, stunned.

Ethan looked him straight in the eye. “Get off the streets, Kite. Find some kind of work. And don’t abandon your sister again. She's not just some burden to carry around, she’s your family. And being alone... it’s not something someone like her should ever feel.”

With nothing more to say, Ethan turned and began walking away, his steps heavy but steady.

Omen’s voice, ever unimpressed, echoed beside him. “You should’ve just killed those thugs. Would’ve been cleaner.”

Ethan didn’t look back. “I was too exhausted from the chase to even fight,” he muttered.

A pause.

“And besides... I can’t kill someone,” he added, quieter. “Not in front of kids.”

Omen let out an exaggerated sigh. “Well, if you’re done with your noble act, can we please go back for that pork belly? I’m starving over here.”

Ethan snorted softly, rubbing his temple. “Alright, alright… chill. We’ll go. You’re such a drama queen when you're hungry.””

Meanwhile, in one of the quieter lounge rooms of the capital’s arcane-thread salon, Sylviane and Ceris sat side by side as attendants delicately worked on their nails and hair. The room was scented with floral enchantments and soft instrumentals played from a rune-imbued harp in the corner.

Sylviane sipped her tea calmly, her eyes half-lidded as she spoke without looking at Ceris.

“You and your Kingmaker… you’re still strangers, aren’t you?”

Ceris gave a small glance toward her. “We’re trying. It’s not easy.”

Sylviane gave a soft hum. “You don’t ‘try’ to understand someone. You listen. Ask. Observe.”

Ceris furrowed her brow. “I don’t need to coddle him.”

Sylviane finally looked at her, her expression unreadable. “It’s not coddling. It’s connection. There’s a difference.”

She set her tea down, her tone dropping to something more thoughtful. “They say the deeper the bond between Kingmaker and Candidate, the stronger their coordination becomes. Some even unlock latent abilities marks glowing brighter, strength drawn from resonance. But none of that happens if you treat each other like distant allies.”

Ceris shifted in her seat, thoughtful now.

Sylviane smirked faintly. “Of course… you can do what you want. But don’t act surprised if someone else’s bond outpaces yours.”

She picked up her teacup again, fingers delicate around the porcelain. “Still… you’re lucky, Ceris. Your Kingmaker is manageable. Omen, wasn’t it? For someone born from a cursed weapon, he’s surprisingly cooperative.”

She glanced at her reflection in the enchanted mirror nearby, her voice growing cooler. “Unlike a certain someone I know… who goes berserk the moment they taste blood.”

From beside her, a voice crackled to life low and smooth, with a faint rasp of amusement.

"I heard that."

The sound came from the guardless dao resting on Sayo’s lap, her ego weapon Shura. Though unmoving, its presence felt sharper now, more aware.

Still calmly seated, Sayo didn’t flinch as the voice echoed from the blade in her hold.

Shura continued, its voice laced with mock offense. “You make it sound like a flaw. Blood just happens to be... invigorating.”

The staff attending to Sayo’s nails jumped slightly, wide-eyed at the talking weapon.

Without looking up, Sayo calmly reached down and pinched the handle of Shura’s blade with two fingers sharp and precise.

“Behave,” she said softly, clearly irritated.

Shura chuckled faintly. “Touchy, touchy.”

Ceris shifted slightly in her seat, eyeing the dao with a side-glance before looking back at Sylviane.

"He is manageable," she said, a bit more quietly. "But he’s unpredictable too. I never know what he’s thinking. Sometimes it’s like he’s just… watching everything. Waiting."

Sylviane raised a brow, setting her teacup down with a soft clink. "You mean he doesn’t fall into place the moment you give an order?"

Ceris shot her a look. "I’m serious."

"So am I." Sylviane leaned back, her tone smoother now. "No Kingmaker exists to be tamed. They’re not swords or beasts. They’re... reflections. You might not like what you see, but you can’t ignore it either."

Ceris frowned. "Is that how you see Sayo?"

Across the lounge, Sayo turned her head slightly, as if listening, but didn’t speak.

Sylviane’s eyes lowered slightly, gaze unfocused. "Sayo’s calm. Quiet. Collected. Most days I’m grateful for that." She paused. "But she listens because she wants to. Not because I tell her to."

Shura chuckled faintly again from Sayo’s lap. Sylviane ignored her.

"No matter how well-dressed or well-trained we are, we’re still Candidates," she continued, "not rulers. And we’re not owed loyalty. We have to earn it even from the ones sworn to us."

There was a long pause between them.

Ceris finally broke it. "Sometimes I wonder if we were chosen... or just thrown into this."

Sylviane looked at her then really looked at her.

"It doesn’t matter how it started. What matters is what we do now."

The harp music in the background seemed to hum in agreement, soft and distant.

"Make it work," Sylviane said. "Because no one else will do it for you."

She sipped her tea again, slower this time. Then her eyes narrowed slightly.

"Tell me something, Ceris. Do you even know how Ethan fights? Or are you still shouldering everything on your own like usual?"

Ceris blinked, caught off guard.

"Back during our spar the joint session. You were separated from him like a frightened cat. Backed into a corner, trying to fight your way out while he stood there, unsure of where to move."

Her tone wasn’t mocking. Just... cold truth.

"If you want to win, if you want to lead, you need to stop treating him like dead weight and start figuring him out. Because until you understand how he thinks, how he reacts, what drives him... you’ll always be moving in different directions."

Ceris looked down, her fingers tightening slightly.

"Ethan’s fighting style is… disgusting," she muttered. "It’s dishonorable. He moves like he’s stumbling through the fight, like he's just reacting. No stance, no discipline. It’s—"

"Effective," Sayo interjected softly.

Both girls turned.

Sayo hadn’t moved, but her voice was calm and certain.

"Unorthodox blades tend to end fights far faster than those bound by honor."

She turned her head slightly, gaze distant.

"Back in my world, the Unorthodox Sect controlled nearly a third of the continent. Not because they were noble. Not because they followed form. But because in real combat, survival favors the unexpected. The ruthless."

She let that settle for a moment.

"Style matters less than result. Especially when the battlefield doesn’t care what you believe in."

Sylviane let the silence stretch a few seconds longer, then spoke again, this time, her voice softer.

"I know they have expectations of you, Ceris. Heavy ones. The same way my grandfather does with me. But you don’t have to carry all of it alone."

She tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing just a touch with something like sincerity. "Maybe it’s time you gave Ethan more credit than you think he deserves."

A few hours later, just as the moonlight began to filter softly through the hotel windows, a knock came at Ethan’s door.

He rolled off the bed with a quiet grunt and padded over, opening it to find Ceris standing in the hallway, her arms crossed loosely.

"Carter said he’ll be debriefing us tomorrow morning about the mission," she said, her voice calm but clear. "Get some rest. We’ll need to conserve our strength."

Ethan blinked, then nodded. “Right. Got it.”

Without another word, Ceris gave him a nod and turned to leave.

Ethan closed the door gently behind her, the room once again silent save for Omen's quiet hum of satisfaction as he sprawled across the nearby chair.