Chapter 10: Duskmoor the New City and The Offer
Duskmoor didn't smell like rot.
That alone made Leon suspicious.
It was bigger than Grayridge by far—wide stone streets, watchtowers with banners that didn't look like they'd been dipped in regret, and people who walked like they weren't constantly scanning for alley stabbings.
He rode behind Seraphine, hands loosely gripping the saddle, eyes darting everywhere. Guards at the gate had saluted the moment she came into view. No hesitation. No questioning the kid clinging to her back. Just respect. Deference.
Even the common folk paused to bow or step aside.
Yeah. She wasn't just some commander.
She was 'the' commander.
Leon leaned slightly. "You get this treatment everywhere, or is this just a Duskmoor 'please don't kill us' thing?"
Seraphine didn't answer. She didn't have to.
The city spoke for her.
They passed through a gate flanked by stone lions—actual lions, carved with such precision Leon half-expected them to blink. The buildings here were cleaner. Older. Prideful without shouting. And then came the mansion.
Or maybe fortress.
The Commander's estate sat against the northern cliff wall, part manor, part military outpost. Thick iron gates, a stone path lined with trimmed hedges, and archers positioned discreetly on the second level.
'Subtle,' Leon thought. 'Nothing says "welcome" like rooftop snipers.'
They dismounted in the courtyard. Seraphine handed the reins off without a word. Leon hopped down, landing lightly on his boots.
A pair of maids approached. Clean uniforms. Nervous smiles.
"Sir," one said, bowing slightly to Leon. "The Commander has instructed us to prepare a bath and clothing."
He raised an eyebrow. "Wow. First soup, now spa day. I'm living the dream."
They didn't get the joke, but they bowed again and led him inside.
---
The bath was large enough to drown a conspiracy in.
Steam curled like ghosts over the surface, and the scent—lavender and something expensive—hit Leon like a luxurious ambush. He took his time scrubbing off blood, dirt, and goblin remnants. It felt less like cleaning and more like deleting a save file.
When he finally stepped out, wrapped in a towel, the maids were waiting with a folded set of clothes—soft fabric, finely made, nothing flashy.
He changed quickly. The fabric hugged his frame without suffocating it, and the mirror—
Oh.
One of the maids gasped.
Another actually dropped the towel she'd been holding.
"His hair is so white…"
"Look at those eyes! Like… moonlight."
"He's adorable. Like a doll."
Leon blinked. He hadn't even styled it.
He looked at himself. Pale white hair, silver eyes, fresh skin.
He looked like an angel.
Or at least a really judgmental elf child.
'Great,' he thought. 'From goblin slayer to walking portrait. At this rate, I'll be getting kidnapped by nobles in no time.'
A polite knock on the wooden frame interrupted the chaos.
"You've been summoned to the Commander's chamber," one maid said.
Leon sighed. "Yeah, yeah. Time to find out whether I'm getting thanked, arrested, or drafted."
He followed the maid through the stone halls of the mansion, the clicks of his soft shoes barely echoing as he was led to the room of the woman who might very well change everything.
The Knight-Commander's chamber wasn't extravagant—but it wasn't lacking, either. Everything about it was purpose-driven.
A large window overlooked the northern wall, casting golden light across shelves lined with books and scrolls. Maps were pinned to the walls, some marked with pins and scribbled notes. A rack of weapons stood in one corner, pristine and untouched. A wide desk dominated the center of the room, papers stacked in controlled chaos.
Seraphine stood behind it, still in partial armor, her sword leaning against the wall beside her.
Leon stepped in, and the door clicked shut behind him.
She didn't waste time.
"You're talented," she said, tone sharp as steel. "I won't pretend you're not. Which is why I can't let you walk away."
Leon raised an eyebrow. "What happened to 'thanks for saving your border town, kid' and a fruit basket?"
She didn't smile.
"I want you to join Duskmoor's standing army."
He blinked.
"Straight to recruitment, huh? No dinner first?"
"Seven years old or not, you fought like someone who's already survived war. And survived well."
She walked around the desk and stood in front of him, arms crossed.
"You wouldn't just join the rank directly, you would be trained for a few years before that as your body was weak as a twig, You'd start with a basic rank, but be given fast-track access to training, gear, and most importantly—resources. Ten silver coins per week. Personal quarters. Training partners. Food. Protection. And when you're ready…"
She motioned to a scroll on her desk—an intricate seal stamped at the top.
"You'll be guided into your Class Awakening."
Leon's brow furrowed.
Seraphine explained, calm and methodical.
"There are dungeons across this continent—Awakening Dungeons. Each person, when they come of age or prove capable, is permitted to enter one. If you clear it, your soul responds—you gain a Class. Not just a title. A path. Power. Mana. Skills. The ability to grow."
He stayed quiet.
"It's the only way to use mana," she continued. "Without it, you'll remain mundane. Clever, yes. But limited. And in this world, the limited die first."
Leon leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
"That's a hell of a sales pitch. You rehearse that?"
She didn't answer.
He let the silence hang for a beat, then said plainly, "I appreciate the offer. Sincerely."
"But?" she prompted.
"But I'm not interested in pledging loyalty. Or swearing oaths. Or stamping my forehead with 'property of Duskmoor.'"
She raised an eyebrow, just slightly.
Leon smiled, sharp and unapologetic.
"I'll join as a mercenary. Contracted, not conscripted. You call, I answer—when it benefits us both."
"You want the perks without the chain," she said.
"I want freedom," Leon replied. "And options."
The tension in the room shifted.
Not anger.
Just reassessment.
She studied him again. This boy. This child. White hair. Silver eyes. More experience in his posture than someone twice his age.
Seraphine didn't push back.
Not yet.
Instead, she returned to her desk, fingers tapping the wood lightly.
"Mercenary," she repeated. "That has complications."
"So does conscripting a child who just wants to survive," Leon replied.
Her eyes met his again.
No heat.
Just understanding layered in steel.
"I'll consider it," she said.
"Good," he said, turning toward the door. "Let me know before you put my name on any uniforms."
Three days passed.
Three entire days of what Leon could only describe as "royal treatment"—or at least, what 'he' imagined it to be. Warm meals three times a day. Fresh clothes. A soft bed that didn't smell like mildew and desperation.
Most people would've considered it heaven.
Leon? He considered it suspicious.
He wasn't stupid. Generosity like this always came with strings. If not ropes.
Still… he wasn't above enjoying it.
Especially the food.
On the second day, he'd actually paused mid-bite and murmured, "Is this… truffle oil?" before immediately slapping himself for knowing what truffle oil was.
But he didn't let the comfort lull him. Not completely.
He trained.
Every morning, before breakfast, he woke early and drilled. Lunges, dagger drills, footwork routines across the narrow confines of his room. He pushed himself harder than ever—not just for technique this time, but for strength.
Speed and agility had saved his life during the goblin attack. But strength?
That was the difference between surviving and winning.
No hourglass this time. He didn't dare risk it.
He didn't know how closely they were watching. Seraphine might've given him space, but she wasn't the type to let a potential threat go 'unobserved.'
And the Dimensional Hourglass glowed like a cursed artifact begging to be snitched on.
So he kept things simple.
Grit. Sweat. Muscle ache.
Progress.
By the fourth morning, his legs no longer shook during lunges. His grip had calloused. His arms no longer trembled after long routines.
He was still small. Still seven.
But he didn't 'feel' fragile anymore.
---
It was just after dawn on the fourth day when the knock came.
Leon opened the door to find the same stiff-backed soldier from before.
"The Commander will see you," he said.
Leon rolled his shoulders, adjusted the daggers at his waist, and nodded.
Back to the lioness in silver.
Time to see what she wanted 'this' time.