It had been fifteen days since he started living there.
Time didn't really have a hold on him, but one evening, the innkeeper had said it in passing, between two slow gestures:
— "Fifteen days. You realize that? You said you'd stay for a while. But now, it's starting to feel long."
Madara hadn't replied. He already knew.
Fifteen days of serving plates, wiping tables, carrying crates.
He didn't speak to the customers. They didn't speak to him.
They sensed he wasn't really there.
Like a statue that only moved when it chose to.
In the mornings, he worked.
In the evenings, he walked.
He wasn't looking for anything.
But he observed.
By now, he knew the alleys of the capital.
The shortcuts. The forgotten squares. The hidden gardens behind walls.
He had seen nobles stumbling home at dawn, drunk and shouting.
He had seen children beg with no tenderness.
He had seen knights parade in arrogant silence, two by two, to reassure the weak.
He hadn't judged.
He had simply noted:
"This world lives. But it learns nothing."
He had come to enjoy walking alone between the walls.
Not for the people.
But for what they had built in spite of themselves.
Arches. Columns. Flying buttresses. Ancient paving stones.
Sometimes, he would place his hand on a façade, feeling the muted vibration of accumulated human effort.
"They lack wisdom. But they have hands."
That night, the inn was more animated.
Voices were louder. Heads turned toward the outside. Something hung in the air.
A customer, shirt half-open and cheeks flushed with wine, spoke too loudly as he slammed down his mug.
— "You haven't heard the latest? The candidates are showing up tomorrow. All the big shots will be there. Nobles, dukes, old families—even the knights! Finally, some real excitement!"
His table laughed. Another man raised his glass.
Madara froze mid-movement.
He wasn't serving anymore.
He was listening.
— "They're picking a new queen, they say. The half-elf will be there too, apparently. Gonna be one hell of a mess. Wouldn't wanna miss it."
He put the plates back in the kitchen without a word.
The innkeeper looked at him. He had heard it too.
He said nothing.
But Madara knew he knew.
That night, he remained alone in the common room after closing.
The innkeeper was slowly wiping down the counter. Not a word.
Only the creaking of wood and the crackling of fire broke the silence.
Madara sat at his usual table, back to the wall.
He stared into the flames like one watches the memory of a battle.
He heard the door open.
A draft slipped into the room.
Not sudden. Not threatening.
But different.
He looked up.
A man had entered. Tall, lean, red-haired.
A long coat, broad shoulders, clear eyes.
He wasn't armed.
But every step said he knew how to fight.
The innkeeper paused, then resumed wiping as if nothing had changed.
But Madara knew something had.
The man approached slowly.
Only two tables were occupied, and Madara sat alone.
He sat down without asking.
Madara didn't move.
Silence settled. Not heavy. Not hostile.
Just full.
Reinhard van Astrea placed his elbows on the table.
He stared at Madara for a long time, saying nothing.
— "I saw you.
In the streets, near the northern quarter. Your gaze stopped me."
He smiled gently.
— "There's something in your eyes.
Something old. Too calm.
I had them search the records for your face... but you don't exist."
He tilted his head.
— "A man like you doesn't go unnoticed.
Not even without a name.
Not even in silence."
Madara didn't reply. He still stared at the flames.
— "Your stride is too steady. Your back too straight.
You carry a burden. Not a purpose.
But your mere presence... disrupts the order of the world."
He furrowed his brow slightly.
— "I don't know what you are.
But I feel your strength.
Not like a weapon.
Like an anomaly."
A pause, then:
— "You should become a knight."
Madara barely looked up.
— "Is that an offer?"
— "It's an obvious choice," said Reinhard without hesitation.
— "You could change things. You could fight alongside us.
Not for glory.
For the shape of the world.
For what it could become."
Madara stayed silent for a while.
Then, in a low voice:
— "I don't dream anymore."
Reinhard said nothing. He understood. Or thought he did.
— "Dreams sometimes build kingdoms," he said softly.
Madara gave a faint smile. Cold. Amused.
— "And sometimes, they destroy them."
The fire crackled between them.
No tension. No threat.
Just two forces, sitting face to face.
Reinhard eventually stood up.
— "So, you refuse?"
— "Absolutely."
He stopped at the door.
— "You're no ordinary man.
But you're not yet a legend. Not here."
He turned slightly, just a bit.
— "You could be."
Madara didn't reply.
His gaze had turned to stone again.
Reinhard left the inn without a sound.
The door closed with a breath.
Madara hadn't moved.
He was still watching the flames. But something around him felt heavier.
The innkeeper approached slowly.
His gestures were no longer mechanical.
He stopped behind the counter, hands flat on the wood.
— "Do you know who that was?"
Madara didn't reply.
— "You know the name Reinhard van Astrea?"
A pause. Then Madara:
— "No. I'm a stranger."
The innkeeper gave a brief, almost nervous laugh.
He ran a hand across his forehead, as if brushing off a fever.
— "That man...
He's the Master Swordsman.
The strongest in the kingdom.
He could take down an army on his own.
He could slice you before you even saw him move."
He shook his head.
— "And he sat here.
In front of you.
And you told him no... like he was any other guest.
You looked him in the eye, without flinching, without trying to understand..."
He fell silent for a moment. Then, lower:
— "Why did he stay so long? Why did he talk to you like that?
He could've been anywhere.
But he was here. With you."
The innkeeper stepped back.
His eyes were no longer dull.
They were filled with something between disbelief and fear.
— "And you... you just brushed him off."
He wasn't shouting.
But his voice vibrated with something raw. Real.
For the first time since they met, he looked at Madara like a man he could no longer ignore.
Madara stood up slowly.
He stepped closer to the fire.
He looked at the embers.
Then said, without turning:
— "He still wants to change the world."
A brief pause.
— "I just want to see how it collapses."
He grabbed his cloak, put it on slowly.
— "And if it doesn't...
Then maybe I'll finally see something new."
Then he left the room.
Without a sound.
Like a shadow a thousand years old.