Chapter 41: Visitor

The following morning, the quiet of Sylvia’s Helheim estate was repeatedly broken by the clash of steel.

Sigurd moved across the private training ground with his sword held low, boots scraping over packed earth as Captain Hartwin pressed him from the front.

The captain had exchanged his traveling armor for lighter training clothes and carried a blunted longsword, but nothing about his movements was casual.

Ten years on the Outer Battlefield showed in the economy of every step. Hartwin did not waste motion trying to look impressive; he cut toward useful targets, shifted his weight only when necessary, and constantly adjusted his position to deny Sigurd an easy angle.

Their swords collided with a sharp clang. Hartwin immediately rolled his wrist and tried to force Sigurd’s blade outward, but Sigurd stepped inside instead of retreating, turned his shoulder beneath the captain’s arm, and drove an elbow toward his ribs.

Hartwin twisted away before the strike landed and swept his sword horizontally. Sigurd ducked, felt the blunted edge disturb his hair, then kicked off the ground and created several meters of distance.

Hartwin lowered his weapon slightly and gave Sigurd an approving look. "You weren’t exaggerating when you said you wanted a spar before breakfast, Young Master. I assumed ten days inside a carriage might have made you appreciate sleeping late."

Sigurd rotated his shoulder while answering, "Ten days inside a carriage made me appreciate moving. Besides, you told me you graduated from Helheim. I wanted to see what eight years there left behind."

A faint smile appeared beneath Hartwin’s otherwise disciplined expression. "What Helheim left behind was considerably younger when I graduated."

Before Sigurd could answer, Hartwin stepped forward again.

The next exchange lasted less than a minute before footsteps approached from beyond the training ground. One of the estate guards stopped outside the boundary rather than interrupting immediately. Hartwin noticed him first and lowered his sword, prompting Sigurd to glance toward the newcomer.

The guard placed a fist against his chest and bowed. "Tenth Young Master, forgive the interruption. The City Lord of Helheim City has arrived at the estate and requests an audience."

Wolfram Blutkron Var Grandel.

He had expected important households to eventually send greetings, but he hadn’t expected the City Lord himself to appear the morning after his arrival.

Sigurd handed his practice sword to an attendant and told the guard, "Bring him to the waiting room and make sure he’s properly received. Tell him I’ll join him shortly."

The guard bowed again and departed. Hartwin watched him disappear before glancing at Sigurd with mild amusement. "It seems your quiet morning has ended, Young Master."

Sigurd looked down at his sweat-soaked training shirt and exhaled. "Apparently before breakfast."

Twenty minutes later, Sigurd entered the estate’s main waiting room freshly washed and dressed in clean dark trousers and a high-collared black shirt trimmed subtly with silver.

His damp hair had been combed back from his forehead, though several ash-white strands had already fallen loose. Ottilie followed several steps behind him while two servants remained near the doors.

Wolfram Blutkron Var Grandel was larger in person than Sigurd expected, broad through the shoulders, with ash-white hair swept backward over black roots and a short, carefully maintained beard.

His dark crimson formal coat bore the insignia of the Blutkron Great Branch, but despite being City Lord and an important member of one of the Seven Great Branches, Wolfram did not offer Sigurd some shallow nod between social equals.

He placed his right fist over his heart, lowered his head, and bent deeply at the waist.

"Tenth Son of the Oberzahn, Sigurd Di Grandel," Wolfram greeted him in a deep, controlled voice. "Wolfram Blutkron Var Grandel pays his respects."

Sigurd had grown up around enough Grandel ceremony to understand exactly what the gesture represented.

Wolfram was older, vastly more experienced, and ruled a city of millions, but within the blood hierarchy he remained Var while Sigurd was Di, a direct son of the Oberzahn.

Sigurd accepted the greeting with a measured nod and gestured toward the chairs. "Your greeting is accepted, City Lord Wolfram. Please sit. You’ve come all the way here; there’s no reason for us to remain standing."

Wolfram straightened, studied the ten-year-old briefly, and sat only after Sigurd had taken the chair opposite him. Tea had already been prepared between them. Ottilie poured both cups before withdrawing several paces, remaining available without intruding.

Wolfram rested one hand against his knee and said, "I hope I’m not disturbing your morning, Tenth Young Master. I was informed after arriving that you were training."

Sigurd glanced toward his still slightly damp hair before replying, "You interrupted Captain Hartwin’s attempt to hit me with a wooden sword, so depending on perspective, you may have improved my morning."

Wolfram paused, then laughed. "In that case, perhaps I’ve already accomplished something useful during this visit."

Eventually Wolfram set his teacup down and shifted toward the subject both of them knew mattered more. "Helheim’s admission period tends to make the city restless, Tenth Young Master. This year more than most. The Seven Great Branches have all sent children, the Eighteen Vassal Houses are fully represented, and there are several promising entrants from military and retainer families. You won’t lack people your age to meet."

Sigurd’s mouth curved faintly. "I’ve heard. Captain Hartwin gave me the numbers last night. It sounds like the Main Line is badly outnumbered."

Wolfram’s iron-grey eyes sharpened with amusement. "Numerically, yes. I doubt anyone will mistake that for weakness."

He took another drink before continuing. "My own nephew will be entering this year. His name is Alaric. My younger brother’s son. He’s stubborn, overly serious when he thinks adults are watching, and considerably less clever than he believes himself to be."

Sigurd almost smiled at the introduction. It was not the glowing praise he’d expected from a powerful uncle.

Wolfram noticed his reaction and chuckled. "Don’t misunderstand me. Alaric is talented. Blutkron wouldn’t have invested heavily in him otherwise. But enough people already tell talented children they’re extraordinary. I see no reason to join them."

His expression became more thoughtful before he added, "If circumstances allow, I hope you and Alaric can look after one another once you enter Helheim. I’m not asking you to carry him, nor would I ask him to cling to you because you’re the Oberzahn’s son. Simply remember that you’re family when the academy gives you reasons to forget."

Sigurd studied Wolfram for a moment before answering. "If your nephew treats me fairly, I’ll treat him fairly. I can’t promise we’ll become friends before I’ve even met him."

"That is exactly the answer I wanted." Wolfram leaned back, visibly satisfied. "Anyone promising lifelong brotherhood before meeting the other person is either a liar or ten years old."

Wolfram realized what he’d said, looked directly at the ten-year-old sitting opposite him, and slowly smiled. "No offense intended."

Sigurd’s expression remained completely flat. "None taken."

Ottilie lowered her eyes behind them, very clearly hiding amusement.

Eventually Wolfram glanced toward the tall windows and rose.

Sigurd stood as well.

Wolfram adjusted the cuffs of his crimson coat and said, "I’ve taken enough of your morning, Tenth Young Master. We will undoubtedly meet again before long, and perhaps next time Alaric will accompany me."

Sigurd nodded. "Bring him. I’m curious about these cousins and relatives I’ve somehow avoided meeting for ten years."

Wolfram laughed before turning toward the doors. He took several steps, then stopped.

Something in his posture changed.

The shift was subtle enough that Sigurd might have missed it if years of watching people hadn’t trained him to notice hesitation. Wolfram didn’t turn around immediately. When he looked back, the easy amusement from earlier had disappeared from his face.

"Tenth Young Master," Wolfram said slowly, "Helheim teaches children many things. How to fight. How to compete. How to lose. How to recognize strength."

His iron-grey eyes remained fixed on Sigurd as he continued, "But sometimes the most useful lesson is learning that the hand pushing you toward an enemy may be more dangerous than the enemy standing in front of you."

Sigurd’s expression changed slightly.

Wolfram offered no explanation. Instead, the City Lord placed his fist over his heart, gave one final respectful bow, and said, "Enjoy Helheim City, Sigurd Di Zierghardt. I hope your years here prove interesting."

Then he left.

The doors closed behind him.

Sigurd remained standing beside the table, staring at the empty space Wolfram had occupied. The warning had been too deliberate to dismiss as casual advice and too vague to identify its intended target.

Perhaps Wolfram had been speaking about Helheim’s factions. Perhaps the Great Branches. Perhaps adults manipulating children. Or perhaps something Sigurd hadn’t encountered yet.

He disliked riddles.

His brows slowly furrowed as Wolfram’s words repeated themselves in his mind.

The hand pushing you toward an enemy may be more dangerous than the enemy standing in front of you.