Kael raised the shotgun.
He aligned the barrel with the center of Valen's chest.
His finger settled on the trigger.
A sharp, instinctive warning ran through him—every nerve insisting this was not something he should do, not a target his hands were meant to point a weapon at. The sensation was immediate and physical, a reflex older than thought.
He ignored it. Finger tightened.
BOOM.
The blast tore the air apart. Smoke and heat punched forward.
Valen didn't move.
The impact struck his chest and spent itself. The lead flattened and scattered, dropping into the snow at his feet. The outer layer of skin split where the shot landed, a shallow tear opening across the surface, a deep red mark blooming instantly beneath it.
Valen looked down at his chest. Then at the deformed pellets on the ground.
He exhaled once.
"Against men," his voice was steady, unquestioning, "it kills."
He paused, then continued without drama.
"Against a Transcendent, it's different."
He lifted a finger and tapped just beneath his eye, then traced a short line to the side of his face.
"Maybe," he went on, measured and cold, "if you aimed for the eye and kept firing—shot after shot—each one landing in the exact same place."
His finger circled once, slow.
"Crack the eye socket. Grind through bone. Turn what's inside to pulp."
He lowered his hand."That is the only sequence that leads to a kill."
Valen took a small knife from his belt. From the shells Kael had just handed over, he selected one, turned it in his fingers once, and made a precise cut along the casing. He split it open and poured the contents onto the table: black powder, lead pellets, and a small primer cap.
He rubbed the black powder between his fingers, smelling the sulfur.
"I remember this smell." Valen's voice carried a trace of distance. "Years ago, when I was studying at the Royal Academy in the Capital. Back then, I even entertained the idea of becoming an alchemist."
He brushed the powder away.
"I had a classmate. One of those 'Inventor' tracks. Brilliant mind, but obsessed with mechanisms over mana. He built things like this—tubes that spat fire by mixing volatile substances."
Valen looked at the lead pellets on the table.
"Everyone laughed at him. The instructors. The knights. The mages. Do you know why?"
Kael stayed silent.
"Because his work threatened the order, not the enemy," Valen went on, voice level. "His weapons didn't reward years of training. They didn't care about bloodlines, blessings, or rank. They worked the same in the hands of a prodigy and a nobody."
He tapped one of the pellets with a finger.
"A knight spends decades becoming what he is. A mage spends just as long mastering control. He built something that let a man skip all of that—and still kill."
Valen's gaze hardened.
"That's why they laughed," Valen finished. "Not because it was useless—"
His finger stilled on the table.
"But because they were afraid."
"And mockery is easier than admitting fear."
He paused, eyes lingering on the pellets.
"Had he not been broken by that ridicule—had he not turned to magic instead of continuing his work—I suspect he might have refined it far enough to create something like yours."
Valen fell silent for a moment.
"But that was never going to be allowed. Rulers do not permit ordinary men to hold the means to kill the extraordinary."
Valen shook his head, a quiet, sharp breath escaping him.
"If they did, would the world still look the same? Would there be fewer massacres carried out simply because one side was born untouchable?"
"Would people finally possess the means to protect themselves?"
He didn't wait for an answer.
"I have seen too many slaughters begin with that question left unanswered. Too many villages erased while waiting for help that never arrived."
"The High Seats in the capital fear escalation. To them, this is frozen waste. Not worth the expense. They accept the raids as the cost of peace."
His voice hardened.
"I do not. I will not repeat that outcome."
Arms crossed.
"I intend to form a knife unit. Small. Precise. We will go deep into the northern reaches and erase the camps of the half-bloods, one by one."
"No honors. No official records. We will be ghosts."
Valen stopped. He looked down at Kael.
For a moment, it felt as though Kael stood fully exposed, every layer laid bare under Valen's scrutiny.
"For a long time, I have had the men. I have had the steel. But I lacked the edge."
"I have plenty of soldiers who follow orders. I have men who can hold a shield."
"But I never had someone who does not flinch. Someone who does not look away."
"I didn't have a leader for this unit yesterday."
The grey eyes locked onto Kael.
"I do now."
"For the people who live between them. "
"Do you accept the command?"
Something hot and immediate rose in Kael's chest.
He straightened and brought his fist to his chest in a rough, practiced salute, copying the motion he had seen the soldiers use.
"I do, Sir."