Reputation was a dangerous thing.
Leon discovered this the morning Darius Thorn decided he was "interesting."
It was not said as praise.
It was said the way one might comment on a knife found in a child's hand.
"Valeris," Darius called across the training yard.
Leon was in the middle of retying a strap that refused to cooperate with his left shoulder plate. "Yes, sir?"
"Front line today."
Leon blinked. "Sir?"
"You heard me."
The other knights reacted immediately. A few raised brows. One muttered, "About time." Another smirked as if expecting entertainment.
Front line meant visibility.
Front line meant responsibility.
Front line meant that if something went wrong, it would go wrong in front of everyone.
Leon tightened the strap and walked forward.
Darius circled him slowly. "You've spent two years adjusting other people. Today, we see how well you adjust yourself."
Leon resisted the urge to say that self-adjustment was, in fact, much harder.
Instead, he nodded.
Across the yard, Bram Forge stood with arms folded, observing. Bram didn't hover. He watched like a man assessing structural integrity in a bridge he planned to march an army across.
And near the shrine steps, speaking softly with one of the Elders, stood someone Leon had only seen from a distance before.
Lyra Solenne.
Officially: junior priestess.
Unofficially: the calmest person in a valley that thrived on dramatic interpretation.
She was young—only a year or two older than Leon—but carried herself with unsettling steadiness. While Elders declared divine signs with theatrical breath, Lyra listened first.
That alone made Leon wary.
Darius tossed Leon a shield.
He caught it. Barely.
"Monster engagement simulation," Darius said. "Full pressure."
Of course it was.
They formed up.
Leon stood front left.
The simulated beasts charged.
This time, there was no rear position safety net.
The first impact jarred his arm to the shoulder.
His shield tilted.
The trainee opposite him grinned like he had been waiting for this moment.
Leon shifted weight.
Too slow.
A wooden practice blade smacked into his ribs.
Air left his lungs.
"Dead," the trainee declared smugly.
"Alive," Darius corrected. "But sloppy."
They reset.
Second round.
Leon focused on breath.
Ground.
Spacing.
The charge came faster.
He braced.
The impact hit cleaner this time.
But the right side faltered.
The line bent.
Leon reacted instinctively—not with a shove, not with a command—but with something profoundly unheroic.
He tripped.
Completely.
Utterly.
His foot caught a groove in the dirt.
He fell sideways.
And in doing so, he knocked directly into the leg of the attacking trainee who had overcommitted.
That trainee stumbled forward into the shield wall instead of through it.
The formation absorbed the miscalculated momentum.
Darius stared.
There was a beat of silence.
"Was that deliberate?" Bram called from the sidelines.
Leon lay on his back, staring at the sky.
"…Yes?"
The trainees burst into laughter.
Darius pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Get up."
They ran the drill again.
And again.
By the fifth repetition, Leon stopped trying to win exchanges.
Instead, he disrupted them.
He angled his shield slightly lower than standard.
It tempted attackers to swing downward.
When they did, he pivoted—not aggressively—but enough to redirect force into the center brace.
It wasn't elegant.
It wasn't powerful.
But it worked.
After the final round, Darius approached.
"You don't overpower."
"No, sir."
"You redirect."
"Yes, sir."
"Why?"
Leon shrugged. "Overpowering requires being stronger."
Darius studied him for a long moment.
Then he nodded once.
Across the yard, Lyra Solenne was watching.
Not smiling.
Not frowning.
Observing.
Leon did not like that.
—
Bram Forge valued decisiveness.
Darius Thorn valued discipline.
Lyra Solenne valued interpretation.
Leon valued not dying because of avoidable stupidity.
These priorities were not naturally aligned.
Which became obvious three days later when the shrine flared gold during mid-meal.
Everyone froze.
The shimmer lingered longer than usual.
Bright.
Insistent.
The Elders gathered.
Lyra stood slightly behind them, eyes lifted but expression unreadable.
The symbol that formed in the air resembled a spear piercing downward.
The head Elder inhaled sharply. "The god demands decisive strength!"
Bram stepped forward immediately. "We push the northern boundary."
Darius frowned faintly but did not contradict.
Leon felt dread settle comfortably in his stomach.
Northern boundary meant unstable forest line.
Recent rainfall meant soft ground.
Decisive strength meant speed over planning.
Bram turned to the assembled knights. "We move at dusk."
Leon raised a hand before his brain could stop him.
Bram's gaze shifted. "Yes?"
Leon felt thirty pairs of eyes land on him.
"Sir… the northern ground is unstable from last week's rain. If we push quickly, we risk terrain collapse."
Silence.
It was not hostile.
But it was heavy.
Bram's jaw tightened slightly. "The god calls for decisiveness."
"Yes, sir. I'm only suggesting we be decisive in the correct direction."
A dangerous sentence.
Darius exhaled slowly through his nose.
Lyra stepped forward then, voice calm. "Perhaps the sign emphasizes focus rather than speed."
Bram glanced at her.
She continued gently, "A spear must be aimed before thrown."
Leon blinked.
That was… helpful.
Bram considered.
Then nodded once. "We scout first. Move at dawn."
The tension dissolved.
Not dramatically.
But enough.
Leon did not celebrate.
He was too busy realizing something important.
Lyra had intervened not to oppose Bram—
But to reframe the divine sign.
She did not challenge faith.
She interpreted it.
That was power.
Subtle.
Flexible.
Terrifying.
—
The scouting mission was uneventful.
Which meant it was a success.
They identified unstable slopes.
Marked safe routes.
Cleared minor threats without injury.
When they returned, Bram clapped Leon's shoulder.
"You were correct."
Leon nodded. "I often am when mud is involved."
Bram almost smiled.
Almost.
Later that evening, Lyra approached Leon near the well.
"You see patterns quickly," she said.
It was not praise.
It was assessment.
"I trip frequently," Leon replied automatically.
She tilted her head slightly. "You hide behind humor."
Leon paused.
"That implies I have something to hide."
"Everyone does."
She wasn't wrong.
That was the problem.
"You adjusted the god's command today," she continued.
"I suggested adjustments to the ground."
"And influenced the command."
Leon met her gaze carefully. "I did not contradict it."
"No," Lyra agreed softly. "You did not."
There was something in her tone that made him uneasy.
Not suspicion.
Recognition.
She understood the chain of command too.
Maybe not like he did.
But enough.
"Be careful," she added quietly.
"Of mud?"
"Of visibility."
And then she walked away.
Leon stared after her.
Reputation was spreading faster than he intended.
That was not ideal.
—
The misunderstanding that cemented his reputation happened during what should have been the most ordinary escort duty imaginable.
Transporting grain from the lower storage to central reserves.
No monsters expected.
Minimal risk.
Leon walked alongside two other knights and a small group of civilian laborers.
Halfway through the route, a cart wheel snapped.
The grain tilted dangerously toward the slope.
One of the laborers panicked and tried to hold it alone.
Leon reacted instinctively.
He kicked a rock under the opposite wheel to create friction.
Shouted, "Unload left side only!"
The civilians obeyed instantly—mostly because he sounded certain.
The weight redistributed.
The cart stabilized.
No spill.
No loss.
One of the civilians stared at him in awe. "You saved the harvest."
Leon blinked. "I… kicked a rock."
The story, however, did not remain that simple.
By sunset, it had become:
"Leon calculated the slope angle."
"Leon anticipated structural failure."
"Leon prevented famine."
Leon tried correcting it once.
It made it worse.
Apparently, modesty was interpreted as further evidence of wisdom.
Darius cornered him later.
"You didn't calculate anything, did you?"
Leon hesitated. "I didn't want the grain to fall."
Darius barked a laugh. "Good answer."
Then his expression hardened slightly. "But understand this—men are starting to look to you."
Leon swallowed.
"I never asked them to."
"Doesn't matter."
That was the problem.
Influence did not require permission.
It accumulated.
Quietly.
—
That night, Leon stood once more near the shrine flame.
The valley felt different now.
Not safer.
Not stronger.
Just… aware.
Darius respected him.
Bram listened to him.
Lyra watched him.
Soldiers glanced toward him during uncertainty.
Civilians told stories about him that were only partially true.
He was still low-rank.
Still minor.
But threads were connecting.
And Leon understood systems.
Systems could be guided.
Or they could spiral.
He looked at the golden flame.
Somewhere above, Tharion Veyris continued issuing signs.
Bold.
Ambitious.
Perhaps learning.
Perhaps not.
Leon exhaled slowly.
He had not planned to become noticeable.
He had only planned to survive intelligently.
But survival, when done consistently in a valley that worshipped spectacle, looked suspiciously like brilliance.
And brilliance, in a hierarchical system built on divine authority—
Was dangerous.
Not because it defied the god.
But because one day, it might stand close enough to reinterpret him.