Early morning mist still clung to the fields near Crotchet, the grass wet beneath the boots of two warriors. In the golden hush before sunrise, the clang of steel rang out—sharp, rhythmic, relentless.

  Themis lunged forward, sweat tracing the curve of his brow, blade meeting Heathcliff’s spear with a heavy clang. Again. And again. The air between them sparked with motion—metal slicing wind, boots shifting earth.

  “Break?” Heathcliff asked between parries, his breathing barely disturbed.

  Themis shook his head, panting. “I’ll never be a match for you if I don’t keep pushing.”

  Heathcliff grinned, blocking a fierce overhead strike with ease.

  “You’ve got fire, I’ll give you that. But you don’t need to match me, Themis. You’ve got the potential to be better.”

  Themis didn’t respond—he launched forward instead, blade carving a narrow arc toward Heathcliff’s shoulder. It was parried again, but not without effort this time.

  From the edge of the training field, under the shade of a lone cedar, Trieni Faewind leaned against her bow, eyes narrowed in quiet analysis. Her auburn curls caught the first hints of sunlight, a halo of flame and focus. Beside her, Trish Glacenwell sat cross-legged on a smooth stone, short black hair damp with mist as her fingertips traced icy sigils into the dew-covered grass.

  “They’re pushing harder than our practice last time,” Trish murmured, her voice soft and curious.

  Trieni smirked. “I think they always do when someone’s watching.”

  “You mean when you’re watching,” Trish teased, a glint of amusement in her ice-blue eyes.

  Trieni shrugged. “A warrior worth anything keeps an eye on her allies—and her rivals.”

  Not far from them, Tristan Ardyn Cero stood by a wooden post near the fence line, his lean frame outlined by the rising light. His cross-shaped scar caught a faint glint as he studied a spread of maps and notes, murmuring strategy patterns under his breath, every move on the page a possible battle in his mind.

  The metallic rhythm of sparring echoed across the field—until a figure appeared over the southern ridge, cutting through the thinning fog.

  He moved fast, his cloak snapping with each stride.

  It was Liam, their newest recruit from Alto’s Tavern—a small, broad-shouldered man with a disarmingly calm face and the gait of someone who knew both strength and silence.

  He raised a hand. “Training’s over,” he said, voice steady. “I scouted movement along the Clef Hills. Rhapsodian scouts—three, maybe four units.”

  Tristan’s head snapped up from his map.

  Trieni’s fingers tightened on her bow.

  Trish blinked, startled—not at the news, but at how quietly Liam had returned. None of them had noticed his approach.

  “You... went alone?” Trish asked.

  Liam gave a modest shrug. “Scouting’s lighter work for me. And faster.”

  Themis and Heathcliff exchanged a brief, knowing glance—the kind of look that said Maestro Brauer was right about this one.

  “Enemy already?” Heathcliff muttered, lowering his spear. “That’s too soon.”

  Tristan stepped closer, folding his map. “They weren’t hiding,” he said calmly. “They wanted to be seen. Testing our readiness.”

  The group fell silent for a moment, the sound of the wind whispering through the grass.

  Themis turned toward the distant hills where the mist was parting. Beneath the pale dawn, the horizon shimmered like steel.

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  Heathcliff rested a hand on his shoulder.

  “Things will get harder from now on. Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

  Themis stood tall, his eyes steady with quiet resolve.

  “I’m ready.”

  Trieni slung her bow across her back. “Then let’s not keep them waiting.”

  Trish rose, brushing dew from her palms. “I’ll prepare the healing charms on the way.”

  Liam adjusted the straps of his pack and smirked faintly. “Then I’ll carry the rest.”

  Together, the mercenaries moved—armor gleaming, steel singing.

  The hills called, and Harmonia’s fate had already begun to shift.

  Wind howled against the outer walls of the Harmonian outpost near Clef Hills, carrying with it the scent of battle on the horizon. Inside the war chamber, torchlight flickered over stone and steel as tension crackled in the air.

  Tristan unrolled a worn map across the central table, fingers stained with dust and urgency. He tapped a point along the Clef Hills’ eastern bend.

  “The Black Battalion is mobilizing toward this region—but they won’t arrive in time.”

  Grand Strategist Caldus stepped forward from the shadows, clad in gray armor marked by years of command. His eyes, sharp as blades, swept across the gathered mercenaries.

  “You’ve been summoned by King Musica himself. From this moment on, you are no longer just a scouting unit or a band of mercenaries.”

  He drew a sealed insignia from his leather satchel and laid it atop the map: a silver wing crossed by twin blades. Its metallic gleam caught in the torchlight.

  “You are now designated as Luminous Vanguard—an elite force answering directly to Harmonia’s crown.”

  The words hung in the air like a drawn sword.

  “Your task: intercept the Rhapsodian soldiers moving toward the tower, hold the line until reinforcements arrive, and investigate the reason why Rhapsodia wants to capture it.”

  A silence followed—brief, heavy.

  Heathcliff leaned back with a faint smirk, arms crossed.

  “Luminous Vanguard, huh? Sounds dramatic.”

  Caldus didn’t blink.

  “It is. This mission is under protocol Omega-Veil. Classified. If the Rhapsodia are after the priestess—we’ll need more than swords to survive.”

  Themis stepped forward, hands at his sides, gaze steady as he looked from face to face—Tristan, Trish, Trieni, Liam, and Heathcliff. Comrades not just in name, but in resolve.

  “Then Luminous Vanguard will rise to meet it.”

  The group began to turn toward the exit—but Caldus’s voice cut through the low hum of boots and armor.

  “Tristan—stay a moment.”

  The strategist froze mid-step. The others paused, glancing back as Caldus crossed the room to stand before him.

  “This is no longer a child’s play,” Caldus said quietly, though his tone carried the weight of command. “You’re the mind of this unit. When steel falters, thought must prevail. Think faster. See further. Every decision you make from here on… will decide whether they live or die.”

  Tristan met his gaze—steady, unreadable.

  “Yes, sir.”

  For the first time, Caldus’s stern mask softened. Just slightly.

  “I’m proud of you… little brother.”

  The words landed heavier than any command.

  Trieni blinked. “Brother?”

  Heathcliff’s brows shot up.

  Liam didn't react at all.

  Even Themis turned, eyes wide, as realization sank in—their strategist, the calm and composed Tristan, was kin to the Grand Strategist himself.

  Trish spoke softly, almost in awe. “Tristan… Ardyn Cero of the Caldus line.”

  Tristan exhaled slowly, eyes flicking toward his comrades.

  “Titles mean little on the battlefield,” he said, voice even. “Out there, we fight as one.”

  A faint, approving smirk touched Caldus’s lips.

  “Then make sure they all come back alive.”

  Outside, the storm gathered.

  And Luminous Vanguard was born—bound not just by command, but by trust, legacy, and the weight of what lay ahead.