By midday, the letters piled on his desk—three, maybe four, he didn't count. None were opened. The seals said enough. Crests stamped in red wax, names he didn't ask for.
He stared at them. Then pushed them aside.
Outside, the East Yard called him back.
His coat hung from a post, edges stiff with dried sweat. His blade lay across the stone bench, glinting beneath the sun. Leon stood in the centre of the yard, feet planted, body still.
Not meditating. Just breathing.
Listening.
The scrape of leaves. Wind curling along the stone path. Distant clangs from the far sparring ring.
Bootsteps neared. Familiar.
"Your fan mail's getting heavier," Roth said, toeing one of the unopened letters.
Leon didn't turn. "I'm not reading them."
"You should. Veltier doesn't write twice."
"They won't get a third."
Roth walked over, leaned on the post. "You're an idiot."
Leon nodded. "Probably."
Silence.
