The country of Veylos had once been called the jewel of the West Blue, its golden wheat fields and towering citadels symbols of prosperity under the crown. Now, the jewel lay cracked and bleeding, smoke rising in thick black pillars across the horizon.
War had swallowed it whole.
The cobbled streets of its capital, were paved with rubble and corpses. Homes that once sang with laughter now gaped hollow, windows shattered like broken eyes. The monarchy's banners still fluttered above the highest towers, defiant crimson dyed darker by soot, but below them the people wailed in despair.
Every day, more blood was spilled. Every day, the war between the monarchy and the Revolutionary Army carved deeper scars into the land. And the ones who bled most were never the generals or the kings. It was the farmers. The mothers. The children.
In the market square, what had once been the beating heart of the kingdom, bodies lay covered with torn sheets. A girl no older than ten sat beside one of them, clutching the hand of her father that protruded from beneath the cloth. Her voice was hoarse from screaming, but no one stopped to comfort her.
They couldn't. The crowd shuffled past with hollow eyes, scavenging through what remained of stalls for moldy bread, dried beans, anything edible. Every sound was drowned beneath the distant thunder of cannons.
"Move, rats!" a voice barked.
Royal guards in polished breastplates shoved their way through, dragging prisoners in chains. Accused of "treasonous sympathy" toward the Revolutionaries, the prisoners were little more than gaunt peasants. One stumbled, too weak to walk. A guard drove a spear butt into his back, dropping him into the dust.
The little girl flinched but didn't let go of her father's hand. She knew better than to speak. Anyone who spoke out against the crown disappeared into the dungeons — or was left hanging on the walls as an example. That was the peace the monarchy offered its people.
On the hills beyond the capital, in the ruins of burned farmhouses, the Revolutionaries gathered, or rather, the oppressed who had gathered under the revolutionary banner. They were not the noble heroes sung of in stories. They were men and women hardened by famine, children with rifles too large for their hands, deserters from the royal army who had lost faith in their king.
Their leader, Commander Darius, stood before them, his cloak tattered, a scar cutting from his brow to his cheek. His eyes burned with a fanatic's light.
"We fight not for glory," he said, his voice carrying across the mud-stained camp. "We fight so that no child starves while the monarchy feasts. We fight so that no farmer is whipped for failing to pay taxes on fields already burned. The blood we spill is the price of freedom."
The crowd cheered, but behind the fervor lingered hunger and exhaustion. Their campfires burned with stolen wood from villages they had "liberated." More than one family had cursed the rebels even as they claimed to fight for them.
Darius raised his sword. "Tomorrow we strike the capital's walls. Tomorrow, the tyrant bleeds."
The ragged army roared. And in the shadows, a boy of twelve clutched his rifle tighter, eyes hard though his cheeks were wet with silent tears.
The air inside the barn was thick with the stench of sweat, blood, and damp straw. Lanternlight flickered weakly against the weather-worn beams, casting long shadows over the ragged assembly of soldiers. The murmurs of desperation cut through the silence until one of the men, clutching a bandaged stump where his hand once was, spoke up with a voice trembling between exhaustion and dread.
"What about our reinforcements…? Will they deliver? We are already on our last legs. If we march on the capital without the revolutionaries support in this condition, we will surely fall, Commander…"
The words hung in the air like a death sentence. A few soldiers lowered their heads, the weight of inevitability pressing on their shoulders. Yes, they had started this war emboldened by promises of aid from the revolutionaries—but it was the kingdom's common folk who had borne the brunt of the fighting.
Farmers, masons, and even children, pressed into service, now stood shoulder to shoulder with rifles too heavy for their small frames. Without the promised support, tomorrow's final assault would be less a battle and more a slaughter.
Just as despair threatened to smother what little hope remained, the barn doors creaked open with a thunderous slam that made every man snap to attention. Cloaked figures stepped through, their presence pulling the air taut with tension. Rifles were raised in trembling hands, safety catches clicked, until a voice broke through—sharp, commanding, reverent.
"Admiral!"
The revolutionary officer in the room rushed forward and saluted, eyes shining with relief. From beneath the hood, Zephyr revealed his face, the scarred lines of a veteran etched into his features. His gaze was steady, hard as tempered steel, and when he lowered his hood fully, the room seemed to draw in a collective breath.
He moved without hesitation, his boots thudding across the wooden floor as he approached the war table. Karasu, following closely behind, cast a glance across the barn, taking in the sight of hollow-cheeked men and wide-eyed boys gripping rifles longer than their arms. His lips pressed into a thin line; this was no army—it was desperation given form.
Zephyr's stride carried him to one such boy, barely taller than the rifle he clutched. The boy's knuckles were white around the stock, his face pale with fear but locked in stubborn resolve. Zephyr stopped in front of him, towering like a storm made flesh. Without a word, he reached out and pried the weapon from the boy's trembling hands. The wood creaked in protest against the boy's grip, but in the Admiral's grasp, it was effortless.
The barn fell silent. Even the wounded seemed to forget their pain, watching, waiting.
Zephyr let the rifle drop heavily to the ground, the sound echoing like a gavel striking judgment. He looked down at the boy, his voice rising like thunder, deep and commanding, carrying to every corner of the barn.
"This—" he kicked the rifle aside with a disdainful clatter— "is not a burden meant for your shoulders. War is not the duty of children. Steel belongs in the hands of men who have lived long enough to understand what they must lose, and what they must protect. Your age is for holding dreams, not weapons. For reaching toward the sky, not being dragged into the mud of battle."
His words struck the air with the weight of cannons, silencing even the most cynical among them. He turned his gaze across the barn, his eyes burning like embers.
The barn was still humming with the aftershock of Zephyr's arrival when his voice cut through again, quieter now, threaded with something that wasn't anger but an ache.
"Why would you arm children? Why go so far as to place rifles in hands that should be learning to read, not learning to kill?"
The commander, Darius—a broad-shouldered man with a face mapped by sleepless nights and old smoke stains—flinched as if struck. For a moment he was speechless, the suddenness of the Admiral's question exposing a rawness he had tried to bury. Then, with the weary humor of a man who had long ago stopped pretending everything was all right, he answered.
"You speak like we had a choice."His voice was small in the rafters, but steady. "If you had seen what the capital left for us — the raids in the night, the soldiers dragging mothers from their beds, boys taken as servants, girls sold like wares — you would not ask why. We were promised reinforcements a week ago. We waited. We bled. We buried men we could not replace. When the army you sent did not come, what were we to do?"
He exhaled, and the sound carried a lifetime of grief. The men around him shifted, ashamed to look at the children, ashamed to look anywhere at all. "I put steel in the hands of anyone who could lift it because I could not bear to hand them over to what comes if the crown wins. I would sooner see them die with a single bullet than watch them live on under that yoke. Is that mercy? I don't know. I only know I had no luxury of choice."
Zephyr watched him — not with the hard, quick judgment of an outsider, but with the slow, considerate stare of someone who had stood in similar rooms in similar nights. He saw the commander's hands: scarred, the knuckles raw from rope and reins, trembling now as he rubbed them together. He saw the soldier's shoulders — the way they carried the world as if it were a pack of stones. He felt the commander's confession the way another man might feel the weight of an old wound.
For a long breath Zephyr said nothing. Then he stepped forward and placed a hand on the commander's forearm — a touch that was neither patronizing nor distant, only human. His voice softened until it was almost a whisper but every man in the barn leaned in to hear.
"You did what you thought was right to keep them from a fate worse than death." Zephyr's apology arrived without ceremony, but it was direct and full of the sincerity of a man who understood sacrifice. "I am sorry we were late. I am sorry you were left holding the choice no one should have to make."
The commander's eyes brimmed. He swallowed, a soldier swallowing pride and shame both. "We kept faith because we had to," he said. "We kept faith because there was nothing else to hold on to."
Zephyr straightened, his gaze taking in the small faces huddled in corners, the way a child's boot was too big or too small, the way a mother's jaw had gone slack with exhaustion. The Admiral's next instruction was not a reprimand but an order wrapped in promise.
"Recall every child below the age of sixteen," he said, his voice now steel tempered by resolve. "Withdraw every boy and girl who cannot shoulder the truth of war. The revolutionary army will take the vanguard tomorrow. We will shoulder this fight. You will give us your best men — the hardened, the willing — and we will lead the charge. None of those children will march at dawn."
A quiet, tremulous relief rippled through the barn like wind through straw. The commander's shoulders slumped as if a portion of the pack had been lifted. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them they were red-rimmed but steadier.
"You will do this?" he asked, hardly believing the words were real.
Zephyr's reply was simple, unadorned by bravado. "We are Revolutionaries first, and men second. We do not throw away the future."
The commander clenched his jaw and, for the first time that night, a ghost of a smile crossed his face — not triumph, but something smaller and truer: gratitude. Around them, hardened soldiers dabbed at eyes they refused to show to others. The barn, which an hour earlier had tasted only of fear, now took on the metallic scent of determination.
The moment the revolutionary officers stepped forward the barn changed its shape — straw and smoke gave way to maps and murmured strategy, and by nightfall the final blueprint for the siege lay complete.
The war council dissolved into silence as the last of the maps were rolled up and sealed beneath the weight of the officers' final decisions. Beyond the barn, the night air carried the low growl of distant thunder, or perhaps cannon fire from some far-off skirmish. Sleep was out of the question. None had the stomach for it. Instead, they gathered around a crackling fire outside, where the flames cast long shadows across faces carved by fatigue and resolve.
Zephyr sat nearest the fire, its light dancing across the scars that etched his features. He tossed another log onto the flames, sparks spiraling upward into the night. Around him sat his trusted officers — hardened, silent men and women of the Revolution. Yet among them was one who did not belong.
Christina.
Her coat was finer, her poise sharper, her smile too practiced. The sigil of the Donquixote family gleamed at her breast like a badge worn with pride, a mark that weighed heavier than any medal. She sat with the grace of one who had seen courts and carnage alike, legs crossed, fingers idly toying with a silver locket as if the war around her were a stage play performed for her amusement.
Zephyr's gaze lingered on her as the fire snapped. His voice rumbled low. "You don't seem surprised by all of this… the hunger, the death, the desperation."
Christina tilted her head, her lips curving into a knowing smirk.
"War is no stranger to me, Zephyr-san. I've seen worse. Much worse." Her eyes glinted with the firelight, unflinching. "But what I am curious about is you. With your strength, even alone, you could storm the capital by dawn and end this conflict in minutes. Instead, you let these peasants bleed for you. I wonder why you insist on throwing so many lives away unnecessarily."
Her words slithered into the circle like venom. Some of the younger officers bristled, but before Zephyr could respond, Karasu leaned forward, his voice sharp as broken glass.
"And what would a pirate know of liberation?" His contempt was palpable, each syllable bitten off with precision. "If Zephyr walked into that city alone and crushed the throne with his fists, what then? A king would fall, yes — but the people would remain slaves in their hearts. The Revolution is not about replacing one tyrant with another. It is about the people rising, learning to wield their own strength. Otherwise, freedom is nothing but an illusion."
Christina's laughter rang out, bold and mocking, filling the night air. "So the Revolution's grand ideal is to let the whole country burn? To let mothers bury children, to let cities turn to ash, all so that when it's over, you can say, 'Ah, at least they liberated themselves.' How noble. How foolish. I wonder who will be left to enjoy this precious freedom of yours."
Karasu's jaw clenched, but his eyes burned hotter.
"You dare speak of foolishness? At least we bleed for something greater than ourselves. At least we strive for a future where the strong no longer prey on the weak. Tell me, pirate, what good have your kind done for this world? Rape, pillage, slavery — that is your trade. Even your Donquixote family, with all its wealth and power… what have you brought the world but chains disguised as gold?"
Christina responded, her voice too joyous for the venom laced in it. "Oh, you Revolutionaries and your ideals. Always so righteous, always so blind. You speak of the 'greater good' while you watch your own allies starve. You speak of the weak, yet you let them wither to prove a point. My family does what it pleases, yes — we bend the world to our will. That is honesty. That is reality. Your Revolution is just another dream waiting to drown in blood."
The fire crackled, spitting embers into the air. The circle of officers grew tense, the clash of words heavier than steel. Karasu's hands twitched as if ready to draw his weapon, but Zephyr raised a hand, silencing the storm before it broke. His gaze fixed on Christina, cold and immovable.
"That's enough…! You still haven't told us why you're here." His voice was calm, but it carried the weight of cannons. "I'll not deny that your family's supplies have saved lives. Bread and medicine mean more than words right now, and for that I am glad. But understand this, miss — if you or your Donquixote kin dare to twist this war for your schemes, if you use this country as your board for some private game…"
He let the words hang, unfinished, but the firelight glinted off the steel in his eyes. Every officer in the circle felt it: the warning, the promise.
Christina's smirk lingered, but for the first time, her eyes flickered with something sharper than amusement. She leaned closer to the flame, shadows stretching across her face like a mask.
"My reasons are my own, Admiral. But perhaps, in time, you'll see that not all pirates are as predictable as your ideals would like them to be."
The firelight cut across Christina's face like a blade. Zephyr's eyes never left her—cool, unblinking—so she sighed and let the words fall out like a confession and a challenge both.
"Fine," she said. "I'll tell you. I'm here for the orphans of war."
Silence snapped. Karasu was up before the last vowel finished, hand moving for his pistol. The motion was a live wire through the circle. Leather whispered; steel sang. For a heartbeat the night held its breath.
Christina was faster. Her own weapon was already cocked and leveled, the hammer a cold click in the dark. The muzzle hovered inches from Karasu's jaw. He growled, raw and animal. "You're here to take slaves?"
Pressure rolled across the group like an approaching storm. Accusations hung unspoken; history of pirates and the powerless glittered between them. Zephyr's jaw tightened — he hated assumptions, but he hated certain lines crossed more. He did not move to seize her, not yet. He waited to hear, because if Christina truly belonged to the Donquixote family, if she used children as coin, he would cut it off like rot.
Christina let Karasu's anger break itself against her calm. Her voice was steady, almost weary.
"Jumping to conclusions are we…?," she said. "But ask yourself this: if the revolution topples the crown tomorrow, what then?"
She didn't wait for answers. She listed the future like a tally of corpses, she spoke the facts like a scalpel, and the revolutionaries felt every cut.
"There will be no instant utopia," Christina said, staring into the flames. "There will be rubble, and hunger, and the hungry will eat people who can't feed them. Rebuilding costs money and time and more than your speeches can buy. Who will stay to pick up those pieces? Who will keep the granaries from being looted, that is, if there is any left…? Who will teach the children how to trust instead of fight?"
Her eyes swept the circle and landed on Zephyr. "You and your revolutionaries will move on. You always do—you spread the flame where it's needed, but you don't become the farmers, the doctors, the carpenters. You inspire. You strike. The work of rebuilding isn't romantic. It's filthy. It's endless. It doesn't make for songs."
The unspoken truth hovered like smoke: the revolution's sword was sharp, but not designed for the slow, monotonous work of healing a broken country. The insurgent force could win a capital; it could not, without vast resources and will, single-handedly cradle a whole nation back from the brink. No one had the manpower or the logistics to take every orphan under their wing. No one, it seemed, had thought very much about what comes after the banners fall.
"So spare me your sermon," Christina said. "If my actions save at least a few dozen children from a dog's death—if I pull them from a road where they'd be buried by winter—I will do it. You have no idea how many of those children are out there waiting for a hand. If you're as noble as you claim, take them. Take them all. Feed them, house them, educate them. Show me. Prove your ideals mean more than rhetoric."
She pushed back from the log and stood. The Donquixote sigil flashed at her throat as she stepped into the shadowed edge of the circle. There was no theatrical bow, no flourish—only a simple truth left like a coin on the table: they had different languages for mercy.
Karasu had no retort. He looked near to anger and further from answers. The pistol's weight in his hand suddenly felt pointless; the moment had changed its terms.
Zephyr watched Christina walk away. The fire threw her silhouette long and jagged. Something unreadable passed across his face—annoyance, perhaps, but something softer too: a small, reluctant respect for a woman willing to cross lines to carry children out of harm.
He did not speak. The others did not speak. Christina's words had dug deeper than any blade, and for the first time that night the officers heard the hard, cold echo of the aftermath — a question they could not yet answer.
Beyond the barn, the wind picked up. The map of tomorrow's battle lay folded back inside, but now another map pressed itself into their minds: the map of what came after victory. It was messy, expensive, and in no one's speech was there a plan for it. The truth sat between them like a wound that had not yet stopped bleeding.
The next day, the earth trembled beneath war.
Revolutionary cannons thundered from the hills, belching smoke and fire. The royal army's artillery roared back, shells screaming overhead to shatter into flames amidst the rebels.
The walls of Lorridan bristled with soldiers. Arrows and bullets rained down as ladders slammed against stone. Revolutionaries scrambled upward, hacking with rusted swords, only to be thrown screaming into the dirt below.
"Hold the walls!" shouted Captain Veyric, a decorated officer of the crown. His blade glimmered as he cut down a rebel trying to scale the battlements. But for every rebel that fell, two more seemed to rise. The Revolutionaries fought with desperation, fueled by years of oppression. They swarmed the walls like waves battering a cliff.
Civilians cowered in cellars as the city quaked. Entire neighborhoods were flattened by stray cannon fire, the screams of innocents blending into the clash of steel.
On one street, a woman cradled her newborn in a collapsed doorway, shielding it from falling debris. She looked up to see royal soldiers dragging men from their homes, accusing them of aiding the rebels. When she cried out, a gauntleted hand struck her down.
The war did not care for innocence.
In the gilded halls of the royal palace, King Halbrecht IV lounged on a throne inlaid with gold. Outside, his people bled. Inside, he drank imported wine.
"Your Majesty," a minister stammered, kneeling. "The Revolutionaries press hard. We request reinforcements from the World Government. Without aid—"
Halbrecht sneered. "Aid has already been promised. The marines will soon be here, and we will soon burn all these bastards. The world government's agents will arrive soon enough. Until then, we hold. Veylos is the jewel of west blue, a food basket, and they will not allow their jewel to be tarnished."
He swirled his wine. "Let the rabble die in the streets. Better corpses than traitors."
By dusk, the Revolutionaries had breached the outer wall. Fighting spilled into the city. Homes became battlegrounds, doorways choke points of death. Blood painted cobblestones black.
A squad of rebels stormed a bakery, dragging bread from the shelves to feed their starving comrades. But the baker's family had hidden beneath the counter. When discovered, the rebels hesitated. One teen barely older than the baker's eldest daughter lifted his rifle, his hands shaking.
"Please," the baker begged. "We have children."
The boy's commander snarled. "Leave…leave the capital and find safety on the outskirts until all this is over..."
By nightfall, neither side held victory. Only corpses. The capital burned; its once lustrous noble square was now a jagged silhouette against the firelit sky. Revolutionary dead filled the streets. Royal soldiers lay broken in heaps, their armor glistening red.
And in the middle of it all were the people. The cobbler's apprentice crushed beneath a toppled cart. The seamstress pierced by a stray arrow. The child who had wandered too far from the cellar and never returned. The war cared nothing for them.
At dawn, smoke still choked the air. In the ruins of a church, a mother sat with her child in her lap. The boy was pale, a shard of stone lodged in his chest from the bombardment. His breaths came shallow, each one weaker than the last.
She whispered lullabies through her tears, rocking him as though she could will life back into his body. Around her, the pews lay shattered, the altar scorched. The bells that once rang for prayer now hung silent, twisted metal blackened by flame.
Outside, the Revolutionaries regrouped for another assault. The royal banners still flew above the palace. The war would continue. But for the mother, for the child, for the thousands who had already perished, it no longer mattered who ruled. All that remained of Veylos was ash.