The fire cracked softly, throwing tiny sparks into the dark.
The camp, assembled in haste, was full of long silences: horses breathing deep, armor resting on the ground, footsteps restrained against the cold earth.
Éon pulled the final knot of the reins, securing the leather with automatic precision.
His gaze, however, remained distant — fixed on some point no one else could reach.
Karna watched him from afar, without approaching.
A slight shift of air — minimal, almost imperceptible — broke the silence between the trees.
Éon didn't lift his face at once.
He only turned his head a little, like someone who recognizes a presence before even seeing it.
"Are you planning to stand there much longer?" he asked, voice low but firm.
From the shadows, a girl slipped out as if she were part of the forest itself.
She descended from a high branch with the same lightness of someone landing on the ground for the second time — a silent, precise, trained movement.
The kind of thing only someone shaped to kill would know how to execute.
Éon faced her when the moon lit her features: a girl with cold, pale skin; deep crystalline blue eyes; long, silver hair with a faint wet transparency.
Her eyes gleamed with a mix of discipline and curiosity as she stepped closer to the weak glow of the fire.
"I thought you wanted to be alone," she said — not challenging, not asking permission. Just stating it, with the serenity of someone who observes much and speaks little.
She halted a few steps from Éon.
Straight posture.
Absolute focus.
"But…" she added, still analyzing every line of his face with almost clinical precision, "…sometimes, Your Highness, we don't notice the exact moment we start drowning in our own silence."
Éon didn't move.
There was no surprise.
No irritation.
Only an internal reorganization — pure calculation.
His eyes rose slowly, meeting hers with the coldness of someone who measures trajectories, not human intentions.
"If you came to observe… you've seen enough."
A brief pause.
"If you came to speak… speak."
Moonlight slid through the silver strands of his hair, giving his outline a translucent — almost liquid — glow in the dark of the camp.
"I am Neriah," she declared, steady. "One of the Five."
Éon held her gaze for a second.
Then he simply nodded — minimal, economical — and resumed walking.
Her voice reached him without hurry:
"Lord Karna told us about the past," she stated with the same calm as before. "How you got here. What you lived through. The part about the orphanage."
Éon did not slow down.
She followed a few steps behind, precise as a trained shadow.
"And he spoke of Your Highnesses as well."
That was when Éon stopped.
He turned just enough to see her from the corner of his eye.
"And what should that mean?" he asked, breath unchanged.
Neriah held flawless posture.
"I only report that we trained these eight months to serve you with maximum precision," she said.
"I believed Prince Éreon would simply use us… but when I heard of your actions, I managed to under—"
Éon turned fully.
The simple shift of axis cut her breath — without him raising his voice.
"You think you understand him?" he said, still calm. "I observe his every step for ages… and even I cannot match the rhythm he sets."
Neriah remained firm.
No recoil.
No hesitation.
No attempt to justify herself.
She only took a deeper breath — lowering her eyes slightly, steady but respectful.
"Forgive me," she corrected, posture rigid. "I did not mean to presume any understanding."
She lifted her chin a millimeter.
A soldier performing her function.
"I only meant that… I understand my role. And that's why I'm here."
Silence.
Éon watched her for a moment.
Nothing in his gaze expressed approval.
Nothing expressed reproach.
It was just that silent calculation — the same cold reading as before.
Then, without a word, his eyes drifted to the side.
A low branch moved lightly in the wind, almost imperceptible.
He observed it for half a second — and that was enough for Neriah to understand the conversation had ended.
Éon simply walked away.
Firm steps.
Constant rhythm.
Without looking back.
He left her there.
Neriah stood still for a few seconds, posture still straight, but the silence around her felt thicker.
That was when a figure landed beside her — light as shadow, silent as habit.
"Zeph," she murmured, without turning.
He crossed his arms, leaning slightly, gazing in Éon's direction.
"What exactly were you trying to do?" he asked — not harsh, but resignedly tired.
Neriah exhaled through her nose.
"I trained with Lord Karna so that, when the time came, I would be worthy of being seen by them."
Zeph scratched the side of his head — a quick, nearly awkward gesture.
"It's true we were chosen… but choice only sets the starting point."
He looked down, thoughtful.
"Recognition… that has to be earned."
"I don't understand them. I don't even scratch the surface. And to be honest… I don't know if anyone ever will."
Zeph's eyes followed the path Éon had taken.
"But one truth I know well: I would never want Prince Éreon against me…" he continued.
A short pause, his expression sharpening.
"…but if I had to choose, I'd fear even more ending up on the wrong side of Prince Éon."
Silence.
The kind of silence that carried weight without explanation.
"I don't know what happened inside that castle…" Zeph murmured, eyes half-closed, "…but I know how to recognize when the air changes."
He tilted his head slightly, like someone listening to something others ignore.
"Prince Éon and Lord Karna haven't spoken a single word… and still, their silence moves through the camp like a warning no one dares ignore."
His hand settled on Neriah's shoulder — firm, brief, almost an anchor.
"Silence like that…" he finished, voice low, heavy with certainty, "…never announces calm."
The air seemed to thicken, as if the night itself were taking a long breath.
Neriah didn't move, feeling the meaning of that silent truth.
Zeph looked away, contemplating the dark sky opening between the clouds.
Far from there, in another camp, another presence felt the same weight in the silence.
The wind shifted first.
The sky opened a thin breach between the clouds, revealing a silver thread of moon.
And the instant that light fell over the rocky slope,
Éreon was there.
Standing on the edge of a narrow cliff above the camp lit by distant fires — the silence was absolute.
He did not seem part of the landscape.
He seemed to command it.
His cloak moved with the high wind — not violently, but with a weight almost ritual.
The ground was uneven, cold stone carved by centuries of erosion — the kind of place no one would climb without preparation.
Éreon's gaze swept the vastness ahead: Tupania's borders, a sea of darkness, distant hills, forests bending under the wind as if bowing.
The surrounding silence felt absolute, but a presence climbed the steep trail toward the cliff.
Firm, careful steps broke the night's stillness — unhurried, yet determined.
Marcus emerged from the shadows of the trees, his eyes locked on Éreon, who remained motionless before the vastness.
The air around him felt different — charged with expectation, as if even nature held its breath to avoid interrupting the moment.
He stopped a few steps behind, respecting the prince's space, waiting for the right moment to speak.
Cold wind dragged heavily between them.
Marcus took a deep breath before speaking —
his voice rough, firm, but marked by real concern:
"We've settled everyone in. But I still think bringing all the civilians is far too risky. It's a burden that may cost more than we can pay."
He paused.
His expression hardened… his eyes fixed directly on Éreon's back.
"And I fear there may be conflict," he continued, voice lower.
"Even if we take care of them, from their point of view, we're the ones who attacked. We're the ones who… killed their families."
Silence returned.
A silence that didn't judge — it simply weighed.
Éreon didn't react immediately.
He remained silent, staring into the void.
Then he spoke, almost to himself:
"Tell me something: what do you think truly makes someone become a king?"
Marcus hesitated for a moment, then closed his eyes briefly and inhaled deeply.
Not to ease tension — but to find the right words.
"A king is not just a commander," he finally said, voice steady. "He carries the fate of his own people. Even when darkness swallows everything. Even when he must make sacrifices no one understands. A true king doesn't rule by fear. He rules by integrity. By earned respect. By the trust born of every bitter choice."
Éreon tilted his head slightly, a deep glint lighting his eyes.
"I understand what you're saying. And I won't deny the strength of that wisdom. A king who stands on integrity keeps his people united."
He paused.
The wind played with his cloak as his gaze seemed to travel through invisible lines of an ancient board.
"But I believe there are two kinds of kings. One who rules from the throne, gives orders, and waits for others to fight for him. And another…" — his voice grew deeper, firmer — "the one who always chooses to take the first step, the first to spill enemy blood, the one who must bleed the most."
A faint smile — almost a restrained challenge — crossed his lips.
"In the fight for survival, the king must not stand behind his people, but ahead of them, carving the way. Like a commander who doesn't order the army to advance, but leads the charge with the blade in his own hand. That is the king who truly inspires and conquers — the king who fights, who bleeds, who risks everything alongside his people."
Marcus frowned, his voice tinted with curiosity and caution:
"What led you to that, prince?"
Éreon kept staring into the void — the wind hitting his cloak, the silence stretching like an answer on its own.
When he finally spoke, his voice came low, heavy:
"That was the answer… of a fourteen-year-old boy." He closed his eyes briefly. "An answer given before understanding what he was becoming."
The wind changed direction.
Éreon turned slightly, fixing Marcus with eyes that carried eras in their depths.
"Tell me, Marcus," he said — voice firm, almost a command. "On a board… what piece do you think I am?"
Marcus didn't look away.
The answer came without hesitation, without pretty wording:
"The king."
The smile that formed at the corner of Éreon's mouth was small — but filled with something ancient, sharp, dangerous.
"Return to camp," he said, voice dropping into a tone that held both royalty and restrained threat. "I will remain here."
Marcus nodded once — straight posture, firm chin — before stepping away.
When his footsteps faded, Éreon inhaled the cold wind, feeling the weight of the night on his shoulders.
And alone, staring into the abyss, he let a sentence slip — a sentence not meant for mortals to hear:
"So… now there are sixteen."
The wind swallowed the words, but the air seemed to react — as if it understood what they meant.