Dawn had not brought peace. Neither the golden sun nor the fresh breeze could pierce the layers of ash drifting over Fortis Border Base. Everything seemed tinged with a muted red, a mixture of distant fire and suspended dust, as if the world itself refused to awaken from the chaos stretching beyond the walls.
Pablo was leaning over a metal table in a dark planning room, illuminated only by a hanging lamp that cast long shadows over the maps spread before him. His eyes, deep and tired, traced lines, points, and territory markings representing lives, soldiers, and civilians. Every line was a decision; every decision, a responsibility that made him feel more human than divine, though few reminded him of that.
His white tunic, a symbol of authority and ritual, had been replaced by a dark leather cloak, stained with ash, dirt, and dried blood that clung like a second skin. Immortality could protect him from years, but not from the weight of decisions or the gaze of those who trusted him.
The sound of boots striking the metal floor echoed through the room. An officer hurried in, his steps cutting through the silence like knives.
"Your Majesty," he said, bowing slightly but with haste in his voice, "the Boreal squad has returned from the eastern border. There is a survivor requesting to speak with you."
Pablo lifted his gaze slowly, his deep gray eyes reflecting exhaustion and focus.
"A survivor?" he asked, his voice grave yet composed.
"Yes, Your Majesty. A sergeant. He saved his entire squad and… refused any medical attention until he could see you."
The silence that followed felt heavier than the steel and concrete walls. The officers exchanged glances, knowing that something extraordinary must have happened for a survivor to insist on seeing the king directly.
"Send him in," Pablo ordered, his voice calm but firm, leaving no room for doubt.
The door opened slowly. Each creak of metal rang like a warning in the room. And then Mikel appeared.
The sergeant looked like a man who had walked through the storm itself. His face was streaked with dust, dried blood, and grime; the bandaged shoulder was twisted, held by a fabric barely serving its purpose. His wet hair clung to his forehead, telling of rain and mud left behind. Despite his appearance, there was something in his bearing, in the way he walked, that commanded respect.
He wore the Fortis uniform, but not like everyone else. There were personal touches: a red scarf tied around his neck, fingerless gloves, and a small embroidered emblem on his chest marking his roots in Ciudad Gris. He needed no flashy insignia; his presence alone declared his worthiness of attention.
"Your Majesty," he said firmly, inclining his head slightly in respect, though the pain showed in his posture. "Sergeant Mikel Ysván, Second Containment Line."
Pablo studied him silently. Every gesture, every breath seemed measured. Not as a king; but as a man recognizing another man who had survived hell. The tension in the room was palpable. The officers barely dared to breathe, as if breaking the moment could shatter it.
"Why did you want to see me?" Pablo asked, keeping his gaze fixed on the young man. His voice was steady, measured, seeking to understand the urgency that had brought the sergeant to him.
Mikel drew a deep breath, his chest rising with restrained force.
"Because I will not let you die sitting at a desk," he said clearly, without hesitation.
The silence was absolute. Even the lamp seemed to hum quietly, as if respecting the weight of the declaration. Pablo blinked, processing the statement, and a shadow of a smile touched his lips. It was not joy, not relief; it was recognition, a small spark of humanity after days of endless nights and impossible decisions.
"What did you just say?" he asked, raising an eyebrow, trying to grasp the magnitude of his words.
"That I will not let you die sitting, Your Majesty. Not while there are people like me fighting out there. If you fall, we all fall. Why are you still here?"
Pablo inhaled deeply, evaluating the sergeant's gaze. There was no arrogance, no fear; there was firmness, conviction, and a humanity that reached him.
"Because every time I send someone out… they do not return."
Mikel held his gaze without blinking. His shoulder hurt, his body was exhausted, yet he did not waver.
"Well, I came back. So use me."
In that moment, the room disappeared for Pablo. The maps, the officers, the tension of war—all vanished. Only the two of them remained, two men understanding, without words, that survival was something shared, and that trusting another could mean the difference between life and death.
The officers, unable to intervene, only watched in silence, aware that they were witnessing something rare: the immediate connection between a king and a man who had crossed the line of danger and returned.
The door closed behind Mikel with a soft metallic click that echoed through the quiet room. Pablo remained standing, observing the sergeant closely, measuring every gesture, every breath. It was not the arrogance of a king guiding his gaze, but curiosity: the desire to understand how someone could return from the brink of death and stand before him unafraid.
Mikel straightened slowly, adjusting the bandage awkwardly, and leaned on the table with open palms, seeking balance. His breathing was uneven, but his posture carried an air of firmness that belied his exhaustion. Pablo stepped toward him, step by step, each movement calculated, as if learning to read a secret language.
"Are you hurt?" Pablo asked finally, his voice low, without reproach or theatrical compassion. "I can have you treated immediately."
Mikel shook his head, never breaking eye contact.
"No… not yet. I want… to speak first. With you."
The king stopped a meter away. He studied him: the torn uniform, hair plastered to the forehead, dirt, and blood. All told a story, but the most important thing was the shine in his eyes: not fear, not desperation, but determination.
"Very well," Pablo said. "Speak. Tell me what happened at the eastern border."
Mikel drew a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment as if he needed to swallow enough air to carry all the words he had held inside.
"The border… it was…" he faltered. "Worse than anyone could imagine. Our people were tired, the terrain… impossible. But distance and losses don't matter. My squad was there, and no one was left behind. No one."
Pablo nodded slightly, chin lifted, absorbing every detail. The tension in his chest eased, not because the story was less cruel, but because he faced someone who had survived with purpose, someone who understood that war was not a game of cold strategies but of real people.
"And them?" Pablo asked, his voice measured, soft yet firm. "How… how did you lose them?"
Mikel shook his head, a slight tremor crossing his bandaged shoulder. His eyes, still steady, locked on the king's.
"I did not lose them. They… they fell doing their job. I… I did what I could. But when I saw that everyone could die… I knew I could not stay behind. I could not…"
There was a heavy silence, full of meaning. Pablo did not intervene, did not speak. He simply listened. And in that silence, without words, something deep formed: a mutual respect that needed no declarations, only deeds.
"So… you came all the way here," Pablo said finally, his voice now slightly warmer. "Alone. No company. No excuses."
"Alone," Mikel repeated. "Because no one else could. I didn't want anyone else to die for me."
Pablo inhaled deeply and took a step back, crossing his arms. For the first time since the war began, his posture relaxed slightly.
"That is… admirable," he said. "Not many would have your resolve."
Mikel shrugged slightly, as if he did not want praise, though he could not help the slight tension in his lips.
"I am not seeking admiration. I just want to do what's right. I just want you to continue."
Pablo stared at the sergeant, and something in his expression shifted: a spark of understanding, of silent connection. He had met many soldiers, given orders, seen new faces and worn ones, but few had left such an immediate impression. Mikel was not only brave; he had something more: clarity in his decisions, firmness in his loyalty, and a humanity that made the king feel… less alone.
"You seem to have a curious way of showing respect," Pablo commented, half joking, half serious. "You don't hand me reports, don't give titles, you just… come to tell me I won't die sitting at my desk."
Mikel allowed a small, almost imperceptible smile, a glint in his eyes.
"I suppose that is enough."
Silence settled over the room again, but now it was different: a comfortable silence, full of possibilities. Pablo walked to the table and gestured at the maps spread before them.
"I want you to tell me everything. Every move, every decision you made. Every mistake, every success. I don't want anything left unsaid."
"As you command, Your Majesty," Mikel replied, bowing his head, though with the confidence of a man who knew he could speak to someone who would understand.
Mikel approached the table and pointed to certain marks on the maps, detailing positions, improvised tactics, and how he had kept his squad safe under constant fire. As he spoke, his voice was neither arrogant nor haughty; it was direct, measured, each word loaded with experience and responsibility. Pablo listened, sometimes taking notes, sometimes just observing, letting the sergeant speak without interruption.
"What you did…" Pablo said after a while, pausing the explanation. "It is more than brave. It is… necessary. War is won not just with strategy, but with people like you."
Mikel lowered his gaze, uncomfortable with the praise, but he did not avoid it.
"Thank you… Your Majesty. That… means a lot coming from you."
For a moment, time ceased to matter. The outside world, the war, the explosions… all seemed distant. In the room, there were only two men, talking about loss, survival, and what it meant to stay human amid disaster.
Feeling a brief moment of trust, Mikel allowed himself to ask:
"Your Majesty… do you ever feel alone in this? That everything… everything depends on you and no one else understands?"
Pablo lifted his gaze, his deep gray eyes fixing on the sergeant's. For a moment, he seemed not to speak as a king, but as a man sharing his burden:
"All the time. And it is… exhausting. But seeing that someone understands, someone who does not fear me… it helps. More than you can imagine."
Mikel nodded, and for the first time, his posture relaxed. There was something in that small acknowledgment that made him feel part of something greater, without needing titles or hierarchy.
Pablo allowed a subtle gesture, nearly imperceptible: a slow nod, almost invisible, yet saying: I see you. I recognize you.
The sergeant raised his gaze, and without words, understood. It was not a declaration of affection, nor a commitment; it was a silent recognition of a bond beginning to form amid the chaos.