The faint smell of herbs and smoke lingered in the air when the Captain opened his eyes. His vision steadied slowly, canvas stretched above him, muted light filtering through its seams. The sound of distant footsteps, the clatter of armor, and the muffled voices of healers moving about told him at once—he was not dead. He was in a field tent.
The cot beneath him was narrow, made of wood and rope, its linen rough but clean. His body ached when he shifted; the wounds from his battle with Yoki still weighed heavily upon him, deep bruises and cuts bandaged tight. He pushed himself up, his arm trembling with the effort, but managed to sit.
"Is anyone there?" His voice came low but steady.
A moment later, the flap stirred, and a young soldier stepped in. He had sandy hair cropped short, a narrow face, and eyes that carried both exhaustion and relief. His armor was plain, the type given to common footmen, worn and stained by battle but polished where he could manage.
"Sir—you're awake!" the soldier blurted, straightening at once. "I'll call the others right away." His voice carried both respect and nervous energy, and before the Captain could reply, he hurried back out into the light.
Not long after, the flap was pushed aside again. Lieutenant Oxel stepped inside, his presence filling the space. He wore a white tunic and coat, tailored in the style of noble officers yet practical for a soldier in the field, its edges lined in silver stitching. The fabric bore the creases of recent wear, but his bearing remained steady as always—calm, composed, every movement carrying the dignity of his years.
"Captain," Oxel said, his voice low and relieved. "You've woken sooner than the doctor expected."
The Captain's eyes, cold and unreadable, met his. "How long?"
"Two days unconscious," Oxel replied, moving closer. He stopped at the foot of the cot, folding his hands behind his back. His eyes briefly met the Captain's, calm yet knowing—he could already guess the question forming in his mind. "Roxy's life is not in danger. She was gravely wounded, but the doctor believes with rest she will recover. Both of you will need nearly two months to fully heal. Until then, you should not strain yourselves."
The Captain's gaze dropped briefly, shadows passing behind his eyes. Relief flickered for a moment—Roxy is alive. That thought steadied him. Two months. In war, that is an eternity. Then he lifted his head, voice calm but firm. "I'm glad… Roxy is fine. And the King. The capital. What is their state?"
Oxel's lips tightened ever so slightly, recognizing the familiar pattern. Even after hearing Roxy is safe, the Captain's concern immediately shifts outward, to the kingdom, the people, the battle. He forgets himself again. Always the same—never pausing to tend to his own wounds, yet carrying the weight of everyone else's.
Oxel's expression darkened. He paused before speaking.
"The King was found by your brother, Wilson. He still lives, but…" His voice lowered. "Two arrows struck his chest. One missed his heart by a breath. He is alive only because fate allowed it. Wilson remains at his side."
For the first time, a faint shift touched the Captain's eyes. Wilson. Always at the kingdom's heart, always holding the line when all else falters. If the King still breathes, it is only because Wilson refused to let him fall. Even now, he carries the weight of the realm.
"The kingdom itself bleeds," Oxel continued grimly. "The capital stands, but the people are shaken. Nearly one hundred and eighty of our soldiers fell in the battle, including the General." His tone grew heavy at the last words. "Yet strangely, the enemy has not advanced. Since their sudden retreat, no move has been seen. No trace, no hint of where they vanished to."
The Captain sat in silence, his hands resting on his knees. Inside, his thoughts turned like knives. The General slain… the King on the edge of death… the enemy disappears as though into smoke. Nothing moves without design. This silence is not peace—it is preparation.
Oxel broke the quiet. "Tomorrow, the remaining captains will meet. They will discuss matters of succession, of appointing a new General. You have been invited as well. And…" He hesitated. "…in three hours' time, at sunset, we will hold the General's funeral. His family arrived an hour ago. They wait now by the tent where his body rests."
The Captain's eyes narrowed slightly. "I will attend."
He shifted slightly on the cot, his voice quieter but firm. "Oxel. When you see the General's family, tell them this from me—that I grieve with them. That his death weighs on me as much as it weighs on them."
Oxel inclined his head. "I will, Captain."
The Captain gave a faint nod, and Oxel, bowing slightly, turned and left the tent.
The Captain rose with effort. He dressed carefully, piece by piece, until the black suit lay upon him—sleek, sharp-lined, its style unusual for the battlefield but reminiscent of the noble attire worn in the capital, tailored for somber ceremonies. It was the sort of garment only someone of his stature could carry into a soldier's camp without drawing scorn. Dark, refined, commanding—like a shadow given form.
Stepping outside, he moved through the camp. The air was calmer now; no screams of battle, only the subdued murmurs of the wounded and their kin. Families tended to their injured, some weeping, others holding hands in silence. Soldiers sat with heads bowed, cleaning their blades though there was no fight ahead. The Captain's gaze passed over them all, silent and unreadable. This is war's truest aftermath—not the clash of steel, but the quiet after, when only grief remains.
He reached another tent, set slightly apart. Its flap was drawn closed, faint light spilling through the seams, the scent of healing herbs drifting out. He lifted the canvas and stepped inside.
The interior was plain, built for healing and nothing more. A single cot rested at the center, linen sheets pulled loosely over it. Beside it stood a small table with folded bandages, a clay bowl of water, and a half-burnt candle. Light seeped through the canvas walls, casting everything in muted gold.
Roxy lay upon the cot. Her long silver hair, usually tied neatly beneath her officer's hat, now spilled across her shoulders, catching the dim light. She wore the plain white patient's tunic given to the wounded, its loose fabric a stark contrast to the sharp silver-trimmed uniform that had once marked her as an officer. Even so, there was composure in the way she held herself, back straight despite the pain, chin lifted faintly as though refusing to appear weak.
Her blue eyes widened when she saw him. "Captain? Why are you here? You're still injured… why trouble yourself to come?"
He stepped forward, his shadow falling across the cot. His voice was calm, level, almost cold.
"You are my lieutenant. If I did not come to ask after your health, what would I tell your parents should something happen to you?"
For a heartbeat, she only stared at him. Then, despite herself, a small laugh slipped through, soft and almost trembling with relief. It was quickly followed by a wince of pain, but her eyes shone faintly.
"Captain… you don't have to say things like that. I'm not a child. You sound more like my parents than my commander."
His gaze lingered on her, unreadable as ever. Then he spoke.
"Rest. Heal. Until your wounds are mended, you will not rise. That is my order." His voice carried no warmth, yet beneath it was something she could not name.
He turned toward the exit. The flap stirred as he lifted it, light spilling briefly into the tent.
Roxy's eyes followed him until he vanished outside. Always so distant. Always hiding behind duty. Yet he came here, despite his own wounds… If it were only obligation, he would not have. He protects me more than he admits, even from himself. A faint smile touched her lips as she sank back against the cot. Cold as stone, yet beneath it, there is something warmer. Something he'll never say.
The funeral grounds lay at the edge of the camp, where the forest opened into a broad clearing. The air smelled of incense and freshly turned soil. A grave had been dug deep into the earth, its edges lined with rough-hewn stones. Around it stood wooden torches, their flames wavering in the gray afternoon. Soldiers gathered in disciplined ranks, armor dulled and cloaks black, their heads bowed. Nobles and families stood nearby in mourning, their faces pale and hollow.
The Captain walked steadily among them, his black suit setting him apart from the armor-clad ranks. Every step was measured, controlled. His gaze swept the gathering before settling on two figures at the edge of the grave—the General's children.
The daughter, no more than fifteen, clung to her mother's sleeve, her shoulders trembling beneath a dark cloak. Her face was streaked with tears she tried to hide.
Beside her stood Malrick, nineteen, tall and strong, already carrying the frame of a soldier though no rank yet bore his name. His hair was a deep yellow, falling neatly around his handsome face. He wore a black tunic with high collar and leather belt, a soldier's boots dark with mud, and a cloak draped straight across his shoulders. Grief marked him, yet he carried it with discipline, jaw clenched, eyes unyielding.
The Captain stepped to his side. He spoke quietly, his voice low and steady.
"Your father was a great man. His death weighs heavily on us all. You have my grief—and my respect."
Malrick's gaze fixed on the grave, his jaw tightening further. Then he nodded faintly.
"…Thank you. Your words honor him. I will carry them with me—just as I carry his name."
He turned slightly, his golden hair catching the dim light, and added, almost wistfully,
"I know who you are, even though this is our first meeting. My father… he always told me stories about you."
The Captain drew breath to reply—but was cut short as footsteps echoed. A procession of soldiers approached, bearing the General's body upon a bier draped in black cloth. A solemn chant rose from the priests, the crowd falling into silence as all eyes turned to the shrouded form of the fallen leader.
The Captain and Malrick both faced forward, the moment heavy with grief. Then, as the bier neared the grave, Malrick leaned ever so slightly toward him, his words a whisper sharp enough only for the Captain to hear.
"Meet me tonight," Malrick murmured. "On the northern side of the capital."
The Captain's eyes flicked toward him, but Malrick had already straightened, his expression once more carved in stone, gaze fixed on his father's bier as if nothing had been spoken.
The chant rose. The air grew still.
The Captain did not answer. His face betrayed nothing, but his mind turned in silence. Why secrecy? Why now? What does the boy wish to say that cannot be spoken here?
He looked at Malrick once more, at the fire hidden beneath the grief in his eyes. Young… but already carrying the weight of his father. He does not speak like a child. He speaks like a man standing on the edge of something greater.
His gaze returned to the bier, the priests' voices echoing in the heavy stillness. Yet even as the funeral rites continued, a single thought lingered sharper than all the rest:
What awaits me tonight, on the northern side of the capital?