The Captain sat on a fallen log beneath the shade of an old oak, the forest around him alive with the rustle of leaves and the distant call of birds. Sunlight filtered down in broken rays, catching on the scar along his arm as he leaned forward, lost in thought. His gaze was fixed on the ground, but his mind wandered far from the quiet woods. He was remembering a meeting—one that had taken place not long after the funeral of the General.
The funeral had left the capital in ruins, its streets heavy with rubble and grief. Families mourned in silence, and the air carried the weight of loss. The Captain, though hardened by war, felt the sorrow of those who had lost everything, their pain echoing in his own silence. With the heart of the kingdom shattered, the city could no longer host such a gathering. Instead, the captains of the country turned to Tukmis—a peaceful city untouched by the flames of war. Tukmis was famed for its bustling markets and winding streets, but above all for its castle, not at the city's center, but perched high upon a mountain. A long staircase climbed its face like a stone spine, and beside it stretched a royal road, carved for the carriages and riders of nobility.
The Captain, still weakened by his injuries, was forced to take the royal road instead of the endless stairs. Oxel rode beside him, their horses carrying them steadily upward, the measured clop of hooves echoing against the stone walls of the mountain. Cloaks billowed in the cool breeze as they climbed, each turn of the winding path pressing the weight of the moment heavier upon them.
At last, they reached the castle gates, where a guard in polished armor stepped forward to greet them. With a bow, he led them quickly away from the open courtyard and into a narrow passage carved into the stone. The torches flickered along the walls as they descended into shadow, the air cooler and heavier the deeper they went. This was no ordinary council—few in the city even knew it was happening.
At the passage's end, they emerged into a chamber veiled with red curtains. A long table stretched across the room, fifteen seats set around it, each reserved for one of the kingdom's most trusted captains. Some of the chairs were already filled. Steel-eyed men sat in silence, their faces worn from battle, their cloaks heavy with dust. The Captain entered without a word and took his place among them.
Ten minutes passed, and the remaining seats filled. Boots struck against the stone floor, voices rose briefly in greeting and fell into silence again. Soon, nearly every chair around the great table was occupied. The chamber, once hollow, now felt heavy with the presence of men who carried the fate of the nation on their shoulders.
At last, the senior-most captain leaned forward. He was a man in his fifties, his hair streaked with silver, his frame no longer bearing the strength it once had. Yet his eyes were steady, sharp with experience, and his voice carried the calm authority that years of command had carved into him. Though many in the room were stronger, swifter, or deadlier with a blade, it was he who had summoned them here. Wisdom, not muscle, had made him their anchor.
"We begin," he said, his tone even but firm, cutting through the murmurs.
One after another, the captains gave their reports. Each spoke of the lands they guarded—villages holding firm, borders tense but still secure, soldiers weary yet standing strong. Again and again, the conversation circled back to the capital. Its fall had left scars not only on the stone, but on the spirit of the nation. Families displaced, trade disrupted, supplies strained. Though the capital still smoldered in memory, the rest of the kingdom looked to these men for strength. And so they endured.
Uzair pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. Sitting just to the left of the elder captain, his presence immediately drew the room's attention. He was twenty-nine, his long black hair falling loosely over his shoulders, and though the firelight gave him a striking beauty, it was not the soft kind. His sharp cheekbones, the slight curve of his lips, and the confidence in his gaze made him stand apart from the weathered faces around him. Where most captains bore scars and rugged lines, Uzair looked like a figure carved too finely for war—yet his eyes, dark and unwavering, betrayed a resolve no one could mistake.
"We cannot delay this any longer," Uzair began, his voice carrying firmly across the chamber. "The enemy must see that we still stand united. The death of the General has left a void, but if we choose a new one here and now, they will know our strength remains. We are not broken. We are not leaderless. Let us decide today—and I am ready to take that burden upon myself."
Murmurs rippled through the room. Some nodded at his boldness, others frowned at his youth. The air shifted, heavy with unease.
A chair scraped at the far end of the table. Another figure stood, tall and broad-shouldered, his presence commanding without the need for ornament. This was Titus, thirty-six years old, a soldier forged in countless campaigns. His face was scarred and weather-worn, his brown hair tied back without care for style, his eyes steady as iron. Where Uzair burned with ambition, Titus radiated the hard weight of experience.
"I too am willing," Titus declared, his voice even but resolute. "I have led men through the fires of war, stood my ground when others broke, and brought soldiers home alive. This is no time for untested fire, but for proven steel. If a new General must be chosen, then I stand ready."
The chamber stirred louder now. Several captains voiced their support for Titus at once, tapping fists to the table or nodding firmly. Yet others still turned toward Uzair, reluctant to dismiss the passion in his words.
The call for votes began. Names were spoken, hands raised. One by one, the choice leaned toward Titus. His record, his years in the field, carried weight that Uzair's ambition could not overcome. By the final count, Titus stood with the majority at his back. Uzair did not flinch, but his jaw tightened, his pride burning quietly behind his composed face.
But two voices had not spoken.
The Captain remained silent, his scarred hand resting on the polished wood, eyes steady but unreadable. He neither raised his hand for Uzair nor Titus. His silence was deliberate, and it hung in the air.
And beside him, the elder captain—the one who had called this meeting, though he himself was no longer the strongest among them—also withheld his vote. His aged fingers tapped softly against the table, his weathered face half-hidden in the shadow of the red curtains. His eyes did not rest on Uzair or Titus, but seemed to search beyond them, as if turning over a different name entirely.
The council felt his silence. Though frail in body, his wisdom carried weight, and a word from him could have shifted the outcome. Yet he gave none. He only sat in stillness, as though he bore a secret no one else yet dared to speak.
A sudden roar split the air—an explosion so violent it shook the walls of the chamber. Dust rained from the ceiling as the great table trembled under their hands. The red curtains billowed with the rush of displaced air.
The captains sprang to their feet as one, chairs scraping and toppling against the stone in a sudden clamor.
The door burst open, and Oxel stormed inside, his face grim.
"The castle is under attack!" he gasped out. "The enemy has breached the outer walls—they're coming straight for us. It's as if someone told them we were here."
The council erupted into chaos.Hands reached for swords, cloaks were thrown aside, steel hissed from scabbards as the captains prepared for battle. The air filled with the clamor of iron and the thunder of boots.
But the Captain did not rise as quickly as the others. His hand pressed against his injured side, his body still bearing the weight of his wounds. Oxel stepped forward at once, his arm outstretched.
"Stay behind me," he urged, his voice hard. "You're not fit to fight in this state. I'll hold them off."
The captains fell silent at his words. They exchanged no glances, but each knew the same truth: even if every sword in this room stayed sheathed, there was one man who would still fight, even if it meant standing alone. That unspoken certainty hung over them all like a shadow.
The Captain's gaze lifted, his cold, emotionless eyes steady despite the ache in his body. Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet, drawing his blade in one smooth motion.
"No, Oxel," he said, his voice quiet but unyielding. "I am not so weak as that. I will fight."
They answered as one—a single, low roar that filled the chamber like rolling thunder.
"We will not lose this time," one captain snapped, voice hard as flint.
"No," another added. "Not while we still draw breath."
One by one the captains rose fully now, faces set, armor settling into place. Hands closed on hilts, gauntlets tapped the table in a drumbeat of resolve. The elder who had sat in silence finally looked up, and for the first time his eyes were bright with a decision. He lifted his chin and let his voice carry through the smoke-thin air.
"Then let the enemy know whom they have chosen to test," he said. "Tell them we are not fractured. Tell them we are many—and that we will answer with steel."
Uzair's jaw clenched; Titus's shoulders squared. Oxel moved to the Captain's side, steady and unflinching, one hand on his back, the other checking the leather straps and the sword at his hip. Around them, the captains formed into ranks as if the table itself had been a battle formation—rows of men who had once argued over titles now ready for war.
Outside, the distant shouts and the clash of metal grew louder. Torches were seized and flung into brackets; the red curtains were swept aside like a curtain call. Despite the pain that knifed through him with each breath, the Captain let his blade glimmer once in the torchlight and nodded.
"Then we show them," he said, voice steady and small amid the tumult, "what it means to cross our gates."
With that, the captains surged toward the door—no more council, no more debate—only one accord: to meet the enemy face to face and make certain the attackers would remember the name of the army that met them.