The Captain sat on a fallen log high in the mountains, his sword balanced across his knees. The cold wind tugged at his black coat as his thoughts drifted far from the present—back to Tukmis, to fire and steel, to the weight of screams he could not silence. For a long while, he stayed there, trapped in memory.
"Captain?"
The voice cut through the silence. Slowly, his gaze lifted. Max stood at the edge of the clearing, his breath clouding in the crisp air, eyes wide as though afraid to disturb him.
"Are you free?" the boy asked.
The Captain blinked, the haze of Tukmis fading from his eyes. He shifted slightly, grounding himself in the here and now.
"Yes," he answered, his voice calm but edged with weariness.
Max straightened, almost relieved.
"The Master is calling you. Someone has arrived to meet you."
The Captain's eyes lingered on the horizon for a heartbeat longer, the last flicker of Tukmis still echoing in his mind. Then he gave a slow nod.
"Understood," he said quietly, his tone steady. "I am coming… just in a minute."
Max hesitated, as if wanting to ask more, but the weight in the Captain's eyes kept him silent. With a quick bow of his head, the boy stepped back, leaving him to his thoughts.
The mountain wind whispered through the trees again. For a moment, the Captain remained seated on the fallen log, gathering himself, before rising to his feet. His hand brushed the scar along his arm as he stood, the cold steel of his blade reflecting the fading sunlight.
The Captain finally rose from the fallen log and followed the narrow trail down toward the small hut nestled among the rocks. Smoke curled faintly from its chimney, carrying the scent of burning pine. Each step crunched softly on gravel, the quiet only broken by the distant cry of a mountain hawk.
At the door, he paused. His knuckles rapped gently against the wood.
"May I come in?"
From within, the Master's voice—aged, calm, yet firm—answered, "Yes."
The Captain pushed the door open and stepped inside. The warmth of the fire greeted him, dancing shadows across the humble wooden walls. The Master sat near the hearth in his chair, white robes draped over his frail frame, his eyes sharp despite the weight of years.
Inside the hut, another figure was seated beside the Master—a young soldier in travel-worn armor, his back straight, posture disciplined. The Captain's eyes narrowed slightly, recognizing the insignia on his breastplate.
The Master gestured toward him.
"He carries a message for you. From Wilson."
The soldier rose at once, stepping forward with a sealed letter. He bowed his head respectfully before speaking.
"Captain, I have been ordered to deliver this to you. I will be waiting outside for your reply, with your permission."
The Captain gave a short nod.
"Granted."
The soldier saluted crisply and stepped out, leaving the Captain alone with the Master and the fire's glow. Slowly, the Captain broke the seal and unfolded the parchment.
The handwriting was unmistakable—his brother's sharp, deliberate strokes.
Letter from Wilson
Brother,
I regret to inform you that His Majesty, the King, has passed away. Though his will declares the First Prince as successor, I do not trust that the other princes will remain silent. There is danger of strife within the capital. I will do what I can to keep matters under control, but if the situation turns… we may face a war for the throne.
I know you and your squad are away, training and recovering as planned. Yet I must warn you—when the time comes, the kingdom will need its Captains. And I will need you at my side.
—Wilson
The Captain closed the letter with a slow breath, the weight of its words sinking into the silence. His fingers tightened on the parchment, then he looked toward the Master.
"Master," he said, his voice steady and resolute, "the danger is growing, and I cannot wait any longer. I must push myself further than ever before. Please guide me, so I can reach the strength I need to protect those who depend on me."
The Master's eyes softened, his frail hand brushing his long white beard. He gave a single, knowing nod.
"Do your best, Captain. The strength you seek is yours alone to find—no one else can give it to you."
The fire cracked between them, casting long shadows across the walls, as though marking the end of peace.
Meanwhile, far from the mountains, Roxy sat at a wooden table in her parents' home. The glow of lantern-light bathed the room in warmth, the simple meal spread before them carrying the scents of home she had almost forgotten. For once, the clamor of war felt distant.
Her father, a man with weathered hands and kind but stern eyes, set his cup down and looked at her.
"So, Roxy… how is your training going?"
Roxy straightened slightly, her silver hair catching the lamplight.
"It's going well, Father. I won't let anyone leave me behind. I'll grow stronger—strong enough not to be a burden to the Captain."
Her father gave a small approving nod, but it was her mother who leaned forward, smiling softly.
"That Captain of yours… he seems like a good man. I'm glad he's the one leading you. If it were anyone else, I might never have allowed you to become a soldier. But with him, I feel you're safe."
For a moment, Roxy blinked, surprised by her mother's gentle tone. Then she lowered her gaze, a faint smile forming at her lips.
"Yes… you're right."
Her parents exchanged a glance, and the warmth in the room seemed to grow. Roxy continued her meal quietly, her thoughts lingering not on the food before her, but on the black-clad figure who carried the squad's burdens alone.
Far away in the depths of the forest, a campfire crackled under the shade of tall pines. The Captain's soldiers had gathered around for their midday meal, their armor loosened, their laughter carrying through the trees.
"Look at you, Randon," one soldier chuckled, slapping his comrade's back.
"You swing that spear like a farmer beating grain. No wonder the Captain sighs when you train."
The man scowled, grabbing his bread.
"Better than your sword swings, Jerek. I've seen laundry lines cut straighter than your strikes."
At the center of the group, Albert had drawn everyone's attention. With a grin, he balanced a wooden cup on his head, spun around, then flipped it into the air—catching it neatly with his boot before kicking it into his hands. The soldiers clapped and cheered as he bowed theatrically.
"Encore! Encore!" they shouted, and Albert happily obliged, juggling small stones and twisting his body in acrobatic moves that seemed more suited to a festival than a battlefield.
For a while, the tired soldiers forgot their bruises and blisters. Their laughter rose with the smoke of the fire, joy lighting faces usually hardened by war.
And yet, beneath the merriment, a quiet truth lingered. They missed Roxy's calm presence, Oxel's guiding words—and above all, the Captain. He had never joined them in moments like these. While they rested, he worked. While they laughed, he carried burdens alone.
The empty space at the fire's edge reminded them of it.
Still, for this brief moment, peace belonged to them.
Meanwhile, in the capital—its streets nearly rebuilt, the scars of war still faintly visible—Wilson strode through the grand hallways of the royal castle. The echo of his boots against polished stone was steady, purposeful, until a shadow detached itself from the corner.
A man clad in black cloth bowed low, his voice low and urgent.
"My lord… grave news. The First Prince has been poisoned. He is dead. And the Second Son has already called an emergency council—he has declared himself King."
Wilson stopped in his tracks, the words striking him like a blade. His eyes widened, disbelief flashing across his usually composed face.
"What? How is that possible? Where were the guards? Why was I not told immediately? I have been the King's right hand for many years!" His voice thundered down the hall, echoing off the high walls.
"And now they dare declare such a thing without consulting me?"
The man in black lowered his head further, saying nothing.
Wilson's breath came hard and fast, fury burning in his chest—but only for a moment. Slowly, he straightened his shoulders, forcing calm back into his expression. His sharp eyes hardened with resolve.
"…Leave it," he muttered, his voice low, dangerous. "I am going to the Second Prince myself."
With that, he turned, his cloak sweeping behind him as he strode down the corridor, each step heavier than the last. The fate of the kingdom hung on what awaited him beyond those doors.