The air feels denser here than anywhere else in the castle. The torches flicker, casting long shadows that stretch like fingers. The silence is heavy; not the comfortable silence of an empty room, but the silence loaded with exhaustion. The king watches us with a dim gaze, barely lifting his eyes. His face reveals sleepless nights, weighty decisions, and the grimace of someone who has seen too many defeats. He looks exhausted, drained of strength. There is a deep line of fatigue cutting through his soul.
We kneel, just as the knight had asked us before entering. The act is automatic, a learned gesture between those who respect the law and those who know that there are hierarchies that, though broken, must still hold a form. I use that moment to put Elena somewhere safe: I leave her waiting near the entrance of the castle, leaning against a pillar, with wide, curious eyes. If anything happens, I want her to have a refuge. The girl looks at me with trust; her presence is a small flame that warms my chest.
The man before us introduces himself: Eldring, king of Lumeria. His voice, when he speaks, is low, with echoes of worn authority. He welcomes us with forced courtesy, and allows us to walk through the city as much as we wish; he wants us to feel at home. In those words I sense the desperation of someone trying to show hope even though he has none. He smiles with effort, and that smile is like a spell attempting to hide the weariness.
— Enjoy what is left of today —he says, with a warning that sounds like cold iron—. But tomorrow morning, if you do not want to die in this war, you had better leave.
The phrase falls among us like a slab. We all hear it, and for a second the chamber seems to hold its breath. By protocol, the king offers us hospitality; in truth, he warns us that tomorrow may be worse. The paradox burns.
We are about to withdraw, tension clinging to our skin, when Daichi, my brother, rises. He does it slowly, with the naturalness of one who has made a decision that needs no explanation. He approaches the king and asks, with the voice he always has when he seeks not boasting but certainty, if he may join his soldiers at the front.
The king looks at him, and in his eyes there is that mixture of recognition and sorrow. He grants him permission, but not without a shadow of sadness: he understands the courage, but fears the loss. Then he adds, with an intention that sounds like a final attempt to save lives:
—It would be better if all of you went to a place where there is no war.
The proposal floats in the hall. Abandon the battlefield? Let others fight alone? Eldring's logic brushes against brutal realism: to preserve what remains. But in Daichi burns another logic: duty, family honor, the refusal to let others carry the guilt alone.
Daichi responds with firmness. His words are not grandiose; they are precise, like a rock thrown into water that will never float again. He says no, that he does not intend to leave. That he is strong—too strong to die in vain. And like him, one by one, the other heroes support him. Our voices intertwine in that silent refusal to retreat. We are twelve, united by something more than blood: by our own promise.
The king remains silent. I see him thinking, measuring, calculating the possibility of hope amid the disaster. His expression wavers between surrender and the possibility of fighting once more. I am surprised by the humanity that surfaces: Eldring is not a monster of pride; he is a man who has reached the edge of the abyss and now hears a voice—ours—that suggests climbing back.
Suddenly, as if the sound of our determination were the spark, Eldring straightens with more vigor than moments before. Something that seemed dead beats within him: pride, fear, responsibility. His will shifts its course and he orders, with a voice that this time resounds with authority:
—Gather all the people of the kingdom before the castle, right now!
The knight bows and rushes out. In his stride one can feel the friction of urgency. Ten minutes pass that feel like hours; each second stretches like a tautening rope. When he returns, his step is firm yet quick: the people are already assembled.
The king climbs the balcony with difficulty, as though the act of showing himself were both a physical and moral effort. Below, the square has become a sea of human shadows. Hundreds of heads bow, bodies that have felt hunger, families whose faces bear the hardness carved by need. The scene is solemn; the city, until now dimmed, waits, empty of laughter but full of expectation.
The king breathes deeply and raises his voice. What follows is not only a speech; it is a spell, a rallying cry that seeks to rekindle what the war has tried to extinguish.
—People of the Kingdom of Lumeria! —Eldring cries, and his voice inherits the streets—. I know we are living in dark times! We face a war that seems impossible! The other races want to conquer us and erase us from the map! But we… we will not surrender!
The words fall in waves. His shout becomes metaphor and then flesh. He pauses for an instant, lets the silence gather the impact, and continues with even greater force:
—Even if we have no magic! Even if we have no allies! Even if everything seems lost…! WE WILL FIGHT! For our families! For our land! FOR OURSELVES!
At first, the crowd remains motionless, as though the fire were slow to run through their veins again. Those seconds are dense. I read them in the people's eyes: surprise, doubt, the question of whether these words are truth or mirage. Then, like a spark igniting dry grass, a voice rises from the crowd:
—I do not want to die without fighting! I do not want to see those I love killed!
That phrase breaks the restraint. First one, then another and another, the inhabitants begin to raise their arms, to shout, to answer the king with the echo of their own will. Shouts, footsteps, a roar of encouragement that grows and transforms into a hurricane of commitment. The fire is reborn in eyes I thought dead. A new force is felt, the heartbeat of a community that decides to fight for what is theirs.
I look around. Mey approaches, his face lit by sincere emotion. He whispers in my ear, with a voice that trembles with admiration:
—The king… was incredible.
—Yes —I reply with a small but genuine smile—. He was.
When Eldring descends from the balcony, he comes toward us with another look: stronger, polished by the flame that has been rekindled within him. Something has changed. His posture is more upright; the fatigue has not completely vanished, but the will now bursts forth with new determination:
—I only hope you do not die tomorrow —he says, frankly. He does not hide it, he does not adorn it. It is the confession of someone who now understands what it means to be a leader: to accept others' risks for the hope of a tomorrow.
Then he calls the knight and takes him aside for a moment. They wish to speak in private; their murmur is brief, but enough to notice that something is being forged: orders, strategies, perhaps a request that will change the course of our actions.
Daichi, before departing for the front, approaches the king once more. His words are not an empty gesture: they are a promise with weight. He looks him in the eyes and says with certainty, without flourishes:
—Do not worry, Your Majesty. None of us are going to die tomorrow. I will not allow it.
In that instant, something pierces me: the certainty that my brother is not speaking out of bravado. I feel it in his voice, in the way he tightens Eldring's hand; I see it in his upright posture, in his gaze that knows no doubt. It is a promise that carries with it the obligation to attempt the impossible. I shudder and, without thinking, claim my place at his side, ready to uphold that faith.