chapter 12.3

The sun slowly crept higher over the eastern horizon, casting a golden glow that seeped through the dense forest canopy. Its light filtered between the leaves, creating shifting patterns that danced across the dew-covered ground. The morning air was crisp and fresh, carrying the earthy scent of damp soil and the fading traces of smoke from the dying embers of their campfire. The silence of the wilderness was broken only by the distant calls of birds and the occasional snap of twigs beneath the shifting hooves of their restless horses.

Alcard stood beside his mount, his hands deftly tightening the reins and securing his gear with practiced efficiency. His movements were steady, methodical—an ingrained habit honed over years of survival. Not far from him, Lady Arwen remained seated near the dwindling fire, her posture relaxed yet composed. Her hands were loosely clasped in her lap, her gaze fixed on the last flickers of ember as if lost in thought, allowing the quiet moments of dawn to stretch before them.

A soft breeze stirred the air, brushing against her face as she finally broke the silence with a quiet, contemplative voice. "The morning feels so peaceful."

Alcard, still adjusting the saddle of his horse, merely gave a brief nod in response. He saw no need to engage in idle conversation. Tranquil mornings in Middle Earth were rare and fleeting—he had long since learned that peace was often just the lull before the next storm.

Arwen studied him for a while, as if weighing her next words. After a moment, her voice carried a more careful, deliberate tone. "Alcard, may I ask you something… more personal?" Her hesitation was subtle but noticeable. "About who you were before you became an outcast?"

His hands briefly stilled. Slowly, he turned his head, his sharp gaze meeting hers. There was no anger in his eyes, only a quiet resistance—a wall carefully built over time. His expression remained unreadable, his voice firm but not outright dismissive. "The past of an outcast is not a tale worth telling."

Yet, Arwen did not waver. Her stare was calm but unwavering, a silent challenge wrapped in gentleness. She leaned forward slightly, her voice softer, almost like a whisper. "I still wish to know. You are not just anyone, Alcard. There is something different about you."

A moment of stillness passed between them, as if the very air around them was waiting for his response. At last, Alcard exhaled quietly, his voice measured and restrained. "I was once the High Commander of Jovalian," he stated plainly. "I served its last king until the day he died."

Arwen's expression shifted, her blue eyes widening slightly in surprise. She had expected something significant, but not this. "The High Commander…" she echoed under her breath. "That means you had everything. Honor, power… perhaps even a family."

Alcard gave no confirmation nor denial. He simply turned back to his horse, resuming his task as if the conversation had never happened. But Arwen was not so easily deterred.

"You were a casualty of politics, weren't you?" she pressed, her voice filled with quiet certainty. "I've lived among nobles long enough to recognize someone who was betrayed by their own."

A wry, almost bitter smirk ghosted across Alcard's lips, fleeting and without warmth. "Believe me, Arwen," he finally spoke, "my story is not one worth hearing."

Arwen parted her lips, ready to push further, but Alcard cut her off, his voice now colder, more detached.

"The world of nobility and the world of common folk are two different things," he stated. "The nobles have their own games—full of deception and betrayal. Meanwhile, the commoners… they only seek to survive. And more often than not, those two worlds never truly care about one another."

She regarded him thoughtfully, and after a moment, a faint smile curved her lips—one that carried a melancholic edge. "You're right," she murmured. "Sometimes, I wonder how people can consider themselves superior simply because of their status, while those they deem beneath them understand life far better."

Alcard remained silent, his gaze fixated on the final adjustments of his saddle. He did not respond, nor did he need to. Arwen's words hung between them, unanswered yet acknowledged in the quiet understanding that passed between them.

Satisfied with his preparations, Alcard finally turned to her, giving a subtle nod. It was time to move.

Understanding his unspoken cue, Arwen rose gracefully to her feet, dusting off the hem of her dress before making her way toward her horse. With Alcard's assistance, she mounted smoothly, her movements far more natural than before, despite her earlier claims of unfamiliarity with long rides.

Before they set off, she looked down at him with a softer expression than before. "Shall we continue?" she asked, her voice carrying a hint of warmth.

Alcard returned a curt nod. "Of course." Without another word, he swung himself onto his own horse, guiding it forward as they resumed their journey.

The sound of hoofbeats filled the crisp morning air, rhythmic and steady against the damp earth. Though their conversation had ended, its weight lingered, leaving an imprint in the silence that followed.

They rode onward, heading north, into the unknown. And while neither of them spoke, an unspoken understanding had begun to form—a silent acknowledgment that, despite their vastly different lives, they shared something in common.

They had both lived under the shadow of power, and they both knew that sometimes, the greatest battles were not fought with swords, but with the choices one made in a world that never truly cared who lived and who was forgotten.

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