chapter 22.4

The dark sky loomed over Middle Earth, stretching like an unending abyss, mirroring the storm within Alcard's soul. The journey back had been long, yet not even the exhaustion that clung to his muscles could drown out the turmoil in his mind. His horse's hooves clattered against the uneven, stone-laden path, accompanied only by the whisper of brittle leaves rustling under the touch of the cold wind. But it wasn't the silence of the night that unsettled him—it was the memories, the relentless ghosts of his past that refused to let him be.

Jovalian.

The name alone was enough to send a wave of conflicting emotions crashing through his mind. Anger, pain, nostalgia, and a deep-seated sorrow that had never truly faded.

That land had once been his. A kingdom where he had carved his name in blood and steel, where he had stood at the pinnacle of power as a commander, where he had fought not just for victory but for the future of those he swore to protect. And now, he was returning—not as the man they once celebrated, but as the man they had betrayed.

He could still remember the war between Jovalian and Edenvila. A brutal, drawn-out conflict waged over a strip of land that both kingdoms deemed too valuable to lose. It had been a war not of mere swords and strategy, but of loyalty and sacrifice.

"That battle," he muttered under his breath, eyes darkening as he allowed his mind to drift into the past.

The odds had been against him. His army, though hardened and disciplined, was significantly outnumbered. Edenvila had the advantage—both in sheer numbers and supplies. Yet Alcard had not faltered. He had turned the tide of war not through brute force but through tactics honed from years of bloodshed. The terrain had been his greatest weapon—traps set along the valley, ambushes timed with deadly precision, and a strategy that kept the enemy in constant disarray.

By the time the battle was over, the field was stained with the blood of those who had underestimated him. And at the center of that carnage, beneath the fluttering banners of Jovalian, he had stood victorious.

It was on that very battlefield that the King of Jovalian had approached him, a solemn yet proud expression on his face. In his hands, he had carried an heirloom—a blade passed down through generations of kings, a symbol of unwavering trust.

"Alcard," the king had said, his voice heavy with the weight of the moment. "This sword is not just a weapon. It is a mark of this kingdom's faith in you."

He had taken the sword with both hands, a rare flicker of pride filling his chest. At that moment, he had truly believed that his place in Jovalian was unshakable. He had fought for its people, won victories in its name, and secured peace through the edge of his blade.

Peace.

The very word now felt like a cruel jest.

"Peace was never meant to last," he thought bitterly, his grip tightening around the reins.

He had once spoken of peace—had believed in it. After the war, he had been at the forefront of the negotiations with Edenvila, standing across from their military leaders, attempting to forge an era free of conflict.

"We have won the war," he had said. "Now let us win something greater—an everlasting peace."

How naïve those words sounded now.

His gaze lifted toward the vast, starless sky as another memory surfaced—one that cut deeper than all the battles he had fought.

Kaelion Eryndor.

A name that carried the weight of camaraderie and sorrow.

Kaelion had been one of his most trusted allies, an elven warrior whose arrows never missed their mark, whose movements in battle were so fluid they seemed almost unnatural. He had not just been a comrade; he had been a friend. A rare bond formed between man and elf, something that defied the long-standing tension between their races.

He recalled the countless battles where Kaelion's presence had been the difference between survival and death. The elf's arrows had rained down upon their enemies with merciless precision, and his sharp mind had aided in more victories than Alcard could count. But beyond the battlefield, Kaelion had been more than just a warrior.

He had been part of Alcard's family.

Whenever Alcard returned from a campaign, Kaelion had always come bearing gifts for his daughter—rare flowers from the elven forests, intricate jewelry crafted by elven artisans, or merely stories of the world beyond the borders of Jovalian. His daughter had adored him, laughing gleefully at his tales, tugging at his cloak whenever he visited.

"Kaelion was more of an uncle to my daughter than I ever was a father," Alcard mused with a bitter smile.

But like all things he cherished, that too had been stolen from him.

When the king of Jovalian fell, when the crown prince was murdered in cold blood, when the conspiracy that shattered the kingdom unraveled—Kaelion had turned his back on humanity. The betrayal within the royal court had destroyed everything they had built. The elves had withdrawn, severing all ties with the kingdom that had once stood beside them.

And Alcard had lost yet another piece of himself.

"They no longer trust us," he muttered, his voice barely audible against the night breeze.

He inhaled sharply, trying to quell the storm within him. Everything he had bled for, everything he had sworn to protect, had been reduced to dust and lies.

"Everything I fought for is gone," he admitted to himself, his tone hollow, resigned.

His grip on the reins tightened, his frustration manifesting in the tension that coiled within his muscles. He knew that he could not change the past. No amount of rage or regret would undo what had been done. But as much as he tried to bury his pain, it clawed its way back to the surface, refusing to let him forget.

With a sharp tug on the reins, he urged his horse forward, picking up speed as if trying to outrun his own thoughts. The road stretched endlessly before him, shrouded in darkness, leading him back to the kingdom that had cast him out, the land that had turned him into the very thing they despised.

The night grew heavier, the silence more oppressive.

Alcard rode on, knowing that his path was set, knowing that no matter how much he loathed it, his fate was entwined with the ruins of his past. He was returning to a place that had betrayed him, to a war that was not his to fight, to a kingdom that might never welcome him back.

But this time, he was not the same man they had once exiled.

This time, he was the storm that would shake the very foundation of Jovalian itself.