chapter 24.1

Alcard's horse treaded lightly on the dirt path, its hooves echoing against the quiet serenity of the village—a stark contrast to the ruins and desolation he had left behind in his journey through Jovalian. Here, unlike the villages he had passed before, there were no crumbling homes, no burnt-out husks of buildings, and no lingering scent of blood in the air. This place was untouched, preserved as if the war had never reached its borders.

As he guided his black steed through the village's cobbled roads, the eyes of the townspeople followed his every move. Their gazes held no warmth, only caution. He could feel the weight of their silent scrutiny, their whispered conversations hushed as he passed by. Suspicion was a natural reaction—travelers were rare these days, and a lone man clad in a dark cloak with the aura of a soldier did little to ease their wariness.

Alcard paid them no heed. He was used to being regarded with distrust, especially now, as a man without a nation, without a place to call home. Instead, he directed his focus towards the center of the village, where a small but well-kept pub stood among the rows of sturdy stone houses.

The moment he pushed open the wooden doors, he was greeted by the familiar hum of life—a sound that had become foreign to him in recent years. Laughter echoed through the modest space, men sat at long wooden tables, drinking and exchanging stories as if the world outside their borders was not falling apart. An old musician strummed a stringed instrument in the corner, his melody soft yet full of nostalgia. The scent of freshly baked bread and ale filled the air, a comforting reminder of the days before war had tainted every corner of Jovalian.

Alcard approached the bar, placing a handful of gold coins onto the counter with a deliberate motion. The bartender, a grizzled man with a thick beard, glanced at the gold before shifting his gaze toward Alcard with wary curiosity.

"I need information," Alcard said, his voice firm yet quiet. "Why is this village untouched while the rest of Jovalian burns?"

The bartender didn't respond immediately. He studied Alcard, assessing him with a sharp eye, before finally sighing and setting down the mug he had been polishing.

"This village is close to the elven border," he said, his voice low. "That alone is enough to keep us safe."

Alcard's brow furrowed slightly. "Explain."

The bartender wiped his hands on his apron before leaning in slightly. "No faction, no army—neither the prince's forces nor the rogue militias—dares to provoke the elves," he elaborated. "They might be at war with each other, but no one is foolish enough to invite the wrath of the elves onto their doorstep. So they leave this place alone."

Alcard processed the information carefully. It made sense—throughout history, the elves had remained neutral in human conflicts, but their presence alone was often enough to deter unwanted aggression. It wasn't fear of war that kept this village safe, but the unspoken threat of elven retribution.

Reaching into his pouch, Alcard withdrew a few more coins and slid them across the counter. The bartender's eyes flickered with interest before he pocketed them with practiced ease.

"You may think this place is peaceful now," the bartender continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "But that won't last. There's a new force stirring in Jovalian. A group that doesn't care about kings or princes."

Alcard's fingers tightened slightly against the counter. "Who?"

The bartender hesitated, glancing around the room as if ensuring no one else was listening. Then, in a hushed tone, he said, "The Revolutionaries."

Alcard remained still, though his mind was already working through the implications.

"They've been moving through villages like this, gathering support," the bartender continued. "Unlike the nobles, they're not fighting to put another prince on the throne. They want to destroy the monarchy altogether."

Alcard's expression remained unreadable, but inside, his thoughts churned. A faction moving independently of the war? Not driven by royal bloodlines or noble ambitions? That was rare.

"They're careful," the bartender added. "They avoid direct battles, working in the shadows. But they're growing. More people are starting to listen."

Alcard took in the words with measured silence. This was unexpected. He had assumed the war would be decided between the prince factions and the political backers in Edenvila. But a movement like this… it had the potential to change everything.

"Who leads them?" he asked finally.

The bartender shook his head. "No one knows for sure. They don't operate like a regular army. But their words are spreading fast."

Alcard nodded slightly, his mind now fixated on the possibilities. A rebellion against the monarchy was unheard of in Jovalian's history. Even with all the corruption and betrayal, the people had always accepted that power rested in noble blood. But if this movement was real, if they had enough strength to shift the tides of war, then this was more than just an uprising.

It was a reckoning.

Draining the last of his drink, Alcard rose from his seat. He offered no farewell as he turned and left the pub, though he could feel the bartender's gaze lingering on him. Outside, the village was just as quiet as when he had entered, but he could sense the undercurrent of tension in the air. People knew something was coming.

The question was—would they embrace it, or would they be swept away by it?

Mounting his horse, he considered his next move.

"Do I stay and learn more about this rebellion? Or do I continue searching for The Veil's movements?"

It was a question with no easy answer, and the weight of it settled heavily upon his shoulders. Whatever choice he made, it would shape the path ahead.

With one last glance at the village, Alcard pulled on the reins, guiding his horse forward. The road stretched before him, filled with uncertainties, but one thing was clear.

Jovalian was on the brink of something far greater than a civil war.

And Alcard, whether he liked it or not, was already caught in its wake.