The letters - A call for help.

Echoes Of Ossian

With only two days left before my departure, I did everything I could to avoid him. I couldn't bring myself to face the sorrow in his eyes, knowing it would make me waver. If I did, I feared I would throw everything away, abandon duty, and stay by his side. I couldn't afford that weakness.

I knew Ainar had always dreamed of leaving these walls—to see the world beyond the confines of our gilded prison. But I wasn't strong enough to make that dream a reality. Not yet. I had promised him that, one day, he would be free.

It had to be true.

So I left without him, convincing myself it was for his own good. He was safe here. He would be far from the battlefield, far from the bloodshed, far from the war that was swallowing men whole.

At least, that's what I thought.

I never imagined that danger had been lurking in the very place I had left him. While I was away, it crept closer, suffocating him in ways I had failed to anticipate.

It wasn't until I began receiving the letters that I understood.

The moment I stepped foot into the training camp, the stench of sweat, damp earth, and something metallic—blood, perhaps—hung thick in the air. It was different from the polished halls of the estate, where everything smelled of old parchment, waxed floors, and expensive incense meant to mask the rot beneath. Here, there was no such deception. The truth of war clung to everything. 

The ground beneath my boots was uneven, churned mud mixed with trampled grass. Soldiers moved about in tight formations, some practicing with wooden swords, others hauling supplies. Their faces were hardened, sunburnt, and smeared with dirt, but what struck me most were their eyes—some dull, already lost to the horrors they had yet to see, others sharp, restless, like caged animals ready to pounce. 

A shout rang through the air, and I barely had time to react before something struck me hard across the back. 

"Move!" 

I stumbled forward, biting down a curse as I turned to face the offender. A grizzled officer glared at me, his scarred face twisted in irritation. "You think you're special, bastard? You stand around gawking while the rest of us work?" 

Bastard. The word still clung to me, even here. 

I clenched my fists but said nothing. Answering back would do nothing but earn me a worse beating. 

"Get to the supply tent," he barked. "Now." 

I obeyed, weaving through rows of tents, each one identical—tattered fabric held up by wooden poles, some barely standing. Inside, recruits unpacked rations, armor, weapons—everything we would need to survive, if we were lucky. 

"New blood?" someone asked from behind me. 

I turned to see a boy, not much older than me, leaning lazily against a crate. His uniform was slightly too big, the sleeves rolled up, his expression one of faint amusement. 

"What's it to you?" I muttered. 

He grinned. "Nothing. Just wondering how long you'll last." 

I didn't answer. I wasn't sure myself. 

That night, I lay on a thin bedroll in a tent that smelled of damp cloth and unwashed bodies. The wind howled outside, carrying the distant sound of laughter, arguments, and the occasional scream—whether from a nightmare or something worse, I couldn't tell. 

I closed my eyes, trying to will myself into sleep. 

Tomorrow, training would begin. 

And if I wasn't careful, it would kill me before the battlefield ever could.

The war had begun.

After months of grueling training, of bleeding, fighting, and breaking beneath the relentless sun, I was finally ready—or so they said. But I had yet to step onto a battlefield. Our unit had been stationed in a border town, waiting for our first mobilization orders. Each day, we prepared for departure, sharpening weapons and packing supplies, yet the orders never came.

We were being held back.

The generals wanted trained soldiers, but not all of us would see combat immediately. Some would be reserves, waiting for when the frontlines grew desperate. Some would be reassigned. Some would be discarded.

Then those letters appeared. 

The first letter was thrust into my hands by a fellow recruit who barely spared me a glance.

"Some rich lady's servant came looking for you," he muttered, tossing me a sealed parchment before walking off.

I broke the wax seal, and my breath caught as I read the hurried, uneven handwriting. It wasn't just a plea for help—it was desperation inked into paper.

Your brother is in danger. Your absence has left him unprotected. If you do not return soon, there will be nothing left to save.

The letter wasn't signed. But I knew who had sent it.

Lady Eryss, Ainar's mother.

At first, I refused to believe it. The thought of my little brother suffering in my absence had always haunted me, but I convinced myself that he was safe, at least for now. After all, he was still the heir. He still had power, no matter how fragile.

But then another letter came. And another. Each time, the details grew darker, the warnings more urgent. His father had taken a new wife, one of his concubines, who was already carrying what was believed to be a son. And like a snake sensing weakness, she had begun tightening her grip on the household.

The first wife, Lady Eryss—my brother's mother—had grown ill, possibly poisoned. The little heir was left alone, unprotected, while his father buried himself in drink and let others scheme in his shadow.

The letters were from her—his mother.

She begged for my return.

Ainar was in danger.

I had no choice. The war could wait. I should have been there for him.

Then, to my surprise, I was sent home.

Three months passed before I was granted leave to return home, though the threat of mobilization loomed over me.

The official reasoning was that I had been placed on temporary leave until the main forces required reinforcements. It wasn't a reward. It wasn't mercy. It was a tactic, a way to manage numbers while keeping the illusion of order.

I expected chaos the moment I set foot on our family's land.

Returning home wasn't easy. I had to justify my presence, had to claim I was merely awaiting reassignment. But the moment I set foot inside the estate, I felt the shift in the air—whispers stopped when I passed, servants lowered their gazes, and the halls felt colder, emptier.

She found me first.

It wasn't through an anonymous letter this time, but through a direct message slipped into my hands by one of the older servants, a woman who had always looked at me with something akin to pity.

"Lady Eryss wishes to meet you," was all she said before vanishing into the corridors.

The meeting was arranged for that night, in a forgotten part of the estate where no one dared to go. The abandoned garden, once filled with fragrant blooms, was now overgrown and lifeless, weeds choking the remnants of beauty.

My mother loved this garden from what i had heard. It was were I saw her die that night. No one dared to step in since. 

I stoped my head wandering in the past before I noticed her. 

She was waiting for me, standing in the dim moonlight, shrouded in a heavy cloak despite the warmth of the night. She looked different from the woman I remembered—her face was thinner, her eyes sunken with exhaustion. The once proud and poised first wife of the house now looked like a ghost of herself.

"I don't have much time," she whispered, glancing over her shoulder as if expecting someone to be lurking in the shadows. "They're watching me."

I clenched my fists. "Tell me everything."

She did.

The poisoning, the silent war within the household, the way my brother was being slowly erased from his own family. His father had all but abandoned him, leaving the new concubine to do as she pleased. If she gave birth to a son, my brother's fate would be sealed. And she would not wait for the child to be born to eliminate obstacles.

"You have to take him away," she pleaded, her voice breaking. "I've fought for as long as I could, but I am losing. If he stays here, he will not survive."

I stared at her. This woman, who had once regarded me as nothing more than a stain on her husband's legacy, was now begging me to protect her son.

A bitter laugh almost escaped me.

"You realize what you're asking me to do?" I said coldly. "If I take him, I will be marked as a traitor. I will be hunted. If they find me, they will kill me."

"I know," she whispered, lowering her gaze. "But I have no one else to ask."

Silence stretched between us.

She gripped my collar with shaking hands, her desperation bleeding through her every word.

"It's an order," she whispered at first, then screamed, her voice raw. "You cannot disobey, I order you to save him !"

Her fingers trembled against the fabric of my uniform. It was the first time she had ever touched me voluntarily. It felt foreign—wrong, almost.

"Please," she whispered, her strength fading, her body shaking as if she might collapse. "Please protect him. He doesn't deserve this, and you know it."

I stared at her for a long moment before murmuring, "I didn't deserve it either."

She stiffened, her breath hitching as though my words had struck her. And then, as if something inside her shattered, she dropped to her knees before me.

"I'm sorry," she choked out. "I don't know what to do anymore…"

A shiver ran down my spine. I had never seen her like this before—never seen her broken. And in her teary eyes I couldn't help but notice the same starry eyes as him. 

I exhaled sharply.

"Stand up," I muttered. "I'll take care of it."

Her breath hitched, and for the first time in years, she looked at me not as a threat, not as a nuisance—but as someone she could rely on.

Relief broke across her face like a fragile sunrise, and before I could react, she threw her arms around me.

And before I could stop her, she pulled me into an embrace.

It was warm. Warmer than I expected.

For a moment, just a moment, I let myself lean into it. I stood frozen, unaccustomed to such warmth.

Was this… what it felt like to be held by a mother?

I didn't pull away.

Tears welled in her eyes, spilling onto the cold ground beneath us.

"Please… save your little brother. Take him away from this nightmare."

I could only stand there, watching her, feeling the weight of her plea settle onto my shoulders.

The idea had always been there, lingering in the back of my mind—a whisper of rebellion, a fleeting thought of escape. But now, hearing it spoken aloud, it felt real. Dangerous.

Impossible.

And yet, I had no choice.

If I did nothing, Ainar would be swallowed by this family, by this never-ending cycle of cruelty. He would suffer the same fate I had.

I could not allow that.