Callen Aldric
I stand alone...
The battlefield stretches endlessly before me, littered with the dead. Blood soaks the earth, mixing with the rain as if the heavens themselves weep for the fallen. The scent of iron and death clings to the air, heavy and suffocating. I barely feel my limbs, my armor weighed down by filth and exhaustion, but my grip on my sword remains firm. The last man before me groans, crawling in the mud, his fingers digging desperately into the bloodied soil.
A soldier of the enemy King.
My breath is ragged, and my vision blurred, but I see him clearly. The insignia on his chest-a crimson falcon with outstretched wings, the emblem of King Armand, the merciless ruler of Velandria. The man whose forces slaughtered my people.
The soldier coughs, blood trickling from his lips as he struggles to turn over. His eyes meet mine, pleading, desperate. I know that look. I have seen it countless times. It is the look of a man who has fought for something greater than himself, only to realize in his final moments that it was all meaningless.
"P-Please..." he chokes out, his fingers trembling as he reaches for me. "Mercy..."
Mercy?
I lift my sword.
Did his King show mercy when he burned my village to the ground?
Did his men hesitate when they slaughtered my family?
Did they spare my comrades as they screamed for help?
No.
The blade comes down swiftly. The soldier falls limp, his eyes still wide, forever frozen in terror. I watch the life leave him, waiting for something-anything-to stir inside me. Regret, relief, sorrow. But there is nothing. Only silence.
I stumble back, my legs threatening to give out beneath me. The battle is over. There is no one left to fight. No one left to kill. No home to return to. I have nothing.
Only vengeance.
Yet my hatred does not lie solely with the enemy king. No, there is another who has doomed us just as surely. Regis von Castellan. The man I once called my sovereign. The man who left us to die.
His soldiers are not among the fallen here-because they never came. We pleaded for reinforcements, begged for aid, but our cries fell upon deaf ears. While we bled, he sat safely upon his throne, watching as the flames consumed everything I held dear.
The King has stolen everything from me, and I will take everything from him. His crown, his throne, his very life. I swear it upon the blood that soaks my hands, upon the bodies of my fallen kin. I will see him dead.
I will carve my vengeance into the bones of his kingdom, even if it costs me my soul.
The rain falls harder, drumming against my armor, soaking my skin. It should feel cold, but I feel nothing. Just emptiness. Just the distant roar of thunder echoing across the barren land.
How many battles have I fought? How many have I survived? It doesn't matter. None of them have brought me peace.
I sheath my blade and force myself to move, one slow step at a time. Each step feels heavier than the last. My body screams for rest, but I refuse. I have no right to rest. Not yet. Not until the man who sits upon that throne knows the same despair that claws at my chest. Not until he feels the same helplessness that consumed me the night I lost everything.
I reach the edge of the battlefield, where the corpses of my fallen comrades lie. Some I have known since childhood. Some have followed me into battle without hesitation. They are all gone now. Their dreams, their hopes-erased in an instant. The world will forget them. But I won't.
I kneel beside the lifeless body of a young man, his face still twisted in pain. His name was Arlen. He had fought beside me since the beginning, always quick with a joke, always the first to charge into the fray.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, gripping his cold hand. "I should have been faster. I should have done more."
The words feel empty. Apologies won't bring them back. Revenge won't either. But it is all I have left.
A gust of wind howls through the battlefield, sending ripples through the pools of blood. I force myself to stand. I can grieve later-if there is ever a later. For now, I have a war to finish.
The Kings will pay. One way or another, they will fall. And I will be the one to bring them down...
***
The weight of the dead rested on my shoulders.
I dragged the bodies one by one, my arms screaming with every motion. Blood-some mine, mostly theirs-painted my armor, soaking into my skin, but I did not stop. I would not leave them to rot, to be devoured by scavengers like forgotten scraps of war. They deserved better. Even if no one would remember them, I would.
The rain had long since turned the battlefield into a mire of filth and blood, each step a struggle as I trudged toward the place I had already prepared. A quiet hill, far from the ruin and fire. It was where I had buried my family. My wife, My son, my people... Now, it would be their resting place too.
The silence was deafening. Only my own ragged breath and the rhythmic squelch of mud underfoot accompanied me as I placed the bodies in a line. Arlen, the fool who always laughed in the face of death. Mara, the fiercest warrior among us. Ferris, my second-in-command, my closest friend. One by one, I set them down, my hands trembling as I knelt before them.
Then I began to dig.
The shovel bit into the soaked earth, the effort burning my arms, but I welcomed the pain. It was easier to focus on that than the emptiness clawing at my chest. I worked in silence, my breath heavy, the rain masking the tears that threatened to fall. Every strike of the shovel echoed like a hammer against my soul. This was my final duty to them. The least I could do.
Hours passed. Perhaps longer. By the time I finished, my body was on the verge of collapse. I lowered each one gently into the ground, whispering their names, whispering my apologies. Then, with hands that no longer felt like my own, I buried them.
When the last handful of dirt was placed, I fell to my knees.
"I'm sorry... I failed you all."
The words were hoarse, barely above a whisper. My fingers curled into the damp soil, gripping it as if I could somehow hold onto them through it. My vision blurred, whether from exhaustion or grief, I did not know.
Then my eyes found the grave at the farthest end.
It was smaller than the rest. Less weathered by time. My wife, Evelyne's name carved into the wood marker, alongside another name... Eleazar... My son...
Something inside me shattered.
A scream tore from my throat, raw and full of anguish, echoing into the storm. I clenched my fists, slamming them into the ground, over and over, until my knuckles bled. I had lost everything. My home. My comrades. My family. And for what? A war waged by greedy kings? A battle that never should have happened?
Regis.
Armand.
They had done this. They had left us to die, used us as pawns, discarded us like we were nothing.
"Damn you!" My voice cracked as I roared into the night, my breath hitching. "Damn you all!"
A shadow shifted beside me.
I froze, my hand instinctively reaching for my blade. But as I turned, my eyes met a figure standing just beyond the graves. Cloaked in darkness, his posture unnervingly relaxed, as if he had been watching me for some time. His face was masked by an intricate silver design, hiding all but the glint of his sharp, knowing eyes.
The Jester.
Veylin Lorien.
He tilted his head, amusement dancing in his gaze. "Tell me, Callen... does it hurt?"
I didn't respond. My breath was still ragged, my muscles still tensed, but I did not move. Something about him-about the way he stood there, unbothered by the rain, by my grief-unnerved me.
"Pain, rage, sorrow... they make for a fine song, don't they?" His voice was smooth, like silk woven with venom. "But what will you do with it, I wonder? Will you let it drown you? Or will you turn it into something... useful?"
I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to my feet. "What do you want?"
Veylin chuckled, the sound too light, too amused. "Me? Oh, I want many things. But right now, I am more interested in you. A soldier left for dead. A man robbed of everything. A blade with no master."
His gaze flickered toward the graves. "Tell me, Callen... do you want revenge?"
The wind howled through the graves, stirring the air between us. I looked down at my hands, still caked with blood, then back to him.
Do I want revenge?
The answer had been burned into my soul the moment I lost everything.
"Yes."
Veylin's lips curled behind his mask. "Good. Then let's talk."
__________________________________________
Regis von Castellan
"Your Majesty, we have received word from the front. Redmont has fallen."
I grip the armrest of my throne, the polished wood pressing into my palm. The hall is silent, the flickering torches casting long shadows against the stone walls. The words hang in the air, suffocating, a weight that coils around my chest like iron chains.
The retainer bows his head, waiting, but I already know what he will say next.
"And Callen?" My voice remains steady, but I can feel the tremor in my fingers, hidden beneath my robes.
A pause. The hesitation makes my stomach tighten.
"No reports of his survival, Your Majesty. But... there were no reports of his death, either."
A hollow answer. A cruel uncertainty.
Silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating.
I exhale, controlling the storm within me. Redmont-Callen's home-razed to the ground. Its people slaughtered. Its defenders cut down. The enemy repelled, but at what cost?
Callen. My most loyal knight. My friend. I should have been there. I should have sent reinforcements. But politics and duty bound me, held me back while my soldiers fell, while he...
I press my thumb and forefinger together, suppressing the wave of regret rising within me.
"We held the enemy back?" I ask, though the answer is already clear.
"Yes, Your Majesty. The forces of Velandria retreated beyond our borders, but our losses were severe. The eastern front is in shambles."
The war council shifts uncomfortably. Advisors glance at one another, their expressions shadowed with worry. They wait for me to falter. To grieve.
I do not. A king cannot afford to hesitate. A king cannot afford to mourn.
"We must not waste time," I say, my voice sharper than intended. "Velandria will not stop here. Begin preparations to fortify our defenses. Summon our remaining generals-I want strategies in place before they strike again."
"At once, Your Majesty."
"And Redmont..." I close my eyes briefly, a thousand thoughts racing through my mind. "Dispatch scouts. I want confirmation of Callen's fate. Dead or alive, I want to know."
The retainer bows and swiftly exits the hall, leaving me surrounded by nobles and advisors who murmur among themselves. But I hear none of it.
I lean back, fingers tapping against the carved wood of my throne.
Callen... if you still draw breath, if fate has not yet claimed you... I will not fail you again.
But if you have fallen...
Then I have truly lost not just a loyal knight... but a part of myself.
The weight of my crown feels heavier than ever, but I refuse to let it bend me. I straighten my posture and glance at my gathered council. "What of our resources? Can we sustain another prolonged engagement?"
One of the older nobles, Lord Harvin, steps forward. "We are stretched thin, Your Majesty. The kingdom bleeds, and while our coffers are not yet empty, they will not withstand another campaign without severe taxation or external aid."
Taxation will bring unrest. External aid will mean indebting ourselves to foreign powers. Neither option is favorable. I nod slowly, mulling over our diminishing choices.
"Then we must ensure this war does not drag on longer than necessary," I say. "Have our spies learned anything of Velandria's next move?"
A younger strategist, Lady Seraphina, hesitates before speaking. "Their forces have retreated, but reports indicate they are amassing at the border. It is possible they plan to launch another assault before we can recover."
Typical. Velandria's king, Armand, is no fool. He will not allow us time to breathe. If Callen were here, he would already be proposing countermeasures, strategies to force the enemy into a defensive stance. But Callen is not here.
And without him, my kingdom feels far weaker.
I rise from my throne, stepping forward, my gaze sweeping across the room. "Then we prepare for the inevitable. Double the patrols on our borders. Ensure our remaining forces are given time to recuperate, but do not let their blades grow dull. I want a full report on Velandria's movements by sunrise."
The advisors nod, bowing as they hurry to carry out my orders.
I remain in the throne room long after they have gone, staring at the map laid out before me. The lines of battle, the markers indicating fallen strongholds... Redmont, now lost.
Callen... my friend, my knight, my shield on the battlefield. If you yet live, I swear upon my throne, I will not fail you again.
But if you have fallen, then I will ensure that Velandria pays in kind. That Armand suffers as I have suffered. That Castellan does not crumble under the weight of this war.
I turn away from the map, steeling my heart against the grief threatening to consume me. There is no time to mourn. Only time to act.
I exhale sharply and turn to the retainer standing at the edge of the hall. "Summon the one who can turn the tide."
The man confirms. "Your Majesty, You mean The Poet?"
"Yes..." I level him with a steady gaze. "Look for Veylin Lorien."
Recognition flashes in his eyes, quickly replaced by understanding. There is no uncertainty now, only the confidence that I have come to expect from my most loyal men.
"At once, Your Majesty," he says without question.
As he leaves, I let out a slow breath, my fingers pressing against the polished wood of my throne.
Veylin Lorien. The Jester. My most trusted advisor... or so they all believe. A man of boundless cunning, a tactician unmatched in warfare. The one the kingdom must rely on.
Yes. That is what they must think.
I allow the facade to remain unshaken, knowing that doubt would lead to ruin. The court must see my unwavering faith in him, the generals must believe that he alone can turn the tide. He must believe it as well.
But in the depths of my mind, in the quiet where no one can hear, my blood burns with loathing. A serpent in silk, a blight upon my throne. If the gods were kind, they would strike him down before my hands ever needed to. But the gods are cruel, and so it must be me.
One day. One day, Veylin, I will see your head on a pike, and Castellan will finally be free of you.
But for now, I will play my part. For now, you are the kingdom's greatest hope.
For now...