Chapter 8 - Part 1: Preparations

The courtyard still shimmered faintly from the boy's teleport. The air had stilled, not with calm, but the kind of stillness before a storm.

Chief Ivers stared at the spot for a second longer than Lindsay. Then he turned.

"Walk with me," he said curtly.

They passed guards and nobles alike, who parted before them with uneasy bows. No one asked questions. Not yet.

"He didn't flinch," Lindsay said finally. "Not once."

"No," Ivers replied. "He didn't need to."

"…You know who he is."

"I think I do. But I want to be wrong."

They turned toward the stone stairwell.

"If I'm not," Ivers continued, his voice low and grave, "then we've already lost the war we haven't declared."

She stopped walking. "Wait. You think this will start a war?"

"I don't think it. Mobilize the entire garrison. I'm going to the King."

She opened her mouth to question him—but the look he gave her ended it. It wasn't fear in his eyes. It was certainty. She nodded once, then broke into a sprint.

The Mobilization

The training grounds of Balmat had never filled this fast.

Within the hour, more than a hundred soldiers lined up in full combat gear, breath misting in the air. The sound of steel unsheathing and boots hitting stone echoed like a heartbeat.

Lindsay stood above them, posture straight, arms folded behind her back, trying to look calmer than she felt.

Not everyone had made it, but most had. And they were enough to start.

"Eyes front!" she called.

The entire field stilled.

"We're not here to parade," she said. "You were pulled from your homes, your meals, your rest. I know. I ordered it. You'll know why in a moment."

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Then one voice broke through.

"What's the reason, then?" a voice barked from the third line.

Felix.

Stocky. Arms folded. Brow furrowed like stone. His short temper already cracking.

Lindsay's eyes narrowed.

"Felix—"

"No. I'm saying it loud," he snapped. "We're not chess pieces. We're not pawns. Mobilizing the full garrison without intel? We're not Heming's lapdogs. We're better than this."

Several soldiers shifted uncomfortably. Some nodded. Felix had that effect.

Lindsay stepped forward.

"You're right," she said.

That surprised him.

"But when the Chief of Balmat walks back from an encounter looking like that, and tells me to prepare for war…" Her voice sharpened. "I don't ask questions."

Felix opened his mouth, but she cut him off.

"And neither should you. Unless you think you're smarter than him?"

He stared at her for a long beat. Then looked away and spat to the side.

"…Fine. But we train with live steel."

"You always do."

The field moved. Soldiers formed ranks. Weapons drew. The mood had shifted.

Felix grunted as he moved into his group. Kraft, just behind him, muttered, "Maybe keep your voice down next time."

Felix shot him a glare. "Someone had to ask. I'm not here to warm benches while blindfolded."

"No one said you were second-best for your manners," Kraft quipped.

Felix snorted, but said no more.

The clang of swords meeting echoed across the training yard. The sun had barely moved, but sweat already soaked through tunics and armor alike. The drills were relentless. No breaks. No explanations.

Felix wiped blood from his lip — not from a blade, but from the hilt of a rookie who'd panicked during a parry.

"Idiot," he muttered, tossing the kid a half-hearted nod to get up. "You swing like a drunk bird."

"Least I don't squawk like one," Kraft said from nearby, sword still resting on his shoulder.

Felix turned, eye twitching. "You want to go, pretty boy?"

"Sure. After you explain why you're yelling at everyone like you own the place."

Felix threw down his practice blade and walked over. "Because nobody's telling us anything. Don't pretend you're fine with that."

Kraft met his eyes. "I'm not. But yelling doesn't make answers appear."

"That's rich coming from you. You've been itching to punch someone since the bell rang."

A few soldiers nearby slowed their footwork, ears perking.

Felix kept going. "We get yanked from bunks, armed to the teeth, and told to act like war's tomorrow — and we're just fine with that?"

"No one said fine," muttered a voice from behind them.

Sergeant Haldin — older, scarred, always calm — stepped between the two. "We don't need infighting when the real fight's probably coming."

Felix opened his mouth, then closed it. Haldin had that effect.

"Ivers wouldn't mobilize unless he had a reason," Haldin continued. "And Lindsay… she's not the type to cry wolf."

Felix glanced away. "She looked scared."

That silenced everyone.

Kraft leaned on his sword. "She looked like she was holding back panic."

"Exactly," Felix said. "She's calm when limbs are flying. But today? Today she looked like someone lied to her soul."

A young archer named Deiss stepped forward, adjusting his quiver. "You think it's from Heming?"

Felix scoffed. "Heming wishes it could spook Lindsay."

"Then what is it?" Deiss asked.

Nobody answered.

Later – Under the Tower Shade

Felix sat on a low wall, feet dangling. Kraft joined him, handing over a flask of water.

"No poison, right?" Felix asked.

"No promises."

They drank in silence for a moment.

"You think it's him?" Kraft asked eventually.

Felix raised a brow. "You've heard the rumors?"

"Everyone has. The man from the failed project. The one who vanished. The one who survived."

Felix gave a tired laugh. "Stories. Ghosts."

"Lindsay saw him."

"…Yeah." He rubbed his eyes. "Which means the stories aren't stories."

"You scared?"

Felix looked at him. Then off toward the tower. "Not scared. Just… unsure what we're even fighting for anymore."

Kraft nodded slowly. "Same."

Meanwhile – Lower Courtyard

Smaller groups murmured under breath, swapping theories.

"He teleported?"

"While holding a girl. Didn't say a word, just looked."

"They say his eyes were… wrong. Like time didn't matter to him."

"…Is he on our side?"

"No idea."

"But they say Ivers wants to invite him?"

Someone snorted. "Good. Maybe that means we won't have to fight him."

"Or maybe it means we've already lost, and nobody wants to admit it."

The Throne Room

Meanwhile, Ivers pushed through the main hall and into the throne chamber.

The King sat solemnly on his elevated seat, guarded by silence and sharp eyes. Nobles filled the long room, already whispering. At the King's right stood a man no one recognized—dressed simply, with eyes too calm. Dangerous calm.

"Chief Ivers," the King said.

"Sire." Ivers knelt. "I bring news. Urgent."

"Speak."

Ivers did. He described the event with precision—what was said, what wasn't, what he felt. He left nothing out.

One of the western lords stood. "You say he teleported with a child in his arms, then vanished?"

"Yes."

"He's a spy," the lord snapped. "From Heming. This is exactly how they bait us—unseen, unprovable. We should prepare for attack."

"No," Ivers said. "He's not one of them."

The room turned quiet again. He had everyone's attention.

"He's something else. Something I once studied… years ago. He ended the experiment. And he survived."

The murmurs returned, louder this time.

"You're suggesting him?" another noble asked, aghast. "You want us to reach out to that… that thing?"

Ivers stepped forward, calm but cold.

"If he wanted Balmat reduced to ash, it would already be ash. We are not the ones holding power in this equation."

"And you want to invite him into the palace?"

"I want to ask for his help," Ivers said. "Because I believe war is coming. And our army, as skilled as it is, won't be enough. We don't have numbers. We don't have intelligence. We only have the illusion of control."

Silence stretched.

Finally, the King stood.

"Bring him."

Ivers bowed deeply. "As you command."

Elsewhere

Far from the palace, the boy reappeared beside a small wooden house tucked in a quiet valley. Marie giggled in his arms as the magic faded.

"That was fun," she said.

He knelt and looked her in the eyes.

"Listen to me. I have to leave for a bit. Stay inside. Reinhard will look after you."

She frowned. "I don't like when you're gone."

"I know."

And then he vanished.

The city of Regin bustled in ignorance.

On the outskirts, an old soldier stood before a forge, wiping sweat from his brow when the voice came.

"Reinhard."

He turned. Eyes widened.

"You're alive."

"Come with me."

Before he could react, they were gone.

Back at the House

They landed in the small home again. Marie sat at the table, feet swinging.

Reinhard looked around, bewildered. "What is this?"

"I need you to stay," the boy said. "With her."

"Why?"

"I don't know. Just a feeling. Something's about to happen."

Reinhard studied him. There were more lines on the boy's face now. A weight he hadn't carried before.

"…Alright."

The boy nodded once. Then vanished into the ether.