Dark.

  Nothing else.

  Something twitched in the void.

  A flicker. A shiver. A memory that refused to stay buried.

  Caelan drifted—far from the battlefield, into somewhere colder. Older.

  An attic: a small body in rags curled on a bare mattress, the slanted roof, cracked and leaking. Shadows crowded every beam and settled over that child like a second skin.

  Flash.

  Top of a broken stair. The same child, gripped by the neck, flung. The adult was only a shape—tall, featureless, wrong. The body hit the wall, folded, and didn’t move.

  Flicker.

  A bedroom washed in thin moon. The child—older now—lay awake, eyes fixed on nothing.

  Another figure. A woman’s outline. Silent. Suffocating.

  She leaned and set her hands on the throat.

  No scream. No fight. No plea.

  Just staring back.

  Caelan tore in a breath and came up hard, awake.

  His chest heaved, sweat cold on his face. Canvas above—dim, frayed seams breathing with the night.

  Solara leaned over him.

  Blood streaked her cheek; dirt lined her jaw; her eyes were all relief. “You’re awake,” she whispered, voice catching, and hauled him into a fierce, shaking hug.

  He was back. Breathing. Not quite there yet.

  “Keira…” His voice was a dry scrape. “Where is she?”

  Solara tipped her chin to his right. “Here.”

  Keira lay bandaged and still, chest rising shallow and steady.

  Solara kept her voice low. “The boys said she figured out what the Emerald had done a heartbeat early. Threw herself back—missed the kill shot, didn’t miss the blast. The rifle blew apart in her hands, tore into her arm.” She paused. “They were running to her when they heard you scream. Before they could do anything, Keira was already past them—straight for you. By the time they caught up… the three of you were on the ground. For a minute, we thought—” She swallowed. “We thought we’d lost you both.”

  Caelan reached and took Keira’s hand. His fingers shook around hers. Tears slid, silent.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, raw. “You’ve always deserved someone better than me. I’m sorry I’ve never lived up to what you dreamed a big brother would be.” He drew a breath and glanced at Solara. “You know… the day I woke up here, she was the first person I found. She came bouncing out of nowhere like an idiot. I’ve never told her, but she saved me that day. I thought it’d be like before—me against the world, smiling through it, day after day. Then—bang—this fourteen?year?old little terror and her brothers. They gave me the one thing I thought life had rejected from me.” He squeezed her hand once—a small, grounding pulse. He huffed a small laugh. “And I can hear her now—‘stop, you cheesy bitch.’”

  Solara’s laugh slipped out, quick and quiet. Caelan winced, palm to his ribs. “Shit—that hurts.”

  Solara’s hand slid to his side. “Careful, idiot. Don’t tear yourself up more.”

  They held there a beat. She looked away, then met his eyes. “I had to use it. No choice.”

  A faint metallic taste still rode the back of her tongue; her stomach gave a small, traitorous roll. She steadied her breath.

  “Who saw?”

  “Veyra. Takeshi. Braen.”

  He exhaled. “I’ll talk to them. Don’t worry—we’ll figure it out.”

  She wrapped him up; he flinched, and she eased her grip. “It’s me.”

  “I know,” he said, wryly.

  Solara huffed. “I still looked like a complete idiot—threw up in front of them after I used it.”

  “Still happening?”

  “Price of admission,” she said, dry. “The pane spikes the system—vertigo, copper mouth, purge reflex. It passes.”

  Silence settled, softer than the canvas.

  “Since I met you,” he said, voice rough, “I haven’t shaken the feeling I need to stay by your side. Maybe that’s me lying to myself. Truth is—I’m scared to imagine it without any of you. And when it went sideways, I didn’t run to save you because I knew you’d keep them safe.”

  He stumbled over the next words; she waited.

  “You’re the first person who’s tried to see past the crazy—trained with me, listened to dumb survival schemes, sat the late nights so I wasn’t the last one awake. You’re my best friend, Solara. Thank you.”

  She squeezed him tighter. “You know I can hear Keira right now, yeah? ‘Stop being a cheesy b?word. I love you too, you idiot.’”

  He huffed a laugh. “Please don’t tell her. She’ll kick my ass.”

  “No promises.” A small smile. “Firepit? They’re worried sick. You two might get yourselves eliminated just to spite me.”

  “Hell yeah.”

  She hooked an arm under his and helped him up. “Round numbers: ten extra hours of training for all the swearing. Situation’s no excuse, Captain.”

  “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

  They took a step; Solara paused. “What was with Braen? She went full thunder.”

  Caelan blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “She got… sharp. Meaner than I’ve seen.”

  Caelan went pale, horror flickering in his eyes. “Can Takeshi still walk?”

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  “…Yes?” she said, a little confused.

  “Good. Then it was only a code yellow.” He tried for a smile. “I’ll explain later. I need a drink.”

  “One,” she warned. “You’re too broken to get wasted.”

  “Deal.”

  As they reached the tent flap, Caelan grabbed his left arm and hissed. “Shit—it’s out again. That hurts.”

  “You need help?” Solara asked.

  “Nah. Not my first.” He flashed a big, cheesy grin. “Watch.”

  She caught his sleeve before he could step out. “One more thing. Promise me you’ll listen first—then do whatever you want. I’ll have your back.”

  He blinked. “Sure…?”

  They stepped into the cool night. The camp was quiet; only the fire cracked and breathed. Caelan lifted a hand in a lazy wave.

  “Miss me, fu—”

  He stopped. Across the flames sat the mountain of a man.

  Caelan’s jaw tightened. “What the fuck is he doing here?” Then, through his teeth: “Ready to dance, big man?”

  Aidan already had his rifle up, sights steady. “Don’t worry about him, Cap. He moves, he dies.”

  Milo, weapon-trained too, snorted. “At least let me have my fun first, bro. No fun if you kill him too quickly.”

  Caelan set a hand on Aidan’s shoulder. “Easy. Solara said there’s something I need to hear.”

  Solara arched a brow. “Not concerning at all. But yes—hear him out. Then you can do as you like, Captain.”

  Caelan never broke eye contact with the man. “Before that—one thing I need to handle.” He glanced sideways. “Oi, Aidan—what’s that thing you hate again?”

  “Don’t,” Veyra said instantly. “Please—don’t.”

  Braen smiled, all teeth. “Must be so easy for someone as little as he is.”

  “Do it. Do it,” Milo chanted, already giggling.

  Aidan turned, horrified. “Please. I’m begging you—don’t.”

  “Sorry, wee man,” Caelan said, grin going feral.

  He yanked and crunched his shoulder back into place. The pop was ugly, wet, final.

  Milo howled. “Again! Again!”

  Solara pinched the bridge of her nose. “Is it supposed to be that loud?”

  Aidan toppled backward off the log in a dead faint. Caelan caught him by the collar, still laughing. “Never not funny.”

  Solara cocked a brow. “Got it out of your system yet, Captain?”

  “Aww, sorry—couldn’t help myself.” Caelan dropped between Milo and Aidan and gave Aidan a brisk shake. “C’mon, sleepy—game face.”

  Aidan jolted, grabbed his rifle, and re-aimed across the fire. “I hate all of you. Just wait till Sis hears you did it again.”

  Milo snorted. “What is it you say, Cap? Nobody likes grass.”

  Caelan flashed him a grin. “Hell yeah, bro. Makes me proud.”

  The grin fell away as he looked across the flames. “So?”

  The mountain of a man stared back, silent.

  “Solara says you’ve got something to say,” Caelan went on, voice flat. “I’ll hear you. And to be crystal clear—I’m still leaning toward ripping you apart.”

  The man looked down, thumb rolling over knuckle. When he spoke, it was quiet. “First, I need to apologize. My actions since waking in this place have been—unforgivable.”

  “You don’t need to apologize to me,” Caelan cut in. “You will apologize to Keira. Am I clear?”

  “Given the opportunity, I would gladly, Mr Captain.”

  Caelan blinked, then sighed. “My name isn’t Captain. That’s what my friends call me. My name is Caelan.”

  “My apologies, Mr Caelan. I meant no disrespect. My name is Garron Vale.”

  “Drop the ‘Mr.’ You’re at least twenty years older than me.”

  “Fifteen,” Milo giggled.

  “Ten,” Aidan muttered, still a bit green.

  Garron breathed, almost too low to hear, “Fifty-three.”

  “Five,” Veyra sang from the log, entirely unhelpful.

  Braen tilted her head. “You look about the same age, don’t you?”

  “Screw you lot,” Caelan said, deadpan. “I don’t have a single grey hair, and he’s all grey. Fine—Solara, you decide.”

  “Why me?” Solara said, exasperated. “I’m not playing your dumb games. Listen to the man’s story and stop spinning chaos.” She coughed into her fist, almost under her breath: “…grey hairs.”

  Caelan shot her a look. “Screw you, too.”

  “In your dreams—” She caught herself, sighed. “Damn it, now you’ve got me doing it. Focus for five minutes, please.”

  “Fine. Sorry.” Caelan faced Garron again. “As you were saying, Garron.”

  Garron straightened, met Caelan’s eyes across the fire.

  “I should tell you why I came for you.”

  He was thirteen. Barely a boy, already a head taller than most men. Dirt under nails. A thin farm under a grey sky.

  His father watched the fields and said, “We’re lucky. A king who cares is a gift. The greatest honour we’ll know is to serve this land.”

  Garron didn’t understand, not then. He kept the words anyway.

  Five years later, the neighbours came with fire.

  The king opened his gates. Garron ran through the crush with his wife in his arms—her breath hot on his neck, pain jumping in her belly. The king was on the wall, blood on his breastplate, shouting orders.

  “Let them through first!”

  Inside the gate, Garron dropped to one knee. “Thank you, my king.”

  His wife cried out. A guard yelled, “She’s in labour!”

  “Doctor. Now,” the king snapped. Then he gripped Garron’s shoulder. “The main force is an hour out. If we can’t hold, you might never meet your child. I need you.”

  Garron stood, took the heaviest blade on the rack. “Open the gate.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll kill anything that reaches it.”

  The iron groaned. He stepped out alone. The gate shut behind him.

  —

  Ten years later, the war drums were quiet. In the courtyard, the king pressed a hot seal to Garron’s chest.

  “Arise,” voice ringing stone to stone, “Our, Unbreakable Titan—Supreme General of the Kingdom.”

  The cheer climbed the walls. The king lifted a hand and stilled it. “For the first time, our borders do not bend. Now we push them south.” He smiled at the nobles. “My son, the Crowned Prince, will oversee this historic campaign.”

  Garron didn’t cheer.

  That night at home, his daughter thundered down the stairs and hit his ribs at a run. He held her, breathed her hair. His wife stood in the lamplight, eyes soft and worried.

  “When do you leave?” she asked.

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “It’s the king’s command,” he said. Half conviction. Half doubt.

  —

  Four years later, the enemy capital was ash. The castle burned to ash, streets littered with long, broken bodies.

  The prince swayed through smoke with soft-handed friends, drunk on victory. “Did you see that?” he shouted. “The world should fear me. The glory is mine!”

  Guards dragged women and children into the courtyard, ringed in steel.

  The prince clapped Garron’s back without looking at him. “Flawless plan, executed to the letter. Brilliant.” He turned away and tossed the order over his shoulder. “Kill them all. Before they grow up and make trouble.”

  Garron didn’t move.

  “No,” he said.

  The prince stopped, turned, and slowed. “What did you say?”

  Garron met his eyes. “No.”

  The prince lifted a hand at the circle of guards. “Fine. I’ll do it myself. On my command—”

  Garron’s hand closed on his throat and lifted him clean off the ground.

  “Let me go,” the prince rasped, eyes bulging. “Do it now, or I’ll kill everyone you—”

  Steel went through his chest before the threat could finish.

  —

  Chains bit Garron’s wrists in the throne room. Guards ringed him. The king stood shaking with a father’s fury.

  “You killed my son,” he said, voice breaking on the edges. “I would have sent every man, woman, and child in this nation to die before I let a hand touch him.”

  Garron didn’t speak.

  A courier stumbled in with a small wooden chest. The king opened it and smiled like a knife. “Touch my family, and I touch yours.”

  Two heads hit the marble at Garron’s knees. His wife. His child.

  Silence. Then: “Lock him in the dungeon,” the king said. “With what’s left of his precious family.”

  Garron sat with bone in the dark until the walls began to shake. Siege. Screams. Smoke pushed through stone.

  They dragged him up in his chains.

  “You can earn your freedom,” the king said, wild. “Do what you did at my gate and all is forgiven.”

  A soldier rammed a sword into Garron’s hands—the same blade that killed the prince.

  “No,” Garron said.

  “I command you,” the king shrieked. “You bear my brand. Your life is mine.”

  Garron took one step.

  The chains jerked tight. Guards flooded in. He took another step. And another.

  “Kill him!”

  Steel punched into him from every angle, sank to the hilt—and stuck. He kept walking.

  He reached out, closed his hand on the king’s throat, and drove the sword home.

  The body slid off the blade. Only then did Garron go to his knees. As the dark took him.

  —

  “When I woke here,” Garron said, voice level, “I swore I’d never lift a weapon again. Then I watched what this place does. Every man who wants to win turns into what my king became.”

  He looked around the circle of faces and back to Caelan.

  “So I changed the vow. I won’t rule. I won’t build thrones. I’ll break them. Anyone who tries to make this world kneel—king, prince, commander—I’ll end them before they get the chance.”

  Silence held a moment. The fire cracked. All eyes slid to Caelan.

  Solara, soft: “So?”

  Caelan stood, walked three paces, and drove the heel of his boot into a tree. Bark jumped.

  “Fuuuck.” He raked a hand through his hair, grimacing. “Brilliant. Here I am, gagging for round two with the big man, and now I get to feel like a complete arsehole instead. Love that for me.”

  A voice snapped from the dark: “Will you stop being a drama-queen, bitch? Girl’s trying to sleep.”

  He turned.

  Keira stood at the tent flap—cheesy grin, bruised face, arm bandaged, eyes bright.

  “Miss me, fucker?”