Encircled by the fire's warm crackle, Gabriel found himself enveloped in an aura of camaraderie. Beside him sat Avis, Atlas, and Olof, their faces rhythmically emerging from and retreating into the flickering shadows. Olof was engrossed in whittling a piece of wood, each stroke a meditative act. Atlas engaged in spirited conversation with a neighboring group of soldiers, his voice resonant and sure. Avis, meanwhile, seemed entranced by the dancing flames, his eyes fraught with an unspoken trepidation.

Yet, even as memories of pain and loss shadowed their hearts, the men momentarily set aside their burdens. Avis eventually broke from his reverie to partake in the communal mirth. They traded stories, each anecdote a balm for their collective soul, and their laughter punctuated the night like fleeting stars—brief but brilliant moments of levity in a world often marred by suffering. Gabriel absorbed the atmosphere, savoring the genuine moments of human connection, but he refrained from partaking in the banter himself.

Atlas patted Gabriel’s back. "You know, it's okay to laugh."

Gabriel turned toward him, puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"When there's so much loss, finding happiness can feel like a betrayal, as if you're dishonoring the memories of those you've lost," Atlas said, articulating thoughts Gabriel had been wrestling with internally.

How did Atlas know?

"We all grapple with those feelings, especially in the early stages," Atlas continued. "Being a soldier doesn't just teach you the art of war. It teaches you how to cope with loss. What helped me was asking myself, what would those I've lost want for me? Would they want to see me reduced to a mere shadow of my former self, or would they rather I find happiness and raise a toast in their honor?"

Gabriel took in his friend's words, contemplating the delicate balance between grief and joy, loss and camaraderie. And in that moment, around that fire, he understood that both could coexist—perhaps they needed to, for the sake of the living.

Olof held out a wineskin to Gabriel, the nod that accompanied the gesture serving as a sort of silent blessing. Eager with anticipation, he had always wondered what wine, often described as the nectar of Victra, would taste like. He took a tentative sip, allowing the liquid to roll over his tongue and introduce itself to his taste buds.

The reality was a brutal betrayal of his expectations. The initial taste was a cacophony of sourness and bitterness as if he had just bitten into an overripe fruit long past its prime. An aftertaste that stubbornly clung to his palate, not unlike vinegar that had overstayed its welcome.

To top it off, the liquid scorched its way down his throat like liquid fire, leaving an almost painful burn in its wake. Gabriel choked and coughed, struggling to reconcile his romanticized anticipation of wine with the harsh reality that now stung his senses. "Is this what all wine tastes like?" he asked.

Avis chuckled. "Not a fan of the vintage, are we?

Atlas erupted into laughter and then said, "Ah, the worse the wine tastes, the better it is for the soul—or so they say!"

Olaf grunted in agreement.

"Who says that?" Avis asked, eyebrows raised in skepticism.

"Well… I do," Atlas retorted with a grin.

This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

At that, the group dissolved into collective laughter, enjoying a brief respite from their hardships.

Emboldened by their joy, Gabriel took another swig of the unpalatable wine. The taste didn't improve—quite the opposite. It left an even more scorching burn down his throat.

Eager to capture more of this elusive camaraderie, Gabriel stood up and moved around the fire, mingling with the other soldiers. He asked about their plans for when they returned home. Some spoke eagerly of reuniting with their families, while others used phrases like "Wetting their beak," whatever that meant. He laughed, argued, and conversed with them.

In doing so, he realized he was honoring those he had lost—not by drowning in sorrow, but by embracing these fleeting moments of joy. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he felt unburdened. He felt free.

Avis's voice cut through the laughter and chatter around the fire. "Time for a story, I think." The men around the fire responded by raising their drinks in unanimous agreement.

"Come on, Old Timer," Avis nudged Atlas, whose eyes twinkled as if he had been waiting for such an invitation.

Standing up, Atlas cleared his throat and began. "Have I ever told you the tale of how King Saxton became king?"

"Yes," came the soldiers' resounding, almost chorused response. Their faces, however, broke into grins, and they leaned forward eagerly, as if the story's familiarity was part of its charm.

"I was only a young man when it happened," Atlas continued, his voice tinged with nostalgia.

Avis yelled, "No, you weren't, you old bastard! You were already losing your hair by then!"

Atlas sighed, not the least bit surprised by the interruption. "Well, age is a matter of perspective. Now, where was I?" The crowd settled back in, eager for the story, old or new, true or embellished. Because sometimes, it's not just the tale that matters, but the telling—and no one told it quite like Atlas.

Atlas took a deep breath, the firelight dancing across his eyes as they gleamed with the memory. "It must've been twenty years ago. King Saxton was then in his mid-twenties, fighting fit and full of fire. He openly challenged the former King, Draxler—may he rest among the stars."

At this, the men all raised their fists to the sky momentarily, a tribute to the fallen king.

"The duel itself was the stuff of legend. Saxton was already a named warrior by then. known as the 'Lion of Balatia.' He had walked his grandfather's path, becoming a warrior of great renown. Meanwhile, King Draxler was regarded as one of the best swordsmen of the last century."

Atlas paused, allowing Gabriel and the others to absorb the significance fully. Then, he started painting the scene with words.

"The duel was set in the Coliseum within King's Crest. Oh, the fanfare was immense, the atmosphere pulsating with excitement. Both men entered, steel clashing against steel, each ring resonating through the air and sending shivers down the spines of those who watched. I've never seen a finer display of swordsmanship—before or since."

He glanced around, seeing the men hanging on his every word.

"Saxton and Draxler bled; their wounds were severe, but neither would yield. For a moment, it seemed Saxton would lose. He staggered, his movements sluggish, and his eyes clouded by fatigue and blood loss."

Then Atlas clenched his fist, reliving the moment. "But with a guttural roar befitting his name, the 'Lion of Balatia' lunged forward in a last-ditch effort. With a series of blindingly fast strikes and parries, he pressed Draxler back step by step until—"

Here, he paused for what must have been a dramatic effect.

"Draxler found himself kneeling, Saxton's sword at his throat. In that moment, the young lion could've ended it all with a mere flick of the wrist, as many a new king has done."

Atlas's eyes glinted as he reached the climax of his tale. "But he didn't. Instead, Saxton extended a hand and helped Draxler to his feet. From that day on, he was King and Draxler became one of Saxton's closest advisors, serving loyally in the council until his last breath. And when he passed, King Saxton took Draxler's son as his closest advisor. Such is the character of our king."

The men erupted into applause and cheers, their faces alight with admiration for the storyteller and the king he honored. Atlas bowed gracefully, adopting the demeanor of a seasoned bard basking in the glow of a captivated audience.

Meanwhile, Gabriel joined in the applause, but his movements were almost automatic, his mind miles away. To him, the king seemed more a figure of myth than a man of flesh and blood. Once I arrive at the capital tomorrow, I’ll see what kind of man he truly is.