South of Norwenshire was a small town named Yorfilhelm. It was a rather dull place to visit, with not much for the eye to see, except for the tranquil fields of sunlit wheat, or the fresh air that would calm even the most distressed soul. The people were content with their lives there. It was a peaceful place, far from the terrors of war, or the mechanical and exhausting urban life. The townsfolk enjoyed their time with their family and friends, and because it was such a small town, the people were rather close to each other. It was almost a small community of sorts. They would look out for each other, share their happiness and their sorrows, and thrive together. There was no hierarchy; everyone had mutual respect for one another, and everyone had a say in any important discussion. Of course, this was only possible because of how small Yorfilhelm was.

During the Great Northern War which occurred a few years ago, many who wanted to run away fled there. Yorfilhelm was not a part of Norwenshire, which meant it was the last place that would get dragged into the war. Of course, if the war did eventually reach there, the folks would truly have nowhere to run to. Thankfully, that did not happen, and Yorfilhelm remained a place of peace and tranquillity, and a home for those who didn’t have anywhere to call home. It would be far too cruel for a place such as that to bear witness to another war, and the townsfolk knew that, so did the Elders at Norwenshire. Of course, he wasn’t helping them out of goodwill; the fields here were the most fertile, and both Norwenshire and the nation of Ryokhell, which was further south, wanted their lands. Of course, the townsfolk resisted, but with a war approaching, they were in a rather tough spot.

‘The decision is up to you,’ said the man, as he took his coat and walked out the door.

‘Father,’ said a girl, who looked to be in her twenties. She was blonde with a small face and pretty almond eyes. Her father was an old man, sitting with a grim expression on his face. He tried to keep his composure, but his shivering hands, his index finger repeatedly tapping the wooden table, and his fidgeting left leg all spoke otherwise. ‘My daughter,’ he spoke. ‘Relay this to the rest of the villagers: we have no choice.’

‘But father!’

‘Sonnet.’ He paused, and she lowered her head. ‘Please,’ he said.

She clenched her fists. Was there nothing they could do? This was their land. Theirs. Of course, they did receive protection from Norwenshire against the neighbouring nations, namely Ryokhell and Forft, both of whom would gladly use force if they needed to, but the ruler of Norwenshire was different. He was a kind man, or so they said. She believed it too. Yet it was but a facade. Of course it was. There was no way someone would help them without asking for anything in return. It was, though, their fault for taking Norwenshire’s protection for granted. They never thought such a day would come, where they would find themselves betrayed by the very people whom they trusted to protect them. If Yorfilhelm was to become a part of Norwenshire, not only would they have to give some of their profits, which could quite easily change depending on who is the ruler then, but they could also be dragged into the coming war. Of course, His Majesty gave his word that he would not let the war reach Yorfilhelm, but when cornered, he was bound to protect his country over a small town quite a distance away. But if they refused, he would take back his forces and protection from the town, and it would probably become a battlefield itself, where Yorfilhelm stood only to lose at the hands of either Ryokhell or Forft.

‘This is too cruel,’ said the girl, tears rolling down her eyes. The father held his daughter tightly in his arms, her face buried in his chest as she clenched the leather jacket he wore. Times were grim and there were only grimmer days ahead of them.

The man returned to his camp just outside the town. He was a tall man with a lean build. Except that, he looked rather average, with brown hair and brown eyes, and a pronounced jaw line. ‘Captain,’ said the person standing right outside, greeting him with a bow. The man paused, nodded, then walked on. There were several tents placed, and troops walked in and out of them, and in the middle there was a fire, and surrounding them were many more. Right next to that was a yellow tent. Inside sat a man who was just sixteen, with a nonchalant look on his face, reading a book. He was tall, lean, and rather fine looking with his messy snow-white hair and his pale skin. He wore an eyepatch over one of his right eye, which, in his own words, he stabbed out, and his other eye was a shade of blue. His forearms were covered in bandages, all the way up to right below his knuckles. ‘How did it go, Captain Anders?’ he asked, not withdrawing his eyes from the page. ‘I gave them till midnight,’ replied the Captain. ‘After that, we withdraw.’ ‘I see.’ This sixteen-year-old was Cyrilo, who joined them about a month earlier. He was strong, proficient with his daggers, and stood on equal grounds against him. Anders had looked into him, but he couldn’t figure out where he was from or what he did before. He was a total mystery, and normally he wouldn’t let someone like him join them, but it was a request directly from His Majesty, which made him all the more curious.

‘What are you reading?’ he asked.

‘Wilderness, by Natsume Kyomori.’

‘What is it about?’

‘About a few friends who play in the forest during summer.’

‘I see. Is it interesting?’

‘I find it worthwhile.’

An awkward silence followed. Well, awkward only to Anders; Cyrilo couldn’t care less about him or the silence, or anything for that matter, and simply flipped a page. For the short while he had been with them, that was how he had been. Anders quickly sat in the middle of the room, and in front of him was a wooden table with a map on it, stretching almost the entirety of it. In it were circles, red, all of which were places that would probably be swept away by the waves of war. Two of those places were farmlands. That was the reason why His Majesty wanted Yorfilhelm. He had probably already abandoned them—clinging on would be irrational. Norwenshire already would be put in a tough spot, and though they should emerge victorious, it won’t be without much casualties, not just in civilians, but also the land under its rule. If only the war wouldn’t happen. It was wishful thinking, and Anders understood that well, nevertheless, he couldn’t help but hope. He himself had witnessed war. Some people found it glorious, no, most did, to fight and die in war, and if they, perchance, did not meet their end, would be exposed to such horrors that they might as well end it all themselves. He knew. He had been there. But then again, there were those who found pleasure in it, those who fought for the sake of fighting, he even had a few among his soldiers, but to Anders, they were incomprehensible. He wouldn’t call them beasts, they were humans, just not the kind he particularly liked. He never quite understood the glory and pleasure in fighting and war, the “thrill of it” as they would call it, nor did he wish to understand.

‘Hey Cyrilo,’ he said. ‘Where are you from?’

He was curious, but over the past month they never really had a chance to interact with each other.

‘Somewhere far from here.’

‘...which is?’

He didn’t answer.

Another awkward silence was about to follow, but just before it did, he asked,

‘What about your parents? Where do they live?’

It was then that Cyrilo closed his book, and with a sigh, one that Anders was certain was of annoyance, he looked up. His apathetic eyes met his, and he said,

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‘They are both dead.’

Immediately, Anders felt guilty for asking. ‘Sorry,’ he said.

‘It’s fine. What about you?’

‘Me?’

‘You aren’t from Norwenshire. Probably somewhere East. Kaminoikari, or perhaps Yao?’

‘What makes you ask that?’

‘Your sword, and your sword-style in general.’

Unlike everyone else, Anders wielded a katana. He often found Cyrilo lost in his own world, whether it was reading a book, or staring aimlessly, he seemed completely disinterested in the lives of others, which was why he was taken aback by his question. He didn’t really think that Cyrilo would notice him, but, in sooth, he did have a rather distinct style, where instead of piercing his opponent, he aimed to slice them, so it wasn’t that strange for someone to take notice.

‘I’m from Norwenshire. It was my master who was from the East, though I do not know exactly where he was from.’

‘I see.’

He paused.

‘Anders, teach me your sword-style.’

‘But you use daggers,’ he said, rightfully confused.

‘Teach me how to wield a katana.’

Anders wanted to discourage him; his skills with the daggers were truly a sight, almost a dance of masterful choreography, brimming with elegance and grace. It was one of the few times he was forced to call something which he might as well have called barbaric and inelegant, but simply because it was not to his tastes didn’t mean that they were so, beautiful. Cyrilo drew the instinctive gaze of everyone around him with his dance, captivating them, even the ones fighting him, which of course would lead them to their defeat as he masterfully sliced their limbs, a cut so clean that one could not help but admire it, no matter how repulsed by the sight they may be. If he wished to improve, he was better off polishing those skills even further, and he was sure that he could reach perfection, if such a thing even existed. He was only sixteen, and Anders could not help but wonder what tragic past the child had that would make him this proficient with the blade, and this unmoved by the sight of death.

‘Why do you want to learn to wield a katana?’

‘To have more options.’

‘In a few years, you would be all too proficient with your daggers, so much so that you wouldn’t need other options.’

‘It never hurts to have more options. I do not know if I’ll still have this opportunity within the next few years.’

Of course, Anders didn’t want to discourage his thought of having more options, but he couldn’t simply state that it might interfere with his already established way of fighting. He was still a sixteen-year-old, and like any sixteen-year-old, he was sure that Cyrilo would retaliate, saying that it would not. It was precisely because he was so accustomed to daggers that he would find it difficult to learn to wield a katana, and perhaps his newfound knowledge might tangle and mess up his already well established foundations. But arguing would be pointless. Those eyes were resolute, and if he were to not teach him, he would simply find a different teacher in the future. Anders didn’t know how long Cyrilo would be with them, but it wasn’t too long. He was with them, not a part of them. He was simply here because of a request from the King.

‘Fine, I’ll teach you.’

It was better that he taught him instead, and made sure that he learnt properly and not mess things up.

‘But not now.’

‘That I’m aware. Can we start right after the negotiations are over? Preferably during rests between our travels.’

‘Sure.’

‘You were reading something.’

‘It’s good to take a break at times,’ he said, walking out the tent. The book was kept where he sat, and Anders left it untouched, focusing on his own thoughts. He had a lot to think about, the negotiations, and once they did claim Yorfilhelm and returned to the capital, preparations for the upcoming battles. There were also the nobles that would take part in the meetings, those who had not the slightest idea of the world around them, the strategies and compromises, and everything at stake, and would focus solely on their own profits, not realising that they wouldn’t have anything to profit if there was no land left. Things are going to get rough, he thought, staring up with his arms crossed.

Cyrilo strolled out the camp grounds, towards a small hill just a short walk away. He sat down, staring at the scenery below. All of Yorfilhelm was visible from there, though it was still a bit far. The people seemed distressed. Of course they would be. One of the old folks lashed out at one of the youngsters, and if Cyrilo focused he could probably hear what he was shouting, but he didn’t need to, for he already had a good guess. The young boy was probably on the side that wished to comply with that old King’s request, while the old one, and probably most of the old folks, were against the idea. The entirety of Yorfilhelm was torn in two, and there was no way to satisfy everyone. Of course, Cyrilo understood the King’s actions, but he also knew how much of a sadistic bastard the prince was, and he wondered if he had a say in the King’s decision. Even if he didn’t, I doubt that old man could come up with a better solution. The situation was dire, and dire times called for dire measures.

After this is over, I’ll learn to wield a new weapon. That’s something positive, I guess.

He stared blankly for a while, then at his forearm, which was covered in bandages. I’ll need to change them, he thought, seeing how dirty they had gotten over the past few weeks. He looked at them for a while, and his face, though apathetic, might have had a hint of a smile on it. I wonder how they do, he thought, before putting his palm on the ground and staring up at the sky. The clear blue sky, and further above was probably heaven. He doubted they were there. Heaven was no place for people like them. In fact, Cyrilo almost didn’t believe that a place like Heaven or Paradise could exist in this world. Almost, because if it did exist, that would explain why the great many men of legends, who are said to descend in times of great despair, never did descend. If they do live in a world so beautiful and kind, why should they, in their right minds, descend to this hellish place? It simply made sense. On the other hand, he found the existence of hell much more believable. To think there was a world far more crueller and vile than this made sense to him, for this world, itself, never ceased to be cruel and vile. There was no end to how hellish the world could be, and he could only think that the place whose name is the root of the term “hellish”, the very term he would use to describe this world, would be far more vile.

Hell’s below, right? They can’t watch me from below…probably…

Heaven…if there was, mother and sister would be there, right? I hope.

For now, he had but one goal. To be strong. Strong. Strong so that he could avenge his mother and sister. He didn’t have long, and he knew that. He didn’t know where that man was, but he would find him soon. He knew he would. It wouldn’t be difficult. If it came down to it, he could just announce a reward for anyone willing to give his location. There certainly will be a few. He knew what kind of a man he was, and he could only assume that the men he surrounded himself with were no different from him. They would immediately hop about and stick out their tongues on the sight of money, and hand him away with not the slightest regret. They would perhaps even bark for Cyrilo, or kiss his feet or spend a night with him in hopes of some more. They won’t be to my tastes though. A shame, for them.

He laid down on the grass with his palms a pillow for his head, and stared aimlessly above, before closing his eyes and enjoying the gentle breeze. After he was done with that man, he would probably meet his family again. His mother would probably be disappointed. His sister, she might be pleased. Oh how he longed to meet them once more. Not like this body will survive long enough for me to do anything else with this life.