The council chamber was a place of purpose, but its cold austerity seeped into everything—walls, floors, even the people within it. The thick stone did little to hold back the creeping chill of early spring, and the roaring fire in the hearth seemed more symbolic than practical. Count Elias Torvald stood at the head of the long oak table, his hands gripping its polished edge as he surveyed the room. Beyond the frost-rimmed windows, the eastern peaks loomed, jagged and snow-capped, their presence both a barrier and a looming threat.
The chamber was alive with movement, despite the tension hanging in the air. A pair of slaves moved silently along the edges, their eyes downcast as they carried trays of steaming mulled wine and bread to the gathered nobles and commanders. One knelt to adjust a faltering brazier, while another replenished the coals with practiced efficiency. The faint clink of goblets against platters was the only sound apart from the murmur of voices.
The assembled figures spoke in hushed tones, but the strain on their faces was evident. Captain Derran stood closest to the fire, his battered breastplate catching the flickering light. His face was a map of scars, a testament to decades of war. Lieutenant Mera hovered near the far end of the table, her youthful face pale, betraying her inexperience despite the authority of her rank. Among them stood Baroness Illara Velden, her crimson cloak catching the firelight like a live ember. Her auburn hair was swept back, framing a face as sharp and striking as a blade. Her presence was magnetic, her emerald eyes surveying the room with an intensity that made most look away. She was a Magus, her mastery of fire magic the strongest among the city’s defenders.
The map laid across the table was laden with markers: troop positions, supply lines, the ominous indicators of enemy siege engines. Torvald’s dark eyes lingered on the eastern pass, the narrow funnel through which the Elves would descend. To the west, the hills and ravines leading to the Imperium stretched like veins, their labyrinthine paths offering both salvation and danger.
Captain Derran’s voice broke through the tension. “The Elves are preparing for something big,” he said, his tone gravelly. “They’re moving siege engines through the pass. Towers, rams, and arcane platforms. They don’t intend to wait us out.”
The room stilled at his words. Siege engines weren’t just tools; they were declarations. The Elves weren’t testing Torvald—they intended to break it.
Baron Renwick, his sweat-slicked face betraying his nerves despite his noble bearing, leaned forward. “And the western ravines? What of the Archduke’s reinforcements?”
Derran grimaced. “The terrain alone is a challenge. The Dark Elves know those paths better than we ever will. They’ve been raiding our supply convoys for weeks. If they ambush the Archduke’s forces, we’ll lose more than soldiers—we’ll lose the supplies we’re counting on to hold the valley.”
Baroness Illara spoke next, her voice smooth but cutting. “Mana stones are running low,” she said, her sharp eyes locking on Torvald. “Without them, my wards will hold for days at best if the Elves launch a full-scale assault. If the Archduke’s mages don’t bring reinforcements and resources, we’ll fall before the siege engines even reach the walls.”
Lieutenant Mera shifted, her hands clasped tightly behind her back. “Morale among the troops is fragile,” she added hesitantly. “The soldiers need to see hope, my lord. Even if reinforcements are delayed, they need to believe they’re coming.”
“And if they don’t come?” Illara’s voice was calm, but her words cut like a whip. “Will hope reinforce the walls? Will it stop the Elves’ spells?”
“Enough.” Torvald’s voice cut through the room, silencing further arguments. His gaze swept across the table, landing on each face in turn. “This valley is the key. If we abandon it, the Elves will flood through the pass and into the Kingdom. The Imperium won’t fall, but the eastern warfront will collapse. The Kingdom will be left reeling, and our people—our families—will pay the price.”
His words hung heavy in the air. The crackling fire and the soft shuffle of the slaves moving around the room were the only sounds that followed.
Torvald turned to Derran. “Double the scouts in the western ravines. I want constant updates on the Archduke’s progress and any enemy movements. If the Dark Elves are preparing an ambush, we need to know before it happens.”
Derran nodded sharply. “It will be done, my lord.”
“Baroness Illara,” Torvald continued, “focus your efforts on strengthening the wards around the pass and the city. I’ll see to it that every remaining mana stone in the region is brought to you.”
Illara inclined her head, her expression unreadable. “I’ll do what I can.”
Torvald’s gaze shifted to Lieutenant Mera. “Ensure the soldiers are fed and rested. Rotate the garrison through the walls—give them time to see their families. If they know what they’re fighting for, they’ll fight harder.”
Mera straightened, her expression resolute. “Yes, my lord.”
As the council began to disperse, the Count allowed himself a moment to step back and observe. The stakes were clear. If Torvald fell, the Imperium would survive, but the cost would be devastating. His duchy would collapse, the eastern front would be shattered, and the Kingdom would teeter on the edge of chaos. This wasn’t just about holding the valley—it was about buying time for the Imperium to secure its borders and regroup.
Illara lingered near the fire, her gaze fixed on the Count. “You speak as though we can will the odds to bend in our favor,” she said, her voice soft but edged with curiosity.
Torvald met her gaze, the flickering firelight casting sharp shadows across his face. “Conviction alone won’t win this war, Baroness. But conviction is what will keep this valley standing when everything else crumbles.”
A faint smile touched her lips, fleeting and enigmatic. “Perhaps you’ll surprise me yet, Count.”
As she swept from the chamber, her crimson cloak trailing behind her like a living flame, Torvald turned back to the map. His hands pressed against the edges of the table, his eyes scanning the markers once more. The fire burned low, the slaves silently tending to its embers as the Count steeled himself for the battles to come.
Torvald knew the odds were against him. But surrender wasn’t an option. Not for the people who depended on him, not for the Imperium, and not for the memory of those who had already given their lives to hold the line.
The faint light of dawn crept through the tree line, casting long, soft shadows across the camp. The world was still, save for the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze and the gentle rise and fall of the unit’s breathing. Seeker stirred, the rough texture of the bedroll beneath him doing little to cushion the ache in his body. Every muscle felt stretched and bruised, his mana pathways a web of raw, burning pain that flared with every movement. It was a reminder of the cost of his power, of how close he had come to breaking under its weight.
The remnants of his dream still clung to him like cobwebs—fleeting images of a planet bathed in light, voices he couldn’t quite place, and the faintest echo of laughter. Zara’s laughter. The warmth of it had cut through the void of his forgotten memories, only to leave an ache in its wake. He pressed a hand to his chest, as if trying to steady the storm within.
The air was crisp and cool, tinged with the smell of damp earth and the faintest hint of charred wood from the campfire’s dying embers. Seeker exhaled slowly, watching his breath cloud in the frigid morning air. He pushed himself upright, his head pounding as if it were trying to split open under the weight of what he had seen—or thought he had seen. His hand absently went to his temple, rubbing at the ache as he tried to make sense of it all.
And then there was her. The fairy, or whatever she had been. She had hovered just above his shoulder, her form luminous and small, her voice sharp with wisdom and edged with exasperation. Mana overload. Control or perish. The words rang in his head, as real and cutting as the jagged stones of the ravine. But was she real? Or was she a figment of his mind, conjured by exhaustion and the madness of battle?
“You’re up.” Sarra’s voice cut through the haze of his thoughts, low and steady as ever. She sat cross-legged a few feet away, her spear resting across her lap as she ran a whetstone along its edge. The rhythmic sound was oddly soothing, like the steady beat of a war drum before the chaos of a fight.
Seeker glanced at her, wincing as he shifted. “I feel like I got trampled by a herd of Bikovacs.”
“You look worse.” Sarra’s tone was flat, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes—concern, maybe. “You did good, though. Better than any of us expected.”
Seeker’s gaze flicked around the camp, his unit still cocooned in their bedrolls. Liora’s small frame was curled against the faint warmth of the embers, her face relaxed in sleep for once. Harken snored softly nearby, his bulk rising and falling like a mountain in repose. Even Gale, perpetually alert and restless, was slumped against a log, his knives tucked within reach.
“How are they?” Seeker asked, his voice rough.
“Alive,” Sarra said, turning her attention back to her spear. “Thanks to you. Though I’m still trying to figure out how you managed to collapse a ravine and turn those Disciples into cinders.”
Seeker rubbed his hand against the back of his neck, the memory of the fight sharp and hazy all at once. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “It wasn’t like I had a plan. It just… happened.”
“Things like that don’t just happen, Seeker,” Sarra said, her voice firm. “Not unless you’re sitting on a well of magic deeper than any of us can fathom.”
Before Seeker could reply, Harken lumbered into view, carrying an armful of firewood. His steps were heavy on the frost-bitten ground, each one leaving a clear imprint. He dropped the bundle near the fire with a grunt, rubbing his hands together briskly.
“You might not know what you did,” Harken said, his voice gruff but tinged with approval, “but it saved our asses. That counts for something.”
“Counts for making us a bigger target,” Gale muttered, his voice dry as he sat up and stretched. “You think the Elves are going to let that little stunt slide?”
Seeker scowled, the weight of their stares pressing down on him. “Enough,” he said, sharper than he intended. He let out a breath, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t want to talk about the magic. Not now.”
“Then what do you want to talk about?” The question came from Liora, her voice soft but steady. She had woken and was watching him with wide, earnest eyes. Despite her slight frame and the awkward way she held herself in her oversized armor, there was a quiet strength in her gaze.
Seeker hesitated, the words catching in his throat. How could he explain the dream? The fragments of a life he couldn’t fully remember? The voice that had whispered to him in the dark, calling him back to a destiny he didn’t understand? He settled on a simpler truth. “We focus on what’s next. Surviving. Reaching Torvald.”
Harken grunted, crossing his arms over his chest. “Fair enough. But if you start glowing again, give us a warning, yeah?”
A faint smile tugged at Seeker’s lips despite himself. “I’ll do my best.”
Liora’s gaze softened, and even Gale’s usual smirk took on a less cutting edge. For a moment, the tension eased, replaced by the fragile camaraderie that had grown between them over the past weeks. They weren’t perfect, and they weren’t whole. But for now, they were alive. And sometimes, that was enough.
The morning sun had burned through the remnants of frost by the time the courier arrived. He rode into the camp with a precision that spoke of long years under discipline. His armor gleamed unnaturally bright against the muddied chaos of the camp, the seal of the Archduke emblazoned across his chestplate in bold crimson and gold. His presence was a stark reminder of the higher echelons of power that loomed over this desperate warfront.
The courier dismounted with practiced efficiency, his boots crunching on the gravel. He moved directly to Seeker, his expression unreadable. The man’s every motion was deliberate, mechanical, as if carved from the stone of the mountains they marched through.
“Sergeant Seeker.” The courier’s voice was clipped, barely more than a bark. “You are to report to the command tent immediately. By order of the Archduke’s emissary.”
Seeker blinked, still feeling the lingering weight of exhaustion and the dull throb of his overtaxed mana pathways. He straightened as best he could, brushing the dirt off his cloak. “Why?”
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
The courier’s gaze didn’t waver. “You will be briefed upon arrival.” And then, with a curt nod, the courier turned and strode back to his horse, leaving Seeker with no choice but to comply.
Behind him, his unit gathered, curiosity and unease flickering across their faces. Gale leaned against a tree, arms crossed, his smirk as sharp as his daggers. “Try not to get yourself executed,” he said, his tone laced with a humor that barely masked his concern.
“You’d be disappointed if I didn’t come back,” Seeker shot back, managing a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Not half as disappointed as I’d be stuck leading this lot,” Gale replied, the smirk widening. But there was no real bite in his words. The others stayed quiet, their expressions a mixture of pride and trepidation. Even Liora gave him a small nod, her hands tightening around the spear she was still learning to wield.
With a wave that felt too final, Seeker left them behind, weaving his way through the camp.
The camp was alive with movement, the organized chaos of an army on the march. Soldiers moved in disciplined lines, carrying bundles of firewood, crates of rations, and weapons that gleamed dully in the pale light. Blacksmiths hammered dents from breastplates and swords, their work punctuated by the clang of metal and the hiss of steam. The acrid tang of sweat and smoke hung in the air, mingling with the faint, almost metallic scent of the mountains.
Seeker’s boots crunched against the gravel as he walked, his path cutting through clusters of men and women preparing for another day of grueling travel. Conversations buzzed around him—snatches of talk about the terrain ahead, complaints about the cold, whispered fears about what lay at Torvald. No one paid him much mind, though a few nodded in passing, their respect grudging but present. News of the ravine collapse had spread, and with it, rumors about the strange, glowing sergeant who had turned the tide of the ambush.
Ahead, the command tent loomed, a stark contrast to the rough chaos of the camp. Its heavy canvas walls bore the sigil of the Archduchy—a rearing eagle framed by a golden laurel. The stakes holding it in place were polished, the ropes taut and clean, as if its perfection alone could enforce order in the midst of war.
Two guards flanked the entrance, their spears crossed as Seeker approached. Their polished armor gleamed, though the fatigue etched into their faces betrayed the same exhaustion that gripped every soldier in the camp. They eyed him warily, their gazes lingering on the sword at his hip and the faint scorch marks still marring his cloak.
“Sergeant Seeker,” he said, stopping just short of the threshold. “Summoned by order of the emissary.”
One of the guards stepped aside, his spear withdrawing with a faint metallic scrape. “They’re expecting you.”
Seeker ducked under the flap, the dim light of the tent enveloping him like a shroud. The air inside was thick with the scent of wax, parchment, and something faintly acrid—like burnt herbs or mana residue. The space was dominated by a massive table, its surface covered in maps, troop ledgers, and a scattering of mana stones that glowed faintly in the shadows. Figures surrounded it, their faces illuminated by the flickering light of lanterns and the faint glow of magical wards.
At the head of the table stood the Archduke’s emissary, a man whose presence filled the room like a storm cloud. His crimson cloak swept the ground, edged with golden thread that caught the light as he turned. His face was sharp and unyielding, his eyes a piercing gray that seemed to see through Seeker with a single glance. He carried no visible weapon, but the faint hum of restrained magic radiated from him like heat from a forge.
Around him were the commanders—men and women who bore the scars of countless campaigns. Captain Valen, his face weathered and his armor battered, leaned heavily on the table, his hand tracing the lines of a map. To his left, Commander Rhea, her auburn hair tied in a severe braid, stood with her arms crossed, her piercing gaze fixed on Seeker. She was young for her rank, but the glint in her eyes spoke of sharp intellect and sharper resolve.
To the right of the emissary stood two mages, their robes marking them as Disciples. One, a wiry man with prematurely silver hair, watched Seeker with an expression of mild curiosity. The other, a stern woman with intricate tattoos winding down her neck and hands, whispered something to the emissary, her voice too low for Seeker to catch.
“Sergeant Seeker,” the emissary said, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. “Step forward.”
Seeker obeyed, his boots heavy against the thick rugs that covered the tent floor. He stopped a few paces from the table, his back straight despite the weight of the gazes that pinned him in place.
“You’ve caused quite a stir,” the emissary continued, his tone unreadable. “Collapsing a ravine. Killing not one but two Dark Elven Disciples. Saving your unit from annihilation. And yet...” He leaned forward slightly, his gray eyes narrowing. “You are an Initiate, are you not?”
Seeker swallowed, his throat dry. “I am.”
“Then perhaps you’d care to explain,” Commander Rhea said, her voice cool and cutting, “how an Initiate managed a feat that should have left you dead. Or worse.”
Seeker hesitated, his mind racing. The truth lay tangled in his thoughts, wrapped in fragments of memory and the raw instinct that had driven him during the ambush. He settled on the simplest answer.
“I don’t know,” he said, his voice steady but low. “It just… happened.”
The emissary’s gaze didn’t waver. “Magic doesn’t just happen, Sergeant. Not on this scale. Either you are lying, or you are more dangerous than you realize.”
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the faint rustle of maps and the low hum of the mana stones. Seeker’s hands clenched at his sides, his nails biting into his palms.
“I didn’t mean to cause the collapse,” he said finally. “But I wasn’t going to let my unit die. Not if I could stop it.”
The emissary’s expression softened, though only slightly. “Intent matters little in war, Sergeant. Results do.”
Commander Valen spoke next, his gravelly voice cutting through the tension. “The collapse bought us time. It’ll take the Elves days to clear the debris. Enough time to reach Torvald with the reinforcements intact.”
“And what of the cost?” the tattooed mage countered, her tone sharp. “Do you know what damage unchecked power can do? To himself? To us?”
Seeker’s head swam as the debate swirled around him, the weight of their scrutiny pressing down like a mountain. He stood silent, his gaze flicking between them, waiting for the storm to pass.
The silence in the command tent pressed on Seeker like the weight of the mountains themselves. Every gaze was a blade, every whispered word a hidden dagger. The Archduke’s emissary studied him with the kind of precision a hawk might reserve for prey—a silent calculation of worth and danger.
“I didn’t mean to cause the collapse,” Seeker repeated, his voice steady but carrying an edge of frustration. “But I wasn’t going to let my unit die. Not if I could stop it.”
The emissary’s gray eyes narrowed, flicking to Commander Rhea, who tilted her head slightly as if considering some private thought. Then he turned his attention back to Seeker, his tone colder now, calculated. “Intent is irrelevant, Sergeant. Actions carry consequences, as do abilities. Whatever you did—however you did it—has marked you.”
“Marked me as what?” Seeker asked, his voice quieter but no less firm.
“As someone with responsibility,” the emissary said. He gestured toward the map on the table, its surface littered with marks indicating troop movements, supply lines, and danger zones. His hand landed on the symbol of Torvald, the fortress nestled in its vulnerable valley. “The pass is a bottleneck. Reinforcements need to make it through. Soldiers need leadership. And you’ve proven... effective. However unorthodox.”
“Effective?” The mage with the tattoos let out a sharp laugh, her disdain barely hidden. “He’s reckless. That collapse could have buried more than the Elves.”
“But it didn’t,” Commander Valen interjected, his gruff voice cutting through the tension. “And it bought us time. We need more time if we’re going to hold the pass.”
“Exactly,” the emissary said, his tone making it clear that the debate was over. He gestured toward a smaller, secondary map on the table—this one showing the placement of slave quarters in the camp. “You’ve already demonstrated an ability to organize and lead, even under dire circumstances. ”
Seeker frowned. “What do you mean?”
The emissary exchanged a glance with Rhea before continuing. “Reports indicate that you’ve turned some of the former slaves and gladiators among your unit into a capable auxiliary force. They’re not standard soldiers, but they follow orders, fight, and most importantly—they survive.”
Seeker thought of the men and women who had followed him out of the arena, their chains traded for crude weapons and the vague promise of purpose. He had barely thought of them as a unit, let alone soldiers, but they had fought alongside him during the ambush, holding their own against the Elves with a mixture of desperate fury and raw determination.
“They’re not soldiers,” Seeker said, though his voice lacked conviction.
“Not yet,” Rhea said, her sharp gaze locking onto his. “But they could be. You’ve proven you can whip desperate people into shape. That’s precisely what we need now.”
The emissary leaned forward, his voice lowering to a near growl. “Torvald doesn’t need more slaves digging trenches or carrying supplies. The city has enough slaves for that. What we lack are fighters. And these—” he tapped a list on the table, names scribbled hastily next to brief descriptions—“are fighters, or close enough to become them.”
“You’re giving me command of slaves?” Seeker asked, his voice flat with disbelief.
“Freed slaves,” the emissary corrected. “As of conscription, they’re soldiers in service to the Imperium. They’re untrained, undisciplined, and likely to die if they don’t adapt quickly. You’re going to make sure they don’t.”
The words hit Seeker like a blow. He looked at the names on the list, faces flashing in his memory. The broken men and women who had stared at him with haunted eyes after the arena. The same ones who had stood their ground in the ambush, fighting with the kind of reckless abandon that came from having nothing left to lose.
“Why me?” he asked finally.
“You’ve already proven you can lead people like them,” Valen said simply. “They will trust you. That’s more than most commanders can say about their troops.”
“And if I fail?” Seeker’s question hung in the air, a challenge more to himself than to those around him.
The emissary’s expression hardened. “Then they’ll die. And so will you.”
When Seeker left the command tent, the weight of his new responsibility settled heavily on his shoulders. Outside, the camp had come alive with the sounds of preparation—armored boots crunching on frost, the metallic clang of weapons being sharpened, the low hum of conversations carried on the wind.
Gale was the first to notice him, leaning casually against a post near the fire pit. “Well?” he called, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Are we all being sent to the front lines to die, or is it just you?”
Seeker sighed, running a hand through his dark, wavy hair. “Neither. I’ve been given command of... reinforcements.”
“Reinforcements?” Sarra asked, her brow furrowing as she stepped closer. “What kind of reinforcements?”
Seeker hesitated. “Former slaves.”
The word hung in the air, heavy and bitter. Liora’s expression softened, a flicker of understanding crossing her face. Harken let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “So they’re trusting you with the dregs, huh? Not sure if that’s an insult or a compliment.”
“It’s a test,” Seeker said, his voice steady despite the turmoil churning inside him. “They want to see if I can turn them into soldiers. If I can’t...”
“Then they die,” Gale finished, his smirk fading. “And you with them.”
“They’re not going to die,” Seeker said firmly. He straightened, meeting each of their gazes in turn. “Not if I can help it.”
There was a pause, and then Harken clapped a heavy hand on Seeker’s shoulder. “Well, then. Let’s see what you can do, Sergeant. They’ve trusted you with the worst. Time to make it into something better.”
Seeker nodded, the weight of his new command settling in his chest. This wasn’t what he had wanted, but it was what he had been given. And if there was one thing he had learned in the arena, it was that survival often came down to what you made of the hand you were dealt.
He turned toward the rows of slave tents in the distance, the faint flicker of their fires barely visible against the rising sun. He had work to do.
Seeker moved through the camp with deliberate strides, his boots crunching on the frost-covered ground. The cold gnawed at his skin, though it was nothing compared to the icy knot twisting in his stomach. The tents of the freed slaves loomed ahead, their patched and weathered canvas drooping under the weight of frost and the bleakness of their occupants’ lives.
He kept his gaze forward, ignoring the sidelong glances from his unit as they trailed behind him. They were curious, of course. Who wouldn’t be? But this task was his alone, and for once, the chatter that usually buzzed among them was muted.
Then he heard her.
“Well, you’ve made a right mess of things, haven’t you?”
Her voice was soft and lilting, tinged with a tone that balanced mockery and amusement. Seeker’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look. He didn’t respond. His unit didn’t need more reasons to think he’d gone mad.
“I’m talking to you, o stubborn one,” she said again, the faintest whisper of wings brushing his cheek. “Are you really going to pretend I’m not here? That seems rude, even for someone with your rather limited social skills.”
He clenched his fists, focusing on the steady rhythm of his steps. His breath fogged the air in front of him, a visible tether to the real world. His unit followed close behind, but none of them spoke. If they noticed the faint shimmer of light hovering near his shoulder, they gave no indication.
The fairy drifted closer, her tiny form glowing faintly in the pale morning light. Her wings, iridescent and impossibly delicate, fluttered in a way that seemed both effortless and purposeful. She perched near his collarbone, her arms crossed as she regarded him with a pointed look.
“You’re ignoring me,” she said, her voice tinged with mock indignation. “Rude and foolish. Do you even know what you’re walking into?”
Seeker’s lips pressed into a thin line. He wasn’t going to answer her. Not here. Not now.
“Fine,” she huffed, leaning casually against his shoulder as though she were lounging on a throne. “I’ll just talk, and you can keep pretending you’re not listening. Let’s start with the obvious: your magic. It’s a miracle you haven’t torn yourself apart yet.”
He bit back a sharp retort, focusing instead on the sight of the slave tents ahead. His unit was silent, their expressions unreadable as they followed his lead. Liora’s gaze flicked toward him briefly, but she said nothing.
“You’re pushing too much mana through pathways that aren’t strong enough to handle it,” the fairy continued, her tone turning clinical. “Like pouring a river through a straw. Sooner or later, you’ll burst. And let me tell you, that’s not a pretty way to go.”
Her words sent a chill down his spine, though he kept his face carefully neutral. She was right—he could still feel the burning ache in his veins, the lingering damage from the battle. But acknowledging her presence now would only give his unit more reasons to question his sanity.
“Of course, you wouldn’t be in this mess if someone had properly trained you,” she said, her voice softening slightly. “But no, you’re just a little lost lamb, fumbling around with power you barely understand.”
Seeker’s hands tightened into fists. He had spent most of his life either fighting to survive or trying to piece together who he was. The idea of being trained—of being guided—was as foreign to him as the stars that had once seemed so distant.
“And another thing,” the fairy said, her tone turning sharp. “This whole business with the slaves? Disgusting. The fact that they’re even called ‘freed’ is a joke. They’ve just traded one set of chains for another.”
That, at least, was something they agreed on. Seeker’s stomach churned as he approached the cluster of tents, the faint smell of damp canvas and unwashed bodies drifting on the breeze. The people inside had been fighters once, like him. Survivors of the arena, stripped of their humanity and turned into tools for others to wield.
“They’ll follow you because they have no choice,” the fairy continued, her voice softer now. “But if you want them to fight for you, to really fight, you need to give them more than orders. You need to give them hope.”
Her words hit harder than he wanted to admit. Hope. He had barely held onto it himself, clinging to fragments of memory and the faint promise of something more. How was he supposed to offer it to others?
He stopped just short of the first tent, his breath catching as he felt the fairy’s gaze on him, small but piercing. “They’ll fight for you,” she said. “But only if you remind them what it’s like to be free.”
Seeker exhaled slowly, his breath visible in the cold air. Without a word, he took a step forward, brushing past the tent flap and into the dim interior. The fairy’s light dimmed, her presence fading like a shadow in the corner of his mind. But her words lingered, cutting deeper than he cared to admit.