“I'm going to join Zevas and the mercenaries," Deynfif declared. His grip tightened on his green plaid scarf, the familiar fabric feeling rough against his skin.

Silence followed his declaration, thick and suffocating. A log in the hearth shifted with a sharp crackle, sending sparks dancing upward. The sound was deafening in the silence of their home, the sparks seemed to prickle against his skin.

His mother, Moyra’s teacup hovered in mid-air, a hand's breadth from her lips. A tremor rattled the saucer, the tea inside sloshing against ceramic.

His father, Pythair’s boots thudded against the floorboards, every step was heavy, like rocks dropped onto packed earth. His father moved towards the wall, eyes fixated on a lone object: Fifbrith's Infusion Ice Sword. His fingers traced the sword’s hilt, once hummed with power, it hung lifeless on the wall, the once-gleaming surface now dulled.

He twisted a loose thread of his scarf, the rough wool grounding him as the air in the room seemed to thin.

"Look at Fifbrith…” his father finally spoke. The words landed like stones, heavy and sharp. His voice, once strong and steady, was now rough and thin. Gaze lingered on the empty space beside him.

He flinched, the memory of his older brother, Fifbrith's empty eyes flashing before him like cracks spreading through sun-baked clay. A shiver ran through his hand, the same one that had held his brother's cold hand for the last time. "That's exactly why I'm going, Father. I've seen the aftermath – charred homes, the air still thick with the stench of blood. Families..." His throat constricted, like gravel grinding against solid stone. "They chip away at Craiddhol's foundations, like acid eating at bedrock. This... this cannot stand."

His mother reached out, placing a gentle hand on his father's arm. Her fingers trembled slightly. "Son," her voice wavered, a catch in her throat, "no matter what path you choose, we are human. Conflict is woven into the fabric of our being." She swallowed, a dry click in the silence. "You may quell this war, but another will surely rise from the ashes."

His eyes locked onto his mother's. The hearth's flickering light painted her face with shifting patterns of light and dark, her smile lines deepening into shadows that mirrored his own unease. The wind howled outside, a wild rhythm echoing the steady pulse in his chest. "Then I will fight them all, mother," his voice resonated with a newfound firmness. "Again and again, if that's what it takes."

The faintest spark in the depths of his father’s aged eyes was the same spark that had always lived in Fifbrith, a flame now dimmed but still smoldering. Their gazes locked, a silent equation forming between them, angles shifting, lines converging towards a shared solution.

A hint of a smile touched his father's lips. "You are young, Deynfif," he sighed. "Your heart burns bright, but remember, wars are not won by passion alone. They demand cold logic, cunning strategies..." His father’s words faded, leaving a silence that felt like a tightening in his chest. The room itself seemed to shrink, walls pressing inward.

"Logic dictates we act, father." His words were a whipcrack. "Each fallen village is a fist pounding against Eard's gates! We wait, and the echo grows louder. Shall we let the fire lick our own doorstep before we stir?"

His father's shoulders slumped, the weight of Craiddhol seemingly etched into every line of his face. Shadows clung to the hollows beneath his eyes, deepening with every shared glance towards his mother, whose cheek wet with a single path of tear.

He couldn't meet their eyes, the weight of their unspoken fears pressing down on him like a granite slab. The boy who once reveled in make-believe with friends was gone, replaced by a young man forged in the Empire's crucible of cruelty. He was now honed, each facet of his being sharp-edged, with a newfound purpose: to shield Craiddhol from the darkness he had witnessed. But the warmth in his father’s eyes... could it be pride? A bittersweet pride in the man war had made him?

"Very well," his father’s words a surrender echoing in the hushed room. "You cannot be contained within these borders any longer. Perhaps the answers you seek lie beyond the familiar comfort of Eard."

A breath rushed out of his lungs, tension receding like a stone rolling away from his chest. His fingers unclenched, releasing a grip on the plaid scarf he hadn't even noticed tightening. "Thank you, father, mother." The words were rough and uneven compared to the smooth, logical arguments he'd prepared.

His mother's embrace was a sudden pressure against him. "Come back to us, Deynfif," her voice a choked whisper that seemed to catch on the final syllable of his name. He felt the tremor in her words as a sympathetic vibration in his own chest. "Life is fleeting, even under the Light of Solus. War makes it more so."

He held her tighter, the warmth of her a stark contrast to the chill of her tears against his cheek. A pressure built behind his eyes, a welling that threatened to crack. "I will, mother." The vow felt like a jagged shard of stone lodged in his throat. "And when I return, I pray this war will be a distant nightmare, not a fresh grave.”

The tension in the room eased, giving way to a heavy silence. It wasn't gone, but replaced by a quiet acceptance. The light from Solus' Tower faded, casting soft shadows across the room. The dimming light of dusk felt symbolic, a reflection of Craiddhol's dwindling hope. Sounds of laughter and music drifted in from the village. Each note was a reminder of what was at stake, of what he was fighting for. As he sat down with his parents, a single tear traced a shiny path down his cheek. He thought of Fifbrith, of the ravaged village, and of the future of Craiddhol he was fighting for. The tear, a single wet track on his cheek, mirrored the jagged landscape of his emotions: grief, fear, and a desperate hope for peace.

Later in the shrouded light of evening…

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

The smoke, a savory blend of roasting fish and the sweeter notes of muckledeor, teased his nostrils. Fleogols, chests aglow with sapphire, ruby, and amethyst, danced in luminous arcs against the shroudlight sky. Their wings rustled, blending with the music and laughter from the village center. The sounds of revelry, however, grated against his nerves. The cheerful faces around him, bathed in the fading warmth of Solus' Light, seemed oblivious to the storm brewing on the horizon.

His footsteps were slow and deliberate as he retreated from the lively celebration. The packed earth beneath his boots offered solid resistance, each footfall a deliberate press against the pull of the revelry. His sworn brothers, Einntyr and Hirua trailed him, their steps falling silently on the soft ground. Beneath the spreading branches of an ancient oak, they found their usual spot. The leaves' shadows shifted, mimicking the erratic pulse in his temples, a storm brewing both outside and within.

The familiar texture of his scarf tightened in his grip, fingers twisting the woven fabric as if calculating the unspoken words. "There's..." his voice, a rough grain against the smooth flow of rustling leaves and distant laughter, "There's something I need to tell you both."

Einntyr's playful grin faltered, a line appearing between his brows. "What is it, Deynfif? Got another one of your... puzzles?”

He offered a small smile, the corners of his mouth barely lifting. "Not this time, my friend. This holds far more gravity.” He breathed in, the cool air a sharp contrast to the tightness in his chest. It filled his lungs as the breeze rustled the oak leaves. His exhale matched the wind's sigh, a period closing the unspoken thought. "I'm leaving tomorrow with Zevas. Joining the mercenaries at Fort Kachwyn.”

Einntyr's lips moved, soundless. The merriment of the feast turned discordant, a jarring counterpoint to the stillness that had fallen between them. The words finally came, a raspy whisper cutting through the revelry. "Leave? But the promise, Deynfif! Together, we said... we swore we'd see all of Craiddhol!"

He met his sworn brother's gaze. His fingers traced the gouge in the ancient oak's trunk, a clumsy mark carved years ago when they had sealed their vow of adventure with childish fervor. "Einntyr, I apologize for the abruptness. But after witnessing the devastation in that hamlet..." His voice tightened, a tremor echoing the roughness of their old carving. "I can't simply stand by. Soon, not even Eard will be safe.”

"This war, if left unchecked, will shatter everything we hold dear." His hand clenched around the rough bark of the oak, the gouge of their old vow digging into his palm like a forgotten promise. "I must do something."

He leaned forward. "This is a battle I must fight. What about you two? Will you join me?"

Einntyr shifted, the firelight painting fleeting shadows on his face. He watched for a spark in his brother's eyes, but found only a dulled reflection of the flames. "Adventure..." Einntyr's voice was a low rumble, a hand twitched toward the leather satchel at his hip, where he usually kept his prized lagrings.

The once-joyous drums now resonated like a steady march to his ears.

Einntyr's lips curled upward, a half-grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Adventure can wait. Can't be having all the fun alone, can you?"

His brother’s hand landed on his shoulder, its warmth seeping through the layers of his tunic. The solid pressure anchored him, momentarily stilling the spinning wheels in his mind.

Einntyr continued, “Besides, where's the challenge in exploring when half the excitement is whether there's a home to come back to?”

His fingers, tracing the gouge in the oak's trunk, loosened. A warmth seeped into his chest, thawing the chill that had settled there. "Thank you, brother." The words settled between them, as solid as the earth beneath their feet.

He looked at Hirua. The fleogols danced above them, their light revealing only the smooth planes of Hirua's face, betraying no hint of what lay beneath. He waited, a question mark forming in the silence between them. "Hirua…?"

The resting fleogols above pulsed with an angry red, their gentle glow replaced by a harsh, urgent light. "What would you have me do? Return to those butchers? Offer my neck to their swords?" Hirua’s roar boomed, then cracked a little. “They scorched everything I held dear, turned the warmth of my life into a handful of ash! I won't let that happen again.” Hirua's fist slammed against the bark of the tree, a tremor rippling through the sturdy trunk. A flurry of startled fleogols scattered into the shroudlight sky. “My place is here, protecting Eard.”

"There can be no peace in Craiddhol while this war rages on, Hirua," he implored, searching his brother’s eyes for a flicker of agreement, a shared burden. "Perhaps out there… you might find answers. Answers about what truly happened to your family.”

Hirua’s jaw was a rigid line, the muscle visibly twitching. He pressed his hand against his fiery brother's shoulder, the muscle beneath his fingers as rigid as ancient rock. A tremor rippled through Hirua, the vibration traveling up Deynfif's arm like a seismic shock. The tremor beneath his fingertips spoke volumes. It wasn't the quiver of a hardened soldier, but the desperate pulse of a boy... a boy still haunted.

His gaze, unable to meet Hirua’s eyes, fell to the gnarled roots of the ancient oak, their twisted forms mirroring the knot of guilt in his own gut. A foolish question. With a deep breath, he spoke. "Forgive me, brother, I know some wounds leave scars the eye can't see."

He patted Hirua's shoulder gently, then pulled his hand back. "We should rest. The road ahead will be heavy enough — yesterday's weight will only make it worse."

Without waiting for a response, he turned and marched away. Each step echoed in his ears, harsh and hollow. The weight in his chest wasn't stone or soil, but something sharper, more jagged. He had hoped his words would offer a foothold, but instead, they seemed to crack open old wounds.

The warmth of kinship, usually a steady hearth fire, felt suffocating. The image of Hirua's pain echoed in his mind. The war's touch, he knew, was not just on the land, but on the hearts of its people. A wound festering beneath the surface of Craiddhol, a wound he had vowed to heal.

The fleogols danced above, their usual rhythm a frantic whirl now. Their light pulsed like a dying ember, reflecting the storm gathering in his chest. This was not how he had envisioned their last night together. Though the shrouded light of night still clung tenaciously to the land, he knew the coming kindling light of dawn would illuminate the first step of a treacherous path.

As he retreated further from the revelry, the weight of his decision pressed upon him like a suffocating cloak. The echoes of laughter and music twisted into mocking whispers, accusing him of abandoning his loved ones for a fool's errand. He longed for the warmth of the hearth fire, the comfort of his mother's embrace, and the reassurance of his father's guidance. But duty called him away, whispering promises of a peaceful future that seemed more distant with every step he took.