The battlefield stretched before him, a rotting curtain of death and ruin. Smoke danced on the light breeze, masking the stench of blood with the acrid smell of burnt wood. The scavenger stood at it edge, his shadow long against the dying light of the sun. Behind him, the world of the living —villages, markets, the laughter of children—felt like another life entirely. Ahead lay his domain: the ashen field, where the dead whispered secrets that no one cared to hear. No one, except him.

He moved slowly, his boots squelching in the mud. Around him, crows cawed and circled, impatient for their feast. He ignored them, focused instead on the task ahead. A knight’s corpse lay slumped near the remnants of a shattered wagon. The man’s armor was dented, the colors of his house lost beneath layers of blood and dirt.

“Hope you don’t mind,” the scavenger muttered as he crouched beside the body. His voice was rough but felt natural. He was used to conversation with the dead. With steady hands, he unbuckled the knight’s breastplate, feeling its weight as he lifted it free. Beneath, the man’s chest had been caved in by a blow that should have ended his life instantly.

Or so it should have.

The moment his fingers brushed the knight’s skin, the world blurred like ink spilled on canvas. Pain went through him, sudden and sharp, stealing his breath. When the haze cleared, he was standing in the knight’s place. The roar of battle surrounded him, a loud sound of clashing steel and dying cries. He gripped a banner tightly in his hand, its golden eagle fluttering in the middle of the chaos.

A sharp, searing pain exploded in his chest. He looked down to see the steel tip of a spear going through his ribs. He staggered, his strength fading, his legs shaking beneath him. The banner fell from his hand, crumpling into the blood-soaked dirt. The scavenger fell with it, the cold earth rising to meet him.

The golden eagle stared back at him, its once-proud visage blurred by the haze of death. The scavenger didn’t know the banner, but now he did —House Elgar. A proud lineage sworn to the King. Through the knight’s memories, he learned more. The boy’s name was Poyer, and his life unfurled before the scavenger’s eyes like a tapestry frayed at the edges.

The first memory came with a rush of warmth and innocence: a small boy clutching a wooden sword, his face was covered in joy as he swung it clumsily. “Look, Mother! I’m going to be a great knight like Father!” The woman’s laughter was soft and kind, her hands gently guiding his to improve his grip. She was beautiful, with red hair that gleamed in the sunlight. “A knight must also have a noble heart, Poyer,” she said. “Bravery without kindness is just cruelty.”

But the warmth faded in an instant, replaced by the icy chill of a later memory. Poyer stood in a dimly lit chamber, staring at his mother’s pale, lifeless face. The illness had taken her quickly, leaving him with nothing but the echoes of her voice. His Father, General Rayk, had not shed a tear. “Grief is a luxury for peasants,” he said, his voice cold as the stone walls around them. “We are Elgars. We endure. We survive. We win.”

Poyer tried to endure. He threw himself into training, hoping to fill the void with purpose. The scavenger felt the boy’s pride when he finally bested his peers in swordplay, when he saw the glimmer of approval in Rayk’s eyes. But it was never enough.

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Another memory pushed the old one away, this one was stained with anger and frustration. Poyer stood before his father, his fists clenched. “I don’t want this!” he shouted. “I want to study, to learn about the world beyond swords and battles.”

Rayk’s fury was enormous. “No son of mine will dishonor our bloodline! Knighthood is your destiny, as it was mine, as it was your grandfather’s. You are an Elgar, and Elgars do not stray from tradition!”

The scavenger felt Poyer’s helpless rage, the suffocating weight of expectation. He wanted to scream, to fight back, but the chains of duty held him trapped. His dreams of study, of exploring the histories and cultures of distant lands, disappeared under his father’s iron will.

The memories shifted again, softer this time. Poyer knelt before his king, his head bowed as the blade tapped his shoulder. His father’s stern gaze watched from the crowd, celebrating his triumph. But there was something else —a flicker of pride, faint and fleeting. It was enough for Poyer to hold on to, even as the years turned that flicker to ash.

The final memory came like a wave, pulling the scavenger into the heart of the battle. Poyer stood amidst the chaos, his father fighting beside him. Rayk shouted his commands. “Hold the line! For the King!”

Poyer wanted to say something —anything—to his father. To ask if he’d ever truly been proud of him, if he’d ever loved him. But the words died in his throat as an arrow found its mark. Rayk fell, his body crumpling to the ground.

Poyer’s rage burned bright, but it was short-lived. The scavenger felt the spear pierce his chest, felt his strength leave him. As he fell, he reached for his father, their fingers brushing briefly before darkness claimed them both.

And then, silence.

The scavenger blinked, his hands trembling as he returned to the present. The knight’s body lay still before him, unmoving, but the scavenger felt his rage, his sorrow, and his final, desperate thought: I failed him.

But there was more to it. A deeper reflection, a whispered regret that felt like it belonged to the father rather than the son. The scavenger hesitated before reaching out again —this time, not to the son, but to the father.

Rayk’s skin was cold, but as his fingers brushed over the hardened surface, he felt a different shift. He didn’t see the battlefield or hear the clash of swords; instead, he felt the crushing weight of responsibility —the very thing that had kept General Rayk up at night, alone in his chambers. He saw through the older man’s eyes, through the pain and loss that never showed on the surface.

Rayk had wanted more for his son. But in his eyes, knighthood was more than just an honor —it was a legacy, a duty to uphold the family name. He’d always felt that burden, a burden his father had passed down to him, and that Poyer was meant to carry as well. The joy Rayk felt when Poyer wielded his first sword was not just the happiness of a father proud of his son’s accomplishments. It was the relief that the boy would follow his footsteps and save him from his own mistakes, from his own regrets.

Rayk’s thoughts rushed through the scavenger’s mind as if they were his own. He saw the moment of tenderness—the late nights when his wife had passed away, and Rayk had cried alone in the darkness of his study, ashamed of his weakness. He had told himself that showing emotion was a sign of failure, that to be strong was to be unfeeling. But when Poyer had come to him, desperate to escape this path, Rayk had buried that guilt deep within, telling himself that he was doing the right thing for the boy. For his future.

I wanted him to be strong, Rayk thought, his voice no longer harsh but heavy with sorrow. I wanted him to know that strength comes from discipline, from duty. But I never told him that I cried for him, for the path I forced him onto. That the greatest weakness I had was that I didn’t allow him to dream.

The scavenger pulled his hand back, shaken by the memories of Rayk. He had never been a father, never even entertained the thought of family, but he understood something in that moment. The heavy weight of legacy, the quiet pain of duty, and the silent plea of a father who had wanted more than to ensure his son’s survival—no matter the cost.

The knight’s body lay still before him, but the scavenger now saw it through both their eyes—the son who sought freedom, and the father who had shackled him with the very strength he had believed to be a virtue.

He let out a heavy breath, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Doesn’t change much, does it?” he murmured, though the words felt hollow. But it wasn’t the knight’s pain he mourned now. It was the grief of two generations, locked in an endless struggle to protect and to love, yet never able to fully understand each other.

He strapped the breastplate to his back and stood up. The sun dipped lower on the horizon, casting long shadows over the battlefield. Around him, the crows had begun their grim feast. The scavenger paid them no mind. There were more dead to strip while it was safe, and more stories waiting in the stillness of the battlefield.