“The courage of a beast knows no values, no fear. True courage knows fear, knows the sanctity of life.”

“Take a deep breath. Breathe slowly, and center yourself so your aim is steady then let fly an arrow.” Mifune calmly instructed Michael.

“Alright,” the young man steadied his aim on the stag, the arrow cut through the air and buried into its heart. The beast let out a terrible cry as it slumps to the ground, dead.

“Good, more fresh meat for the pot”

Leonhart slung the antlered beast over his shoulder, and the pair began walking back to camp near the river. It was dawn, the morning star rising in the east as the mist covered the old valley. The forest road was twisting and winding, nevertheless, they walked the path.

Mifune studied Leonhart. “What made you stay?”

“I had nowhere else to go.” Michael answered.

“Why is that?”

“Cause my dad told me if I come back then he'll be helping me for the rest of my life.” Michael shook his head.

Mifune smiled wistfully, “You remind me of myself at your age. I had me a woman, a little girl too, but I threw that away a long time ago.”

“Why? You had a good thing going, Toshiro?”

Mifune sighed heavily, “A man’s mind is like this road; it’s spiraling, winding, and plenty of folks wind up getting lost. I made my choice, and this road is nearing its end.”

“That doesn’t answer the question, Toshiro.”

Mifune did not say anything else, he continued walking, leaving Leonhart to his thoughts. Whatever he's feeling it must be shame or maybe it's disappointment? He always has a restless, melancholic look in his eyes. Eyes stuck on the past or on the future?

By the time the duo returned to camp, the heavens were free of clouds, the dawnstar shined brightly. The men were at work, preparing for a day of hunting and fishing.

Mifune and Leonhart strung up the stag. Mifune handed the young man a bowie knife. He folded his arms as he watched Leonhart hold the large blade to the beast’s belly. Leonhart paused, he felt his hands trembling.

“It’s just meat and bone, Michael.” Mifune reminded him softly.

Leonhart pushed away any doubt or hesitation he had as he proceeded to slice the belly of the beast open; its blood and guts poured into the bucket beneath. With coolness of mind, he skillfully removed the skin of the animal. “Only meat and bone.” Leonhart told himself quietly.

Mifune and Leonhart felt the earth rumbling, and they both looked to one another; a column of men-at-arms led by a knight in armor of crimson and gold with an obsidian cloak; an envoy of House Morningstar. He rode to the main pavilion of the Soldier King of the Warriors’ Sons, Charles Stuart.

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Charles was a man in his thirties; his long brown hair was swept back and he has started to grey at his temple, but he was strong and thick as iron. He emerged from his tent only with his breeches and his sword sheathed in its scabbard, his cool, steely, grey eyes met the knight’s blue ones. “You as mean as ever?” asked the Crimson Knight.

“Yes,” replied Charles, “but I don’t have much opportunity as before.”

***

Charles gestured for the Crimson Knight to come inside his pavilion. The knight’s men-at-arms stood sentry at the entrance. The Crimson Knight pulled a chair to the Soldier King’s round rosewood table. Charles turned his back to the knight as he pours red wine into two cups.

The Soldier King’s pavilion was filled with trophies of past glories and accomplishments. He had racks of swords, spears, and shields. What stood was his armor, the pauldron had the heads of silver eagles, and the breastplate at its center was a falling star enameled with the colors of whites and blues. Charles placed the cup next to the envoy, and he seated himself opposite the knight. Charles leaned back and kicked his legs on the table. He was swirling the wine in his cup, eyeing the Crimson Knight of the Morningstar like a hawk.

“What does the Old Man demand from me, Marcus?” Charles asked coolly.

Marcus clears his throat, “He needs you and your men to secure Fort George up the river north.”

“It’s an ancient holdfast; everyone from their mothers had their fingers up in that old whore.” Charles scoffed.

“Be that as it may, Charles, these commands come from the Old Man himself. Your Warriors’ Sons swore an oath, remember. The Old Man personally offered you knighthood for your stewardship. If you refuse him–”

The Soldier King raised his hand. “Then I sell my services to the highest bidder. I know how this game works.” Marcus leaned forward, his forearm on the table, his fist clenched. Charles smirked while still swirling the wine in his glass chalice. “I’ll send Ezekial and his Raider Unit to scout. In the meantime, we have much to discuss.”

“Indeed,” Marcus took a heavy swing of his red wine. “The Old Man’s war against Saint Michaels is not going as well as expected. Sacrifices must be made, Charles.”

The Soldier King frowned. “And those sacrifices including sending my men marching to their deaths to Fort George?”

“You’ll do as your bid, Charles.”

The Soldier King studied the knight. He stood from his seat, he walked to his trophies and reached for a pristine iron rod, holding it like an instrument of ceremony. “It’s an elementary lesson of chess, that the player who has more squares tends to dominate while the opponent is constrained with less than favorable options. That is the nature of the game. As in war and politics, the outcome is predicated on this binary: the winner and the loser. I won’t be subjected to the follies and whims of the Old Man any longer.”

The Soldier King broke the rod of iron over Marcus’s temple leaving his skull shattered in pieces like a potter’s vessel. And he stood stoneface as the Crimson Knight stained the ground with his blood.

***

By nightfall, Charles summoned the Raider Captain Ezekiel to his pavilion. He stood sentry as he waits for his commands from the Soldier King. “Gather hundred of your best men. You’re leading an expedition to Fort George.”

Ezekiel blinked twice, he cleared his throat, “We routed out the degenerates living there. Holding it offers no tactical advantage, Sir.”

Charles sat at the edge of his rosewood round table, fiddling with his bowie. “These commands are straight from the Old Man himself.” He laid his bowie on the table and leaned forward. “I know it’s a frivolous endeavor, Ezekiel, but do this and we shall be rewarded.”

“Rewarded?”

“The ancestral castle of House Morningstar.”

“Why?” Ezekiel asked the dead and broken body of the Crimson Knight slumped over from the Soldier King’s trophies. “Oh, you’re making the move, now?”

“Yes,” said the Soldier King, “Tell Marcus’ men-at-arms that their Knight is a welcomed guest at our camp and won’t be needed. Inform them on the morrow your Raiders will be heading out to Fort George.”