The trumpet of dawn pierced through the steel-gray skies, echoing across the marbled fortress that crowned the Kingdom's northern ridge. Elias stood at the barracks yard, the cold biting into his armor, his breath visible like smoke from a restless forge. He was no longer just a soldier now—he had risen. The insignia of a Knight gleamed on his shoulderplate, burnished gold laced in obsidian thread. A badge of honor. A symbol of burden.
He remembered the ceremony—the shouts, the cheers, the oath. But most of all, he remembered the silence that followed. That calm before the inevitable storm.
"Knight Elias," the general had said, clasping his forearm, "you've been assigned to the Third Vanguard. Deployment begins at dawn. The Yttrium front."
The Yttrium front.
A land soaked in the blood of too many. The Kingdom's longest war was no longer about conquest or protection. It was something else now. Something murkier. Something hollow.
His closest friend, Roran, was deployed beside him. Roran—the reckless, ever-laughing firebrand who had been with Elias since basic. If Elias was the blade, Roran was the fire behind it.
Together, they rode for the front.
War was nothing like the tales sung by the bards.
The air reeked of ash and iron. Limbs littered the crimson mud. Shouts blended into screams, and screams into silence. Every night, Elias found himself cleaning his sword with a prayer. Every night, the prayer felt shorter.
But Roran? He still smiled. Still cracked jokes. Still threw pebbles at Elias's helmet when he brooded too long.
"You know what I think?" Roran said once, as they sat by a fire, wrapped in soot and fatigue.
Elias didn't look up. "That you talk too much?"
"No." Roran chuckled. "I think the Kingdom's afraid. Not of war. Not of defeat. But of us seeing the truth."
Elias finally looked at him. "What truth?"
Roran's smile faded. "That maybe... we're not the heroes in this story."
It happened during the siege of Vellmore Pass.
Roran and Elias led a charge through the enemy's flank. The plan was precise. Clean. Efficient.
But the enemy had known. They had been waiting.
The ambush was brutal. Arrows rained like metal hail. Explosions shattered the rocks. Elias fought like a storm, his blade moving on its own. But when he turned—
Roran was on the ground. An arrow in his gut. Blood spilling like a cursed river.
"Roran!" Elias dropped beside him, yanking off his helmet.
The fire in Roran's eyes was dimming.
"Eli…" he coughed, "…don't trust the Kingdom."
"What?" Elias shook him. "Hold on! Don't you die on me!"
"There's… rot," Roran whispered. "It goes all the way down."
"Medic! Someone!" Elias screamed.
But no one came.
Roran smiled one last time. "Guess I… talk too much after all."
His eyes closed.
And the silence swallowed everything.
Elias buried him under a burned oak, far from the battlefield. Far from the banners.
He didn't cry. He couldn't.
But something cracked inside. Something subtle.
The Kingdom gave him another medal. Another speech. Another empty salute.
And Elias smiled.
But it wasn't real.
He would wear the armor. He would raise the sword. But from that day forward, a question echoed in his mind:
What if Roran was right?
What if they were fighting for something broken?
The dream continued.
But now, it was darker.
And Elias no longer slept peacefully.