Chapter 534: Falling sword(1)

Thwack.

"You’re dead!" one boy cried, proudly thrusting his wooden stick toward the other’s chest."No I’m not!" the second answered, stumbling back with a grin and raising his own sword-shaped branch like a knight from some old tale

’’You hit the arm’’

"You are!"

"Am not!"

"You are if I say so—I’m Vrivrian the Red!"

"You can’t be , I already called him!"

They were no older than ten, cheeks red with the rush of imagined glory, breath quick, eyes bright. Around them, the cobblestones were streaked with sun, and the air smelled faintly of baking bread and smoke from morning fires. Their laughter was high and clear and small enough to be swallowed by the wind.

Thwack. Thwack. THWACK.

The sound echoed again—louder now. Heavier.

But it wasn’t from their game anymore.

It came from the square beyond the alley, where hundreds of men stood in ranks—boots planted in dust, shields raised in tight unison, spears pulled back and slammed forward in the rhythm of war.

Thwack.

Thwack.

THWACK.

The cadence of it rose like a chant, not shouted by mouths but beaten into the bones of every man present. Wood cracked against wood. Iron kissed iron. Shields trembled and muscles groaned beneath the strain of repetition.

Drills. Relentless, brutal, beautiful drills.

And through it all, Lucius walked—cloak tight around his shoulders, one gloved hand resting on the pommel of his sword, the other behind his back. His eyes passed over the soldiers like a man inspecting tools in a forge.

Children with sticks,

he thought.

Men with spears. The same dance. Just bloodier music.

One of his man barked a correction. A younger recruit nearly lost his grip and caught the brunt of a drill sergeant’s boot in the thigh for it.

Lucius didn’t intervene.

He paused only once—at the edge of the square, where he could still hear the children’s voices of a torn time , fading in the wind.

"One day," the smaller one said, out of breath, "I’m gonna have a real sword."

"And I’ll have a real horse," the other replied. "With armor on its head and eyes that glow."

They both nodded, solemn in that way only children could be.

Lucius allowed himself the faintest smile, feeling that he had made true of his words.

For a moment, as the rhythm of the training yard thundered behind him and the cries of when he was a boy faded into the wind, Lucius felt the weight of the years press on his chest like a hand he could not swat away.

He missed his brother.

Nine years—it had been nine years since he last saw him. A boy still, when they parted. Just past his twelfth year. Skinny, clever, wild-eyed with dreams that outpaced his legs. The kind of boy who believed that every hill was a kingdom and every cloud a ship.

What was he now?

Lucius could not say. Could not even be certain if he still breathed beneath the same sky.

The road had carried Lucius far—from mercenary bands to noble halls, to act in the shadow through smoke-choked battlefields and perfumed palaces where lies wore silk and smiled sweetly. He had taken on false names and real wounds.

He had spilled blood and drank wine, and somehow the ache never dulled. The farther he went, the quieter it got—like the laughter of his brother had been left behind in a field somewhere, and no matter how many horses he rode or wars he fought, it wouldn’t echo back.

And his mother...

He hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye.

He had no idea where she was now. Sold like he was ? Dead? Hidden in some nameless slum where even the sun dared not look? The silence where her voice once lived was a deeper pain—because she would have waited for him. Of that, he was certain.

He looked up.

The sky above Arudonaven was washed in a thin grey veil, the kind that threatened neither storm nor peace. He let out a breath, slow and steady.

Perhaps,

he thought,

when this is done... perhaps His Grace will help me find them. If I serve him well. If I burn this city just right. If I win.

It was a foolish hope—but in truth, it was the only one he had left that still felt like it belonged to a human heart.

So Lucius turned back toward the yard, toward the sound of order and steel and shouted names, and buried the ache deep beneath the mask of command. As always.

After all, dreams were for those who could afford to sleep.

And he still had a fire to build.

Lucius didn’t raise his head at the sound of approaching footsteps—he didn’t need to. He knew that gait, light but rushed, a man still trying to sound important before he truly was. It was Ebran, the junior agent His Grace—Prince Alpheo—had assigned to assist him on this long assignment behind enemy walls. Young, quick with a blade and quicker with his tongue, but still green. Far too green.

Ebran came to a halt beside him, breathing only slightly heavy. "Two hundred and fifty, sir," he said with a half-smile, gesturing toward the yard below where ranks of newly raised recruits were being barked into formation. "That’s what we’ve scraped from this city. I’ve overseen most of their training myself. Not bad, considering."

Lucius said nothing. He simply let his eyes drift over the yard as the rhythmic

thock

of wooden spears striking shields played like a broken war drum.

"Though—" Ebran scoffed lightly, "—I wouldn’t trust half of them to stand in a proper shield wall. One fellow tried to catch the spear instead of dodging it. Another keeps sneezing from the leather polish. It’s a joke, really. Lucky we won’t need to actually fight with them."

That made Lucius lift his gaze. He didn’t turn, didn’t frown. Just looked—slowly.

Ebran faltered under the weight of that glance. "...Sir?"

Lucius’s voice came low, quiet, sharp. "Best you not say such things where ears might be lurking. Especially when you’re not clever enough to know whose ears they are."

Ebran blinked, mouth opening then closing like a fish in cold water. "I—I just meant—"

"I know what you meant," Lucius interrupted, still not looking at him fully. "And I’m telling you not to mean it again."

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the clang of training blades below.

"These men," Lucius said finally, looking around, making sure they were alone, "may wear Orymus’s colors now. But they’ve already been raised, drilled, and hardened—if only slightly—under our hands. They will be ready to serve His Grace when the time comes ."

He turned fully now, and the breeze stirred his cloak as if to emphasize his words. "You think he sent us to raise a crop just to leave it for another man’s harvest?"

Ebran’s lips parted again, but no words came.

The younger man shifted on his feet, suddenly very aware of the weight of the city’s high walls around them.

Lucius stepped past him, then paused. "If you truly want to serve His Grace, Ebran," he said without looking back, "learn when to speak. And when to keep your damn mouth shut."

Then, with that same calm ease he carried into every lie and every battlefield, Lucius strode down toward the yard—toward the soldiers who thought they served Orymus, and had no idea they were being shaped for another prince entirely.

Lucius stood at the edge of the training yard, eyes scanning the rows of recruits one last time before he turned back toward Ebran.

"We move tonight," Lucius said, voice flat and unceremonious.

Ebran blinked. "Tonight?"

Lucius nodded once. "The message has already been sent. His Grace knows. The Herculians are a week’s march away now, further still by the time they realize anything’s happened. They’ve abandoned this city to Orymus like a rotted tooth left in the jaw." He let the words settle, heavy as iron. "Which means we can strike without fear of interruption."

Ebran said nothing at first—but his silence spoke volumes. The faint flicker in his eyes, the way his fingers twitched slightly at his belt. He was hesitating.

Lucius saw it.

He snorted—sharp, amused, disgusted all at once. "Gods above, is that doubt I see?"

Ebran straightened. "No, I just—"

Lucius turned toward him fully now, the edge of his cloak catching in the breeze like a banner snapping before battle. His eyes glinted "We have one shot at this. One. We hold the most men in this city—armed, trained, and loyal to the gold His Grace sends, not the banner they fly. We have surprise. We have control of the gatehouse, and a third of the guard answers to us already.

Orymus trusts you enough to let you inspect the inner wall. He let me train his garrison." His voice dropped to a near-whisper, deadly calm. "If you don’t see the blade already at his throat, you’re not fit to hold a dagger."

Ebran opened his mouth again, fumbling for reassurance, but Lucius was already shaking his head.

"In the future," Lucius said, "we’ll face harder tasks than this. With fewer men. Worse odds. No sleep. No supplies. If this—

this

—daunts you, then you’d best look for another line of work. There’s no room for softness under His Grace. Not where we’re going."

"I’m ready," Ebran said quickly, straightening again, this time more firmly. "I swear it."

Lucius waved a dismissive hand. "Then don’t swear. Prepare."

He turned away, already walking toward the barracks.

"If you’ve got time to waste talking," he called back over his shoulder, "then you’ve got time to get your gear."

Lucius watched Ebran hurry off, his footsteps fading down the corridor like a breath swallowed by stone. The young man had promise, but promise was worth little in fire. Fire scorched away illusions. Fire revealed what one truly was.

For a moment, Lucius remained still, letting the quiet settle around him. The flickering torches along the wall cast long shadows, and in those shadows, unbidden, came the memory.

Marcus.

The name drifted into his thoughts like a wisp of smoke from an old campfire.

He hadn’t thought of him in days.

Lucius could still smell the damp pine of the woods where they’d hidden with the bandits . He remembered the sound of wind in the trees, the crack of branches under hooves,

And now? Lucius had been given a city to crack open like an egg. But Marcus...

He clenched his jaw.

Marcus had been sent into the heart of enemy lands, tasked with lighting fires from inside Yarzat’s rebels belly. His task had no spears to command, no soldiers to train. Only shadows and secrets. And betrayal waiting at every turn.