Under the merciless glare of the midday sun, the remnants of Lithiar's western front sprawled before them — a graveyard of what once was a proud stronghold. Charred beams jutted from the blackened earth like broken ribs, and the acrid scent of burnt wood and scorched metal still clung stubbornly to the air. Yet amid the ruin, stubborn wildflowers had begun to bloom again, their fragile sweetness mingling with the bitterness of smoke. Though the war had ended, the memories lingered like ghosts, whispering through the broken walls and abandoned streets.
It had been five long years since the monster invasion— five years since Ecaleapsi's warlocks and their twisted circle of sorcerers tore open the sky with their infernal gate. The ground had split, rivers boiled, and the skies bled as demonic beasts poured through in an unholy tide, devouring every last one of the Ecaleapsian people before heading to Lithiar's front. Not a single life had survived the massacre they themselves created.
The soldiers who stood against them had given everything — their courage, their flesh, their lives. And among the survivors, none shone brighter than Prince Jonathin and his troops, whose daring infiltration of Ecaleapsi's cursed land turned the tide of a losing war. Their daring assault had silenced the warlocks' spell circles, and sealing the gate once more, bringing the war to a swift end.
Now, amidst the ruins, the clang of rebuilding filled the silence where cries of battle once roared. Prince Nathaniel himself stood shirt-sleeved beneath the sun, his grown frame hard and broad from years of command and toil. Hammer in hand, his hair damp with sweat and his once-regal gloves discarded to the dirt. His once silken short hair had grown to reach his mid back, the strands now darker with grime and heat, cascaded across his back from the high ponytail. Even his hands, calloused and scarred, bore testament to the war he had successfully led and survived. The steady rhythm of his work — nail striking wood — echoed with a strange finality, as though he were trying to drown out the past.
"Your Highness, I've brought the extra nails you asked for. Where should I place them, sire?" Leonardo's voice broke through the heavy stillness as he approached, his boots crunching over gravel, his golden blond hair catching the sun like a halo. Nathaniel exhaled, wiping his brow with the back of his wrist. "With the rest of them, in there," he said, pointing to a pile beside a half-finished wall.
Leonardo followed the direction with a grin, setting the small crate down. "I must say, my prince, you've practically transformed into an entirely different man in just five years. Truly remarkable, your highness."
The prince's jaw tensed. He's about to start again. "You led the western front, oversaw the defenses, rebuilt what the monsters burnt to ash, and now look at this place. Homes, markets, farms. You've given the people hope again, your highness." Leonardo continued cheerfully. "You rebuilt half the western villages, restored homes better than they ever were, and even provided relief for the bereaved families. The people owe you everything, sire."
Nathaniel remained silent, hammering another nail into the frame. Sweat trickled down the curve of his neck, disappearing into the collar of his tunic. Despite the endless work and the bustle around him, his mind kept drifting to her — that girl. The one whose laughter had once softened his temper, whose tears had broken through his armor more than any blade could. No matter how many walls he rebuilt, her image rose behind his eyelids whenever he blinked. Her laughter haunted the edges of his dreams; her absence gnawed at his waking hours.
"By the way," Leonardo continued, oblivious to the prince's inner turmoil, "the capital can't stop singing your praises. Your portraits and photographs are everywhere! The market stalls are selling prints of you—half the noble daughters probably have your likeness hanging in their rooms."
Nathaniel let out a quiet, humorless chuckle. "The same mouths that cursed my name are now worshipping it. I should be flattered." Leonardo tilted his head, sensing the edge beneath his tone. "Ah… well, public opinion does shift with the winds, doesn't it?" He scratched the back of his neck, grinning awkwardly before retreating a step. "Anyway, I'll—leave you to it, Your Highness."
As Leonardo walked away, a group of maidens appeared at the edge of the courtyard carrying baskets of linens. Their laughter tinkled like chimes in the breeze, but Nathaniel felt only irritation prick beneath his skin. Their gowns clung scandalously close, necklines dipping low enough to make their intent unmistakable.
They approached shyly — or rather, pretending to. One of them brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, her cheeks blooming pink as she curtsied. "Your Highness, do you… perhaps require our assistance?" Nathaniel's scowl deepened. "Do you maidens require help with something?" His voice was curt, though his tone betrayed fatigue more than anger.
The women exchanged flustered glances, their faces coloring further under his sharp gaze. Their perfume — a blend of jasmine and honey — hung thick in the hot air, sweet enough to make him long for escape. He had pitied them once, these displaced nobles turned volunteer helpers. But pity had soured into exasperation. Their coy glances and forced laughter grated against his patience, stirring nothing in him but weariness.
"Your Highness! Your Highness!" A familiar voice rang across the courtyard, saving him from having to respond further. Nathaniel turned just as Uwol came jogging up, his white hair tousled, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a broad grin stretched across his sun-kissed face. "I finished my task early, so Uler said I should lend you a hand! Ah—hello, ladies." He waved cheerfully at the blushing maidens, whose demeanor immediately brightened at his arrival.
Nathaniel couldn't help the faint smirk that tugged at the corner of his lips. Perfect timing, as always, Uwol. As Uwol eagerly took up the hammer beside him, the prince's gaze drifted to the horizon — where the sunlight caught on the distant hills, and the faint shimmer of heat distorted the air. The war had ended, yet peace felt like an illusion — fragile, fleeting.
**
The afternoon sun hung low, gilding the cobblestone path in molten gold as Nathaniel and Uwol trudged along, the scent of freshly turned earth and sweat clinging faintly to their tunics after a day's toil. The rhythmic crunch of their boots echoed between the rows of elm trees, the distant chirp of crickets marking the slow approach of dusk.
Nathaniel exhaled, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension that had settled there from hours of labor. Uwol was mid-laugh about some trivial jest when the prince suddenly froze. His amber eyes sharpened, darting toward the gentle hum of voices and laughter drifting from ahead — soft, melodic, unmistakably feminine.
In a heartbeat, Nathaniel grabbed Uwol by the collar and yanked him into a nearby thicket. Dry leaves crackled underfoot as the two crouched low, the prince pressing a finger to his lips. "Your Highness?" Uwol whispered, his round face scrunching in confusion. "Why are we hiding in the bushes?"
"Shh!" Nathaniel hissed under his breath, his voice a low growl. "Keep your voice down unless you want them to notice us." He ducked further, tucking in a loose lock of his silky red hair so it wouldn't catch the light. Uwol blinked, utterly perplexed. "But… who are we hiding from?"
Before Nathaniel could answer, the source of his alarm appeared — a small group of young women, their skirts swishing as they meandered down the path. The air filled with the sweet fragrance of wildflowers and the faint tang of freshly picked apples from their baskets.
"Did you see his scowl earlier?" one of them — a raven-haired girl with a mischievous grin — giggled, balancing a basket on her hip. "Saints above, I swear my knees nearly gave out. He looked so… fierce. I'm still blushing."
Her friend, a brown-haired maiden with soft hazel eyes, clasped her hands dreamily against her chest. "Fierce? He's devastating! And those arms—did you see the way he gripped that hammer? I'd give anything to be held in those." "I'd probably faint before he even touched me," another whispered, her cheeks glowing crimson. "What I wouldn't give for just one night with him…"
Uwol's eyes widened in amusement and fascination. "Oh my! They're talking about you, Your Highness!" he breathed, face turning a deeper shade of red as he peeked through his fingers. "This is… so scandalous!" Nathaniel's expression remained unreadable, though a muscle twitched in his jaw. "They have… questionable imagination," he muttered, but his ears betrayed him — tinged faintly pink beneath his hair.
They waited in agonizing silence until the women's laughter faded into the distance, the scent of apples and lavender lingering faintly in the breeze. The prince finally exhaled, sinking back against the earth. "Thank God, they're gone."
Uwol nodded rapidly. "I thought we were doomed. Imagine if they saw us like this—two grown men crouching in the bushes!" "Wait- that's what you were worried about." Nathaniel asked, blinking rapidly. "Of course, your highness. Strange rumors would have started to run rampant around the kingdom and possibly reach the emperor's ears." He gasped, crossing his arms over his chest. Before Nathaniel could respond, a bright voice cut through the air. "There you are, Your Highness! Oh—hey, brother!"
The two jolted violently, letting out a pair of startled yelps. In their scramble to stand, they tripped over each other and crashed back into the dirt with a graceless thud. A cloud of dust rose around them, followed by Uwol's groan. "My life just flashed before my eyes…" Uwol wheezed, clutching his elbow. "Ulyx! You nearly scared us to death! What is wrong with you, sneaking up like that?"
Ulyx stood at the edge of the thicket, struggling not to laugh. His sharp eyes flicked over the pair — leaves tangled in Nathaniel's hair, twigs jutting from Uwol's tunic. "You two look like you've been wrestling forest spirits," he snorted. "Spare me your wit," Nathaniel muttered, brushing off his coat as Ulyx offered him a hand. Once both were standing, Ulyx's teasing expression softened slightly.
"Ah, that's right," Ulyx said, reaching into his satchel. "A letter arrived for you, Your Highness. It's sealed with the Duke's crest." He handed over a folded parchment, then turned to his brother, his tone shifting. "And… I also have some bad news for you, Uwol."
Uwol's humor faded instantly. "Bad news? What kind of—" "Well…" Ulyx scratched the back of his neck, eyes darting away. "Chieftain Ulsef has summoned us. There's to be a banquet — to celebrate the end of the war." His voice lowered, the words heavy. "He expects us there in five days."
The air grew still. A faint rustle of leaves stirred as the wind swept through the clearing, the golden light dimming behind drifting clouds. Nathaniel's hand tightened around the parchment. Uwol's face paled, the playful glint gone from his eyes. Something unspoken passed between the three — an understanding of the weight behind that invitation. It was not just a celebration. It was a summons neither of them could refuse.
**
The late summer's morning sun bathed the duchy's gardens in a soft golden haze, the kind that made time itself seem to slow and hum faintly with warmth. The faint breeze carried with it the mingled scents of lavender, dew-warmed grass, and distant roses in bloom. The seasons were shifting again—the cicadas quieter now, the air less sharp than it had been in spring—but to Fatima, five years had felt like mere days stolen by the wind.
Some things, however, never changed—the sun and the moon, forever chasing each other across the sky. Whenever she gazed at the blazing orb above, she could almost see his face there, the faint crease between Nathaniel's brows, the stern, almost scolding set of his lips that always softened when he looked at her. The thought drew a breathy, bittersweet laugh from her. Even now, he haunted her in the sunlight and shadows alike.
Fatima sat on the cool stone steps of the garden pavilion, the moss soft against her heels. Her gray dress was speckled with petals from trimming the hedges earlier that morning, and strands of her silver hair clung to her cheeks from the humidity. In her hands was a parchment—creased, faded, and fraying at the edges. She unfolded it with the tenderness of one handling something holy. Her lips moved soundlessly at first, then she whispered, her voice trembling with both reverence and longing:
"To my dearest friend, Fatima…" The words—though long memorized—still hit her with the force of a fresh wound. Each line carried his scent, his conviction, his presence. "…once the war has ended… I shall return. And when I do, I intend to find you safe, far from Gwendolynn's venomous reach…"
A small tear gathered in the corner of her eye, quivering before falling onto the parchment. She wiped it away hastily, smudging the ink slightly. "Do not let the fire in your heart be dimmed by loss or longing…" Her heart squeezed. How many times had she prayed those very words over herself in the quiet of dawn, midday, and before bed? How many times had she lifted her face to the same sun, hoping that somewhere, Nathaniel was seeing it too?
A rustle came from behind her, breaking her reverie. "H-hello, Miss Fati! How do you do today?" The startled cry that left her lips was small and delicate. She quickly folded the letter, clutching it to her chest as she turned around. "Good day, Sir Tomario," she greeted, composing herself with a soft smile even as she wiped the last shimmer of tears from her lashes. "What brings you here?"
Tomario stood awkwardly a few steps away, his broad frame looking comically out of place amidst the flowerbeds. The morning sun caught on his polished cuirass, gleaming like a mirror, and his short brown hair was tousled as if he had run his hands through it a dozen times before approaching. His cheeks were already tinged red, though whether from shyness or the climb up the garden hill, she could not tell.
"I—I brought you a bouquet," he stammered, thrusting forward a handful of daisies bound together with a crooked bit of twine. "They, um, they say daisies mean cheerfulness. Just like you, Miss Fati. I hope… I hope you like them."
Fatima blinked, her heart softening at the sight of his nervous grin. Such a gentle soul, she thought, studying the sincerity written across his face. His large hands—better suited for a sword than flowers—trembled slightly as he held them out.
He always wears such earnest expressions when he speaks to a maiden. And those arms… good heavens, they look like they could lift a horse. He would make a fine knight if he ever took the title. She accepted the bouquet carefully, the scent of crushed petals mingling with the earthy tang of his leather gloves.
"Sir Tomario," she began gently, lowering her gaze to the blooms, "I hope you do not take this the wrong way, but…" He straightened suddenly, eyes bright and determined. "I know, Miss Fati," he said quickly, his voice firm despite the blush deepening across his face. "I know you only see me as a friend. But that's alright."
Fatima's lips parted, caught off guard. "I am confident," he went on, with a boyish grin that could have melted a nun's resolve, "that I can win the missus' heart someday. Until then, I only ask that you accept my gestures without feeling burdened. These flowers," he gestured at the daisies in her hands, "come from the utmost sincerity of my heart."
She could only stare at him for a moment—at the sunlight gleaming on his tanned skin, at the earnest light in his eyes—and then let out a soft, helpless laugh. "This man," she murmured under her breath, "is such a charmer in every sense of the word."
If any other woman had been in her place, they would have likely swooned right into his arms. "Well then," she said finally, smiling as she held the daisies to her chest, "if you insist, I shall accept them—as a gesture of friendship and nothing more."
His entire face lit up at her words. Even his ears turned scarlet as he rubbed the back of his neck, grinning like a boy praised for bravery. Fatima watched him for a moment longer, her smile fading to something softer—wistful, almost maternal. I pray you find someone who can return your heart, Sir Tomario, she thought silently, glancing down at the daisies. For mine has long since been taken by the sun itself.
The wind stirred again, lifting a strand of her hair and carrying the faint scent of daisies and parchment into the air—where the sunlight shimmered like the memory of a promise.
**
The sun had begun to dip into the horizon, casting a soft golden glow over the Uluka tribe as Nathaniel strode through the towering wooden gates astride his black steed, the rhythmic clop of hooves echoing over the packed dirt road. Dust swirled beneath the horse's steps, rising briefly before dissipating into the wind. Behind him, Leonardo and the four brothers followed, their expressions guarded, their movements rigid with unease.
The village stretched before them in earthy hues—mud homes with straw-thatched roofs stood in uneven rows, encircled by wattle fences woven tight with care. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, the faint scent of charred wood mingling with the musk of livestock. Hens darted across the path, pecking at stray grains, while roosters crowed somewhere in the distance. Yet, despite the rustic calm of the place, a suffocating stillness clung to the air—one born not of peace, but of restrained hostility. "Well, greetings to you too." Nathaniel muttered under his breath.
At the heart of the village stood a towering mud edifice, its walls etched with ancient tribal carvings that glimmered faintly under the light of dusk. The structure loomed over the settlement like a silent warden, its presence commanding reverence and fear alike. Nathaniel's sharp gaze swept over the village, cataloging every detail, every flicker of movement. His horse snorted, hooves shifting restlessly beneath him as murmurs began to ripple through the crowd gathering near the roadside.
Dozens of blue eyes, cold as the deep sea, fixed on them—piercing, unblinking, hostile. Aren't tribesmen supposed to have strong brotherhood? What's with the death glares? Nathaniel thought, his jaw tightening as whispers slithered through the crowd like venomous snakes. "It's those accursed rejects again. Why are they here?" hissed a woman, her words laced with venom. "How come they came back without a scratch after fighting in a war against demonic monsters?" a man muttered, spitting into the dirt where Uler's horse had just passed. "They probably hid behind the prince the entire time," another sneered, earning a round of mocking chuckles. "How shameless of them to show their faces here again!" "To beg for gold, I'm sure." "Ugh! What an eyesore—the lot of them!"
The whispers grew bolder with the further they went into the village, a wall of scorn pressing in from all sides. Despite their best efforts to remain composed, the brothers shifted uncomfortably in their saddles. Shoulders hunched, eyes lowered—they looked more like exiles than sons of this soil. Their faces, hardened by years of battle, now reflected something far more painful: familiarity with rejection.
Nathaniel's chest tightened. So, this is how they've lived… even before the war. He could still recall Leonardo's report the other day—every line etched into his memory like a scar. The brothers' mother, sister to the chieftain, had died giving birth to them. Their father, overcome by despair, took his own life that very day. Enraged, the chief had branded the infants cursed, refusing to acknowledge their bloodline. The village had followed his decree, turning their backs on the orphans. Only a blind widow had dared to take them in, raising them under her humble roof with what little she had.
Nathaniel's grip on the reins tightened until the leather creaked. His amber eyes burned with restrained fury. "Stride with your heads held high," he said, his voice low but resonant, carrying over the whispers like a crack of thunder. "You are soon to be part of my court. Therefore, if anyone insults you or looks down on you, they do so to me as well."
The brothers looked up, eyes glinting with a mix of surprise and gratitude. "Yes, your highness," they responded in unison, straightening their backs and matching his dignified composure. Their horses moved forward with renewed purpose, hooves striking the ground with rhythmic defiance. The crowd's sneers faltered, if only for a moment, as Nathaniel's commanding presence washed over them. His posture was regal, his gaze sharp and unyielding—a lion walking through a den of jackals.
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. If only these fools knew the worth of the men they scorn. Soldiers of unmatched discipline and battle prowess. Strategists. Survivors. He allowed himself a quiet scoff, his expression shifting into a knowing grin. Oh well, their loss. My gain.
As they neared the towering mud edifice, the whispers dulled into uneasy silence. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. The scent of incense drifted faintly from within, mingling with the earthy aroma of the village. Nathaniel dismounted, boots sinking slightly into the soft dirt as he cast one final look around.
Whatever awaited them inside the chief's hall, it would not be mere hospitality—but Nathaniel was ready. His amber gaze gleamed beneath the late-afternoon sun, sharp and unflinching, like a blade waiting to be drawn.