Why did we hold on to them? Fear—the answer is simple, but bitter as old wine. Monaria was too small to stand alone. Our King Elmir VII, wise but cautious to the point of cowardice, decided it was better to follow Criver into the abyss than to perish in resistance. The irony of fate: the loyalty that once saved us now led to the grave. Duty is a fearsome thing. A chain can protect, but it can also strangle.
Because of this war, my training as a knight was cut short, like a song interrupted by the blow of a hammer. Me, the son of the royal court's cook, was sent home to Eltor. Yes, I am a commoner—my blood is not blue, but the reddest kind, smelling of sweat and earth. By the grace of Elmir VII, I was sent to learn the art of sword and shield.
My name is Loyn. A noble name, though my mother gave it to me out of love, not nobility. "Moon" and "defender"—that's what it translates to. Funny, isn't it? The moon shines in the night, cold and distant, while I am just a boy with calluses on his hands, who loves his mother and tries to understand his place in this world.
Returning to the capital after four years of separation, I rushed to her as soon as my feet touched Eltor's soil. Her face lit up, as if reflecting an inner light. We embraced, and her warmth melted the ice in my chest that had built up from worries and roads.
"Tell me everything," she said, seating me at the table where a cup of tea was already steaming, scented with herbs and home.
I smiled. She had read my letters, but she craved stories from my own lips. A living tale is like comparing a dried flower to a living, fragrant bud.
One of the stories was about my name. I remember, on the first day at the Academy, our instructor—a warrior of middle years with a face scarred like a map of forgotten battles—eyed me and bellowed across the parade ground:
"This boy will protect you in the night. Not a single fly will pass him by." And then, with a smile, he added: "Though he probably rises late, the lunar defender. Here, he'll have to become a lark."
I, naive and honest then, blurted out:
"My mom and I wake up early in the morning. I rarely see the moon."
The instructor paused for a second, then burst into laughter:
"Then you're a lark-owl in our ranks!"
The whole squad rolled with laughter—and I with them. In that laughter rang something bright, like a distant bell of childhood. For back then, we didn't yet know that soon we'd have to protect not just at night, but by day, at dawn, and in those twilights when it's hard to tell friend from foe.
Mother nodded, but behind the laughter, I saw a shadow of worry. War was knocking at the doors, and soon I would have to defend not just my name, but everything dear to me.
The nickname "Lark-Owl" stuck to me for a long time, becoming part of the portrait of who I was and who I would become. An oxymoron embodied in one awkward youth. There was a bittersweet poetry in that—the poetry of the beginning of the path.