In the gentle, pale embrace of the morning sun, he was safe.
A beautiful young woman sat in the corner of a rugged, dust-covered wooden room, her vibrant crimson hair falling like a silken curtain to hide half of her face. Her slender hand rested on his back, a touch so warm and real it chased away all fear. The small child on her lap had finally quieted, his ragged, tear-filled breaths evening out as he drifted into the peaceful safety of her embrace. The dampness on her tattered tunic where his tears had soaked it was a fading mark of his sorrow; his own small face was still tracked with the drying salt of tears.
She was softly humming a beautiful, wordless, and melancholic song—a melody that seeped into his very bones and quieted the storm in his spirit. As the last of his sobs subsided, his small body relaxed completely against her. He reached out a tiny, trusting hand, weaving his fingers into a few strands of her silken hair as if to anchor himself to this one perfect moment. This familiar, essential warmth was his only sanctuary, the one shield he possessed against a harsh, cruel world.
"Hey! Are you okay?"
The voice was jarring, alien. It didn't belong here. Norvin's eyes snapped wide open, and the sunlit room shattered like glass. He found himself not in that warm corner, but in a mundane canvas tent. The rough walls were illuminated by the flickering, nervous light of a lantern, and the simple cot he lay in was surprisingly, unnervingly comfortable—a stark contrast to the familiar comfort he had just lost.
Looking sideways, he noticed Remus standing there with a saddened and deeply troubled look on his face. The old man had noticed Norvin crying in his sleep. However, he had woken Norvin not because of this—it wasn't the first time he had seen him in this dire, vulnerable state—but because of an even greater trouble he needed to discuss.
"You… why are you… no, never mind. Can you come with me for a second, Norvin?" Remus's voice was low and strained.
Norvin quickly scrambled up from the cot. He used the back of his hand to roughly clear the remaining tears from his eyes, and with a grim, resolute look, he followed Remus outside.
The magnificent moon's silver light had already begun to faintly vanish in the distant eastern sky. The night above, usually blazing with stars, was today a vast, empty expanse.
The camp of The Serpents seemed to be utterly engulfed in a silent, grim presentiment. Weary soldiers stoically sharpened their weapons, heavily armoured knights tightened their straps, and anxious commoners whispered prayers for their safety.
Amidst this commotion, two humans stood utterly alone at the edge of the dense, brooding forest, beneath the vast, dark stretch of the heavens.
The old man, Remus, was always a calm and profoundly composed figure. He had survived these many years precisely because he was cunningly smart enough never to underestimate his enemies and always maintained an unwavering clarity of mind in battle. Yet, in this moment, he had lost his characteristic composure and his voice was raw as he raised it. His weathered hands, still gripping Norvin's shoulders, trembled almost imperceptibly as he sank onto one knee. The movement was not one of deference, but a desperate need to level his gaze with the child's, to look directly into those hauntingly old eyes as if he were trying to burn the boy's face into his memory.
"No matter what you do, no matter whom you align with, your survival chances are pitifully low! You can't even fight on the front lines!"
Norvin didn't gaze up; he kept his head bowed, his eyes fixed on the forest floor. He replied with a low, steady voice, "I will survive, and that man seems to have a job for me—a task which, according to him, only I can do."
"That's terribly suspicious, Norvin! Whatever he tells you to do will be incredibly dangerous. If anything goes wrong , you'll have to fight entirely alone against those brutal enemies who won't spare you, even if you are just a child ."
"Spare me? I don't need anyone's mercy. The soldiers here... I have fought with them, shared scanty meals with them, and bled with them. And now, everyone is marching toward what might be their death. How can I simply refuse and run away?" Norvin's face was etched with a fierce, undeniable determination, yet the slight, incessant trembling of his hands suggested otherwise.
"I should have been dead, just like my family. But I survived, If tomorrow's the day I die then so be it."
The words struck Remus like a physical blow. The old Cipher froze completely, his hand clenching around the whetstone. He slowly lowered his arms, his gaze fixed on the boy, his weathered face a mask of stunned disbelief. The casual acceptance of death in Norvin's tone was more shocking than any battle cry.
'What kind of pain have you felt in your past?' Remus pondered, his mind reeling. He stared at the boy's small, determined frame and questioned what kind of cruel world could forge such a grim tolerance for pain in someone so young.
#####
Somewhere near the enemies' stronghold, a young girl stood in the middle of a broad road, her delicate skin streaked by tears. The pavement was a mosaic of broken tiles, and heavy, dark clothes draped the windows of the houses. These wooden structures were slightly burned, their surfaces—like the road itself—covered in a suffocating layer of dust and ashes.
Yet, no one in the town batted an eye at the small, weeping figure. Every gaze was fixed on the single, brutal objective: to acquire food. The citizens were standing in huge queues for the meager distribution guarded by soldiers; food was scarce and fiercely protected. The air was thick with the familiar, metallic scent of blood and sweat.
The town of Ruxwax had been ravaged by war, its very identity scoured away by years of conflict. It was no longer a home for its people; it was a cage, wrapped in the oppressive, rigid discipline of the military and the unending turmoil of the front lines. The air itself seemed heavy with a permanent, grim silence.
The Chief held his post on the highest floor of the old Guild Hall, a massive, imposing structure of black slate that loomed over the broken town. Its huge oak front doors, once intricately carved with symbols of honest craft and thriving community, were now crudely reinforced with thick, riveted iron plates—a brutalist scar on a once-beautiful face.
These formidable doors were flanked by heavily armed sentries whose polished breastplates caught and reflected the weak, dusty light. Outside, the grounds were a mess of hastily erected field tents for lesser officers. A single, ominous banner bearing the emblem of the Everburning Torch was crudely nailed directly above the main archway, a permanent statement of absolute authority.
The Chief himself, looking ominous, was oddly similar to a man Norvin himself had killed before. The chief wore a high-class military tunic with numerous elaborate engravings, a blatant showcase of authority and power. He stood staring out the windows, his gaze sweeping across the dreadful, distant battlefield and the miserable streets of Ruxwax. A large group of soldiers, carved into silence, stood within the elegant dark stone of his office, watching him and waiting for his response.
Soon their Chief sighed, a sound heavy with fatigue, and spoke, "Can't a man simply get a day off? So, what you've discovered is that the Captain of the Serpent's Maw has joined his wards on the camp? So what?"
The officers exchanged confused glances. "But sir," one officer began, the man's throat dry with the sheer terror of the Captain's reputation, "Cladaron is a Prime Nexus—if he joins the battle, we won't be able to hold our position."
The Chief closed his sleep-deprived eyes, as if mere seconds of darkness would do him any good. He soon began walking toward his chair, his gaze fixed on the others. "He will not join the battle anytime. Thane is no fool; he knows that his presence on the battlefield will give us, the Kvothe kingdom, the necessary excuse to deploy our own Prime warriors. Their clash will simply eradicate the whole battlefield. Such an outcome is not preferred by Thane himself."
The Chief rubbed the bridge of his nose, the gesture a physical manifestation of his exhaustion. His sleep-deprived eyes finally settled on a detailed, hand-drawn map of Ruxwax spread across a dark mahogany table nearby—the town a grid of red and black arrows.
"We will take necessary measures such that he doesn't do us any damage without us still waiting for reinforcements," the Chief continued giving orders, his voice regaining its sharp, commanding edge.
Soon, another man entered the chamber, his resemblance to the Chief immediately apparent in his tall, thin build and long, messy yellow hair. He wore a suit of well-fitted, luxurious plate armor that gleamed in the lamplight, a stark contrast to the simple tunics worn by the others. As he strode forward, it was clear that he, not the drab soldiers, was dressed for his station. He approached the Chief with a single, pointed question.
Every other man in the room shifted their gaze from the sprawling map to this newcomer. He took one deliberate step closer to the table, and the sharp click of his armored boot on the stone floor resounded in the sudden, heavy silence.
"If Thane decides to fight, we won't have enough time to receive reinforcements from our Captain," the man stated, his voice sharp and clear. "What are you planning to do then?"
A palpable wave of unease washed over the room. Shoulders tensed and grim expressions tightened as everyone seemed to silently agree with his grave assessment. The fragile confidence in the room evaporated, replaced once again by the cold question of their survival. Everyone felt it—except, of course, the Chief.
A slow, chilling smile spread across the Chief's face, a look utterly devoid of warmth. His voice, when he spoke, was unnervingly calm, slithering into the silence of the tense room. "Brother, you don't need to worry about that. If it comes to that," he paused, letting the weight of his words settle, "we still have our special weapon. A perfect counter to Thane, would you not agree?"
The very atmosphere in the room seemed to freeze. The man who had challenged him—his own brother—visibly flinched as if struck, the color draining from his face. Around the table, a sudden, unified hiss of indrawn breath was louder than a shout.
Their reaction was not one of relief. It was obvious from the shared, haunted look in their eyes that every man in that room knew exactly what the Chief was referring to. His solution wasn't a trump card; it was a self-destruct button. They all understood the terrible truth: the weapon designed to counter the monster known as Thane Cladaron was a monster in its own right, an uncontrollable calamity that, once unleashed, could very well consume them all.