Brinnan
"Cover your eyes."
The order was simple, yet it made him lift his head.
What was this about? He was a candidate for the Military Guard, not a ranger. He was still trying to understand why, instead of his usual training, he had been sent to the rear courtyard of the base. There, he found nothing but a tray covered with an assortment of leaves from local trees—leaves he was expected to study in detail.
Maybe he had misheard the instructions, but no—she was standing there, holding a white blindfold, her expression unreadable.
He had to bite back a sigh. Any sign of disrespect toward her could cost him everything. And he couldn't afford that—not now. Not after everything his family had sacrificed to bring him here.
I guess I have no choice, he thought, suppressing another sigh as he reached for the blindfold.
This was his first theoretical lesson, and while he wasn't exactly excited about it, nothing had prepared him for this—sitting cross-legged on a cushion before a simple wooden table, his legs barely fitting beneath it.
"So far, we've strengthened your sense of sight," she said. "Now, let's see how you do with touch."
A faint rustle of movement, and then she placed something in his outstretched hands—a leaf, thin and slightly serrated at the edges.
"Can you identify the tree?"
Was she testing him? Mocking him? It was such a simple leaf—of course, he could recognize it.
"Beech," he answered without hesitation, handing it back to her.
"An easy start. Perhaps too easy for the top-ranked candidate in the latest recruitment."
There was no sarcasm in her voice, no teasing. Just a statement of fact.
After all, he was the recruit who had secured first place in the latest rankings. He could hardly believe it himself.
Maybe he had earned it. He had worked twice as hard as the others to be here. Outsiders always did.
"There's a beech grove near my home. I've seen them all the time."
"That would place you near the western border," she remarked casually, already selecting another leaf.
This one had smooth, rounded lobes.
"Oak."
She nodded in confirmation and set a third specimen in his hands.
His fingers traced the needle-shaped leaf, and without meaning to, he smiled. Once, these leaves had only reminded him of Christmas trees. Now, they made him think of something else entirely—his future.
"Fir."
"It's crucial to distinguish between different species of pine," she remarked, her tone distant, almost indifferent. "We have many here. Now, let's test your sense of smell."
She placed a new leaf in his palm, this one spiral-shaped, its texture rough and scaly.
"I imagine you already have an idea of what this is," she mused. "But it's important to recognize its scent as well. These trees are aromatic and often used in decorative arrangements."
Did this have anything to do with his training, or did she simply enjoy talking about irrelevant things?
He brought the leaf to his nose and inhaled deeply.
"I can't say for sure what species it is," he admitted. "But I know it belongs to the cypress family."
He was surprised he still remembered those botanical classifications. But he had studied relentlessly for the environmental recognition exam. Failure wasn't an option.
His family's future depended on his acceptance into the Guard. He would do whatever it took.
"A solid start," she conceded before removing the tray. "I imagine you find this… unusual. Not exactly standard military training."
"Unusual" isn't the word I'd use, he thought but kept the remark to himself, simply clearing his throat.
"I don't know enough about other training methods to compare. May I remove the blindfold now?"
"Not yet. The most important part of the lesson is still to come."
He heard the soft clang of metal as something was set on the table, followed by the crackling of dry leaves. A moment later, the air filled with the sharp scent of smoke.
A censer.
He swallowed hard, refusing to cough.
"The memory is already in your mind," she murmured. "You just have to recognize it. Which tree is burning?"
Another test.
The acrid scent of burning leaves was more than just a lesson—it was a warning. A reminder of what was at stake in the Conservation Guard.
"Birch."
"You may remove the blindfold," she said, lifting the lid of the censer to extinguish the embers.
He blinked, adjusting to the light again.
"What's the purpose of all this?" he asked at last.
"Chesspatt's duty is to protect its people," she replied as if it should have been obvious from the start. "The threat of fire is too great to leave anything to chance. We must be prepared for every possible scenario."
"Isn't it enough to see the smoke?"
"Waiting for the fire to become visible before acting is irresponsible," she countered, sitting back down. "By the time the flames can be seen and a unit is deployed, the fire may have already spread beyond control. It could reach the city before anyone can stop it."
He watched as she set the censer aside and smoothed the folds of her sleeve.
She must have noticed his momentary distraction, because her gray eyes locked onto him, sharp as steel.
She struck him as the kind of person who was used to being obeyed.
But he wasn't the kind of person who was easily intimidated.
Nor was he the type to blush under a woman's gaze.
And yet—more than the silver of her eyes, it was her deep red hair, cascading over her shoulders, that caught his attention. He had noticed it that morning, when she had introduced herself as his temporary tutor.
Still, despite her fiery hair, her complexion was completely unblemished, without a single freckle. So much for stereotypes.
"As you must know," she continued, "since your family had to pass the national knowledge exams and swear allegiance to our laws before entering the country, you should understand that Leskhen—and especially its capital—relies on its forests not only for air but for the very structure of its homes. If we lose even a fraction of our woodlands, it won't just impact the air. Many families will struggle to maintain their homes."
"Not to mention that an uncontrolled fire could turn those homes to ash—along with the people inside them," he added bluntly.
That was why he had enlisted in the first place—to protect his family.
But over time, he had come to realize—
He wanted to protect all of them.
His new home.
"Precisely," she said, her voice solemn. "Identifying the species that ignites first allows us to locate the exact region of the forest where the fire started. That knowledge saves time. And saving time saves lives. Our guards must be trained in every possible discipline. And since Brinnan has one of the lowest crime rates in the region, it is only natural that our primary focus remains on disaster prevention."
"Natural," he echoed, though a sudden weariness had settled into his bones.
She reached for the tray and lifted it from the table.
"I believe this is a good place to end today's lesson."
She spoke as if she were a schoolteacher dismissing her students for the day, rather than a young woman sitting cross-legged on the ground, blades of grass brushing against the leather of her over-the-knee boots.
Undeniably, she was striking. But the golden ring on her finger, engraved with the royal crest, made him feel as though he were being tested in some way.
Was this all a test?
"Curious," he mused aloud before he could stop himself. "I thought girls didn't like to expose themselves to smoke. It ruins their hair and clothing. At least, that's what my mother says."
For the first time, something like melancholy crossed her otherwise impassive features.
"Soon enough," she murmured, rising to her feet, "I will be safe within the palace walls. A little smoke and dust to aid the future guardians of my country is a small price to pay."
He watched as she withdrew, carrying the censer's chain in her grasp, disappearing through the doors of the annex—a part of the building off-limits to recruits like him.
From the outside, the annex looked no different from the rest of the facility: stone walls in various shades of gray, few windows, most of them shuttered, and stained-glass depictions of scenes he had yet to understand.
Above it all, the green and white flag of Division CH fluttered in the breeze, while at the center—larger and more imposing—the red and white banner bore Chesspatt's crest: two crossed swords framing the national flower, the Cistus, encircled by a ribbon bearing the inscription: Non Fumus, Non Sanguis.
No Smoke, No Blood.
The motto of Leskhen's foremost protection force.
It was time for him to head home as well.
At the entrance to the training grounds, two officers saluted him, pressing the edges of their hands to their foreheads in greeting.
He had barely stepped outside when hurried footsteps caught up with him.
"Rory!"
A familiar arm was slung around his shoulders before he had time to react.
"Leaving so soon? Come have a drink with us."
It had only been eight months since he had turned eighteen—he was no stranger to drunken nights. But he had no desire to return to them. Not now. Not when he was being scrutinized so closely.
He could not afford to forget that he was still an immigrant in his trial period.
"I need to get home," he said simply. "My family is waiting."
"You always say that," his friend sighed in resignation. "One day, you'll have to learn to enjoy yourself. Even we have that right—you know, life isn't all about protecting and serving."
"Isn't it?" Rory asked, shifting his shoulders to dislodge the arm around him. "Then why did you join the Guard, Richard?"
"Richard, not Richie?" his friend mocked. "Don't take this the wrong way, Rory, but every Leskhenese who doesn't come from nobility aims to be accepted into Chesspatt's CH Division. It's not just about the benefits—it's the only way to earn real respect. Maybe not from the blue peacocks, but it's the best chance we have, those of us who aren't rich or brilliant."
"Isn't the high standard of living here enough?" Rory asked, pausing to glance around.
He knew Richard wouldn't understand. He had never known any reality other than this one. He couldn't comprehend how fortunate he was to have been born in a country so prosperous and secure—one that, though near Europe, felt utterly detached from the rest of the world. Free from corruption and war, surrounded only by endless forests and ancient architecture.
Brinnan, the capital of the Kingdom of Leskhen, was a place of peace—almost idyllic.
Before arriving, Rory had never imagined forests could hold so many colors. The wooden and stone houses were adorned with climbing flowers, the asphalt streets were still damp with morning dew, and the first sounds of the day were the creak of doors and windows being opened to the world.
It was a place straight out of a storybook.
The old castle, now repurposed as the Academy, was surrounded by gardens and marble staircases. In the distance, the royal palace loomed over the mountains—a grand structure of white stone and towering spires.
At the heart of the city stood its gothic clock tower, once the bell tower of the cathedral that had been destroyed in the Great Fire. The charred black stone of its walls was a permanent reminder of the dangers faced by a city built of wood and nestled in the embrace of the forest.
Curiously, the clock itself had survived unscathed. As ancient as the kingdom itself, its golden hands and numerals gleamed against a backdrop of limestone and amethyst, its deep chimes as resolute as the will of Leskhen's people. The tower had since become a symbol of the capital—valuable enough that a wealthy collector might covet it, if only it could be stolen.
"Besides," Richard added, "the Guard has the highest salaries after the Cabinet. And, well... those officials are certainly competent and make the right decisions, but they've also belonged to the founding families for over two centuries. How can we possibly compete with that?"
"Chesspatt represents protection and justice, not politics. Why compare it to the Cabinet at all?"
"Come on, Rory. You're part of this for a reason too," Richard countered. "Didn't you say you wanted to secure a pension for your mother in case anything ever happened to you?"
"And is ensuring my mother's well-being a selfish goal?"
"I don't know. Let's say it's as valid as my goal of getting rich," Richard said with a grin. "I knew it from day one—you're an idealist, Rory Gilbert."
"Yeah, yeah. Give me a break," Rory muttered, shaking his head as he kept walking.
Richard shrugged off his green jacket, draping it over his shoulder, his tie undone and hanging loosely around his neck.
"Did you hear?" he asked. "The recruitment trials for this year start next Wednesday."
"So soon?"
"Yep. Which means in a few weeks, we'll find out if we're moving on to the next stage—or if we just wasted a year of our lives learning how to handle weapons, prevent fires, and practice CPR on that horrifying mannequin that still haunts my dreams."
"Thanks for the reminder," Rory said, feigning a shudder. "So, it's already been that long, huh? I suppose I should start feeling nervous."
"You have to be joking," Richard scoffed. "It's obvious you'll be the first one accepted. You ranked highest in the physical aptitude tests, and your psychological assessments showed that your protective instinct was, what, seventy-eight percent?"
"Ninety-one," Rory corrected. "And I wouldn't take anything for granted."
"Are you messing with me? If the higher-ups weren't certain you'd pass, they wouldn't have assigned Abigail Burgstaller as your tutor for the theoretical lessons."
"Aren't the top students in the Academy always chosen as substitute tutors when a primary instructor is unavailable? It's a shame about Madam Bunrt's accident."
"You have no idea how lucky you are. Not just any elite student is about to wear a crown," Richard said, ruffling his brown hair.
Rory laced his fingers behind his head.
"Has she been the prince's fiancée for long?"
"Two years. When the engagement was announced, no one was surprised. She's the stepdaughter of one of the most influential Cabinet members, and besides being gorgeous, she's been the top student since kindergarten," Richard sighed. "I envy you. You get to spend time with her before she's locked away in gowns and only seen at state functions."
Rory's attention wandered as he spotted a pair of children feeding the ducks that had wandered out of the lake and into the park.
"I think you're exaggerating."
"Oh, do I?" Richard smirked. "All the guys were drooling when she walked past in those tall boots, carrying books, without sparing us so much as a glance."
"She should know your thoughts weren't exactly appropriate for minors."
"Abby's eighteen, just like us."
"Abby?" Rory echoed, amused. "Does she let you call her that?"
"No idea. But I keep saying it in my head."
"You're a strange guy."
"I bet there aren't girls like her where you come from."
Rory froze mid-step.
"Where… I come from?" he murmured.
The distant chime of the tram's bell caught his attention. The last route of the day was about to depart.
"I have to go!" he called over his shoulder, leaping onto the tram before it pulled away.
If he missed it, he'd have to rent a bicycle to get home. The city was compact enough for cycling to be a practical alternative. Motor vehicles were almost obsolete here—many of the remaining models sat untouched in storage.
As the tram carried him away, he saw Richard shake his head and chuckle.
Maybe he's right. Maybe I should relax a little.
He was still young. If he kept this up, he'd have a midlife crisis before turning twenty.
But he had to stay strong.
He had promised.
After disembarking, he inhaled deeply. The air was fresh, carrying the crisp scent of leaves and damp earth.
Environmental regulations forbade large factories from operating within the city, where most of the population lived—just under half a million people. Only small artisanal workshops, wineries, and a handful of inns were permitted.
Rory walked at an unhurried pace, taking in the sight of the wooden cabins lining the streets. In Leskhen, timber was the only approved building material—except for the grand stone estates of the wealthiest families. The kingdom's forests were its lifeblood, and their strict preservation policies meant that exporting timber to other countries was out of the question.
The gray crosses of cemetery plots stood in quiet contrast to the vibrant flowers and vegetable gardens growing beside them. He watched as a squirrel perched on a headstone, nibbling on an acorn.
As he passed, some townsfolk greeted him with polite nods. They recognized the green jacket of a Chesspatt recruit. If Richard was right, it was only a matter of time before he would earn the right to wear white—the color of fully inducted officers.
Perhaps, one day, he would earn enough to buy his mother a stone house. She had admired them when they first arrived—modern fortresses of quiet elegance.
When he became a Tann, he would work to rise through the ranks. He would secure a prosperous and stable future for his family.
"Maybe I'm not so different from that fool," he admitted to himself. Not that he would ever say it out loud. Their friendship wouldn't be as amusing if they ever agreed on anything.
He had spent so much time training that he barely knew anyone outside the base. Every day was a test—not only was the training rigorous, but it was also long and demanding.
If he wanted to be part of Chesspatt, he had to earn it.
The Conservation Guard was divided into two main branches. His division, known as CH, was responsible for civilian protection.
The Security and Justice Unit trained Protectors and Defenders, equivalent to police officers and legal professionals in other nations. The Care and Emergency Division was affiliated with the University's School of Medicine and primarily trained paramedics. Finally, those who joined the Prevention and Restoration Division specialized in environmental preservation and were prepared to withstand the most extreme conditions. The Restorers were the ones who picked up the broken pieces and put them back together—they were artists of disaster.
If he passed the next stage, he would get to choose his specialization. And while it was true that crime rates were low—as she had pointed out—he still wanted to become a Protector. He wanted to ensure that never changed.
He crossed the curved wooden bridge, the gentle sound of water below filling the quiet evening. In the distance, the heavy wooden gate of his home came into view.
Their house was the last one on the street—a modest cabin, surrounded by trees whose leaves had already begun to fall. When training allowed, he planned to cut some of them down to ensure they had enough firewood for winter. He had heard that the cold season here was brutal, with high chances of snow.
He had never seen snow before.
Moss had begun creeping up the main wall of the cabin, tinging the wood with deep green. Small flowerpots rested on the windowsill, filled with bright orange blooms that contrasted against the golden leaves scattered on the ground.
"I'm home!" he called as he opened the door.
His mother's voice reached him from the kitchen, where steam curled up from bubbling pots.
"Welcome back!"
The cabin's layout was open—there were no real walls separating the kitchen from the living area, just a wooden counter serving as a divide.
Rory tossed his jacket onto the worn leather sofa and began unbuttoning his shirt, pulling it off to reveal a simple undershirt beneath.
"How was training?" his mother asked, stirring the contents of the largest pot.
Judging by the smell, dinner would be some kind of stew.
She had recently taken an interest in their neighbor's recipes and had mentioned more than once that she was looking forward to summer so she could start her own garden.
After a moment's thought, he found the right word for today's lesson.
"Confusing."
"Confusing?" she echoed. "Why's that?"
"I never expected them to place so much importance on trees."
"Isn't there one in the Chesspatt crest?" she asked absentmindedly.
"No. It's a Cistus flower."
"Flowers, trees—what's the difference?"
"That particular flower can survive a fire."
In the capital, many survivors of the Great Fire claimed that even now, if they closed their eyes, they could still smell the smoke.
And yet, despite it all, they had endured.
Just like that flower.
"Where's Ash?" he asked, glancing around.
"In the backyard," his mother replied, stepping around the counter to face him. "Can you ask her to come in and help set the table?" She wrinkled her nose. "And after that, go take a bath. You reek of smoke. What were you even doing?"
"Identifying potential fires based on the trees that cause them."
She gave him a bewildered look.
"What kind of nonsense is that?"
"I was wondering the same thing," he muttered, heading outside.
The wind that night was mild, but even so, as soon as he stepped into the yard, he saw something white flutter upward, caught in the breeze.
Ash stood in the middle of the garden, silent except for the soft sound of tearing paper. She held her notebook in one hand, and with the other, she let its pages drift away, releasing them one by one.
He approached cautiously, but she knew the sound of his footsteps well.
Once, she had half-jokingly claimed that she could recognize the air he breathed.
"What are you doing, Ash?" he asked gently, careful not to startle her.
She turned slightly, her pale eyes narrowing. Loose strands of her hair framed her face, and despite the darkened sky, she still wore her wide-brimmed hat.
Sometimes, he liked to think that both he and Ash bore their mother's signature upon them—like they were truly her handiwork. He had inherited her olive-green eyes, while Ash had her fair hair, though lighter than their mother's.
"Brother," she greeted softly.
She rarely raised her voice, so much so that when she did, it almost felt like she was someone else entirely.
Ashling was two years older than him, but her gaze was as clear and unguarded as a child's.
She was also one of the reasons he pushed through training, no matter how grueling it was.
"I'm giving my poetry to the world," she said at last, smiling sadly. "It's the only thing I have to pay my dues for being allowed to stay here."
She plucked another page from her notebook, holding it delicately between her fingers before letting it go, watching as the wind carried it away.
"Too bad they're worthless," she murmured.
Since childhood, she had always been shy, hesitant, quiet. But it hadn't taken long to realize that her silence ran deeper than simple timidity.
There was something else, something that set her apart from the rest—something that made her keep her distance.
But it had never mattered to him.
Not then. Not now.
He had learned the meaning of protection because of her.
He had found his purpose in the promise that no one would ever hurt her as long as he was there to stop it.
And yet, deep down, he feared that someday she, too, would wish to let go of his hand.
Just as she was letting go of her poems now.
He shook his head, pushing the thought away.
He couldn't picture a future where his mother and sister were not by his side.
He was the man of the house. It was his duty to take care of them.
"Would that be considered old-fashioned? Would I be stoned for saying it out loud?" he mused dryly.
"Mom's probably upset."
"Hm?" he blinked, pulled from his thoughts.
"You reek of smoke, Brother. Mom won't be happy."
"Oh... Right. She told me to call you in to help set the table. I'll go shower."
Ash remained outside a little longer, gazing at the starless sky.
She clutched the notebook to her chest when the rustling of tree branches caught her attention.
Someone else was there.
But as always, she found herself frozen, incapable of moving or fleeing.
She could only stand there, chilled to the bone, as a dull thud hit the ground—
—and footsteps drew closer.
A hand landed on her shoulder, and the sound was as deafening as the heartbeat in her ears.
Slowly, she shifted her gaze.
The hand was wrapped in white bandages, leaving only the fingers exposed.
She let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
And when she turned to face him, she whispered—
"It's been a long time."