Laughter erupted against the beams, glasses clinked, and someone sang off-key while stabbing the air with a half-empty mug.
In «La posada de los muertos,» the air reeked of sour beer, all kinds of food, cheap tobacco, and the sweat of a hundred men who had gone too long without removing their armor.
A creaking sign hung above the door: black letters, peeling paint, the silhouette of a hanged man who seemed to smile.
The light from the lesser sun—that pale, sickly orb that never set and from which the men in that place hid so fervently—slipped through the cracks and clashed with the paraffin lamps inside the establishment, making shadows dance on the stone walls. Shadows that seemed to come alive, as if the hearts of those small flames harbored ancient souls, trapped by Death himself.
At the longest table, scarred by cigarette burns and old knife cuts, an old man in the red armor of high command counted chips with a grin too wide for his face.
"Ha, ha! Royal flush! Too easy, kid. Same luck next time," he bellowed, his voice tangling in a cloud of smoke that smelled of slow death.
The young soldier who had just lost slammed his cards down in rage.
The old man gathered the chips, flicked the ash from his cigar, and the rusty medals clinked against the metal of his breastplate, keeping time with the clumsy lute someone was hammering at the back.
"Excellent game," said a voice behind him. "I expected no less from Commander Don Patrival de Sánderes..."
Patrival spun his chair with a creak.
"Huh?!" exclaimed Don Patrival, surprised.
"Or should I call you 'Ace'?" the voice continued.
"Who the idiot dares interrupt the commander?!" Don Patrival tapped the table lightly and turned, trying to look dramatic.
A young man with short reddish hair, wearing the regulation uniform of the royal army, stood behind him. His eyes, blue as ice, watched him with a calm that would make anyone's skin crawl.
"Oh, soldier..."
"Cristóbal—'Cris' Crosswell, Commander."
"That's it! Cris! Finally we get a chance to talk. We don't really use those names during downtime," the commander explained, excited and with a sarcastic tone. "You can call me Pato, like everyone else... I'm surprised you're awake—it's very late. Only a few are still up... or some not so much, ha ha!"
Cris showed no expression. He shifted his gaze to the men eating, chatting, and dancing to the music with the establishment's waitresses.
"Anyway, welcome to the ninth division. You have no idea how glad I am they assigned you to us. Come on, don't be so formal—sit down. A spot just opened up..."
Cris kept his eyes fixed on the cards on the table; his face carved from stone. Don Patrival waited; the silence between them was heavier than the air in that sweat- and smoke-filled tavern.
"And yes," the old man continued. "Of course it was a great game! And I always win! Ha ha. Want to try your luck too, kid?" Patrival's smile widened, but his dark eyes held the same excitement as before. "Your father could never beat me at this game, but maybe you can break the cycle."
The silence dragged on, broken only by the cheerful songs of the soldiers in the tavern. Finally, Cris looked up; his eyes locked on his commander's.
"Hey, lighten up. You don't have to bet anything. Just a friendly game with this old man," Patrival added, beginning to shuffle the cards with expert hands.
"Commander, don't you think it would be a good idea to get moving? We've been here for hours, and we haven't even covered half the way to Campo de Flores," Cris said; his voice as cold as a sword's edge.
"You're probably right... But we still have time. Besides, almost everyone is sleeping, and... truth be told... going door to door waking them all up doesn't sound practical. Come, sit down, soldier. That's an order. The king won't mind if we arrive a little late."
Cris held his stance for a moment before yielding and flashing a smile that seemed forced. He sat across from Patrival, joining those men in a moment of understanding that needed no words.
"Ha ha! That's it! Someone bring a beer for the soldier right now!" shouted Don Pato, raising his mug toward the soldiers around him. "His father would be so proud! His son is now a member of the royal army!"
A cheer erupted in the dining hall, celebrating the arrival of their new comrade-in-arms.
"Tell me, soldier—first things first—do you know how to play cards? Any game, doesn't matter," asked Don Pato with an almost mocking tone. "It's the initiation rite: get destroyed by the commander in a game to join the ninth division."
Cris looked up at his commander.
"My father tried to teach me," he replied, genuinely interested in the conversation. "Though I was too young to remember it all."
"Your old man tried to teach you this drunkard's game when you were just a kid?" Patrival laughed. "Did he tell you I was the one who taught him? Of course, I was just a recruit back then."
"I'm not sure, Commander," the young man murmured. "He didn't talk much about his work."
The commander's smile hardened; it seemed Cris had thrown the first stone.
I should watch my words from now on, the commander thought.
"I don't blame him. He had a hard life. Commander Crosswell was a great man—a great man who gave everything for his work, saved the royal family."
"With all due respect, Commander," Cris interrupted. "Don't talk to me about him. He didn't give everything in that shitty desert—he left a family behind that waited for him until the last day."
One of the soldiers at the commander's table broke in:
"What's wrong with you, kid?"
Another broke the silence too.
"The commander's being nice to you only because he doesn't know you yet, and you answer like that?" another soldier added.
"Shut up, you pair of useless drunks!" shouted Patrival in a cheerful tone. "Especially you, Sevén."
"You shut up, Don Pato," exclaimed Sevén. "You treat the son of your boyfriend nicely."
"I told you he's an old fool," the second man added.
"Your mother was the fool after I visited her yesterday," Pato said.
His men burst into laughter, and Don Pato winked at Cris.
"Ignore them..."
"Yeah... it's fine..." Cris replied.
"Ah... Your father was my hero—and my commander, of course. He taught me everything I know. Did you know that? He was everyone's hero," the old man said, searching for a spark of emotion in Cris amid the nods from those around him.
"Much more than just his commander, too," Sevén added.
Patrival pretended not to hear.
The commander stared at him intently, searching the young man's face for something he couldn't quite find. Finally he sighed and nodded, setting the cards down on the table under the watchful eyes of his men, who had gone as still as statues. He took the large mug of beer he had forgotten in front of him and drank deeply. His smile faded in the face of Cris's uncomfortable silence.
Patrival leaned forward, elbows on the wood.
"I'm sorry, kid..." he said in a low voice; his hand began to tremble with each memory. "I know it's not fair. That sometimes it feels like we survivors—the ones down here celebrating—are the ones left while others... others just leave silence behind."
"What the hell do you know about me? Or about my family?" Cris exclaimed.
Some of the soldiers at the table began to stand, leaving the new recruit behind, but the music still kept the atmosphere cheerful.
"I... I'm sorry, Commander, really..." Cris murmured.
Patrival, resigned, let out a long, heavy sigh before turning his attention back to the cards.
"Your lord father was more than a commander," Patrival sighed. "He was like a brother to me. Maybe he wasn't the king's hero... but he was the hero of the men who fought beside him. That's how it was, and that's how it'll be until the end of time." Patrival looked at him seriously, his voice softening. "I'm the one who's sorry. I didn't mean to bring this up, especially not the first time we talk, but I also don't want you to think you're alone in this. Everyone here... we've all lost someone. But if you're here, if you carry that name... it's because there's still something of him in you. Something valuable."
Cris lowered his gaze; his eyes trembled. He could no longer meet his commander's eyes.
Patrival leaned back in his chair with legs spread, slowly pulling out his tobacco and lighting it with expert hands.
"You don't have to call him a hero if it hurts, you know? But don't let the world steal what's left of him. Not his memory... nor yours. I'm truly ashamed for ruining the night so quickly..."
He paused, took a drag of smoke, and added with a half-smile:
"Now, as I was saying about the cards..." Don Pato cleared his throat. "Yes, your old man was terrible at them. So if you're just as bad, at least there he didn't leave us anything useful."
Cris finally let out his first genuine smile; Patrival saw it as a breath of glory—a huge victory he had just won.
"Thank you... Commander... I..."
"Not another word. Come, sit next to me. You'll learn to play the hard way—that is, from me."
Cris obeyed immediately and moved closer.
"How old are you, soldier?"
"Twenty-six."
"Too old."
Cris laughed; he still looked too shy to say what he wanted to say.
"Alright, this game is about faces. See this?" asked Don Pato, holding up a card for Cris to see.
"A face?"
"It's the king card. One of the best you can have. It combines with a lot. But," Patrival placed his tobacco in the ashtray, "if you put on that sour face every time you see a king in your hand, everyone will know what cards you're holding."
Cris took a moment to think; he looked visibly confused.
"I understand, Commander. I guess you're right," the young soldier replied, taking the deck from Patrival's hands and examining it carefully.
Looking closely at the cards, Cris noticed some had a peculiar design.
"What horrible designs," he spat.
"I got them in the city of Valoria a few years ago."
"No wonder," Cris exclaimed. "Everything that country makes is horrible."
The commander looked up, laughing at the recruit's first show of confidence.
"Anyway, I'm an insufferable old man, son. You know what? Do me a favor," the old man murmured. "Go to the bar and get this old-timer another beer. The one I have is disgusting."
"Yes, sir," Cris replied.
"And get one for yourself too—I'm buying. You won't want to be sober when I give you a beating at cards."
The young man smiled faintly and stood. Patrival took the opportunity to clear the table a bit, covered in tobacco, beer spills, and dust.
At that moment, the dining hall door swung open with a kick that echoed like thunder. The noise stopped; all eyes turned to the figure entering: a young man nearly as tall as the doorway, with extravagant, messy pinkish-red hair. He wore spiked purple shoulder plates that gleamed under the lesser sun's light. His elegant white shirt fitted beneath a tie of the same shade as his shoulders. His black cape billowed with every step. His eyes, the same pinkish tone as his hair, scanned the room with an angry expression.
"Hmpf... Speaking of faces..." the commander murmured, rubbing his eyes with his fingertips.
The young man had entered armed; a long, rusty old sword was brandished in his left hand.
Huh? What's he doing with a royal army weapon? Patrival thought. The noise was gone, only murmurs remained. He wasn't the only one who recognized him.
Though the staff at the entrance greeted him with great enthusiasm and bows, the soldiers only watched him closely as he walked between the tables without returning any greeting.
The pink figure walked and stopped in the center of the inn, looking around until his eyes met Don Patrival's, and he headed toward the commander's table. Patrival, resigned, stood at once.
"Why, if it isn't Prince Mateo 'The Gambler'," the commander exclaimed, bowing briefly and painfully. "Greetings, Your Majesty."
The soldiers in the hall exchanged glances; only then did they stand to greet the prince.
"Commander 'Ace'," the young man replied firmly, ignoring the other soldiers. "So that nickname 'Gambler' made it all the way to the army."
The prince sat where Cris had been sitting.
"It's an old one, I must admit," the commander clarified with a serious face, sitting again under the watchful eyes of everyone in the establishment.
The prince raised an eyebrow in disbelief.
"Don't tell me," Mateo exclaimed in a mocking tone. "I highly doubt they nicknamed you 'Ace' just the other day."
Patrival remained impassive.
"Did you come alone?"
"Of course."
"Hmm..." Patrival frowned. "It's dangerous for the king's heir to wander around here without protection..."
"Spare me the manners," Mateo interrupted, visibly annoyed. "Why talk like we don't know each other? You know I don't need protection—not even the palace walls of Lamora. Here I am. Alive."
"I don't doubt it, Your Majesty, but going out alone, especially in places like this..."
"It's not the first time," the prince interrupted. "Only a coward needs someone else to fight his battles for him."
The old man sighed.
"Yes, I remember what the king told me about that..."
"Don't tell me you hold a grudge over it?" Mateo replied, smiling.
The commander stared at the prince, raising an eyebrow.
"You said it—I'm too old for that, Your Majesty."
"I didn't say..."
"Regardless, it's an honor to have you join us today," Don Patrival replied. "Though unfortunately, I don't think I speak for the rest of the division."
Mateo glanced around. Only then did he seem to notice the tension. The soldiers were upset; it didn't seem to bother the prince much.
"Your Majesty, the weapon you're carrying..." Patrival began.
"What about it? I knew you'd ask—you took long enough."
"It's unusual to see the prince with a regulation army weapon. Why do you have it?"
"That's none of your business, is it? With all due respect," he said while toying with the chips on the table.
"You're right, Prince. I'm sorry. We're a bit tired—it's late, and at least I haven't slept at all."
"Oh, right. That's what I was going to ask, Commander. What the hell are you and your men doing in a dump like this? It's strange that..."
Some soldiers stood abruptly. Don Patrival didn't answer right away. The room filled with indignant murmurs.
"Watch your words, kid!" someone shouted.
"We're not afraid of you, Mountgarten!"
"The highborn brat's got a long tongue again!"
Prince Mateo stood and shouted:
"What's with all the howling?! If anyone has a problem, come say it to my face!"
The commander quickly stood.
"No need to worry. No one would dare lay a finger on you, Your Majesty," he whispered.
"Huh? Worry, you say?" Mateo exclaimed, turning his gaze back to the watching soldiers. "And why not? Do your faggots fear a highborn little kid?"
"Because you're the prince..." Patrival spoke as if explaining the obvious.
"Then why come to an inn? I'll reshape the faces of anyone who holds back just because of that!"
Then, the sharp sound of boots cut through the air. Cris was returning with a single mug of beer in his hands. His steps were firm; his face, impassive.
Everyone looked at him. Even Mateo raised an eyebrow.
"Thank you very much, son," Patrival said, taking the mug. "And yours?"
Cris didn't take his eyes off the prince.
"I wasn't really thirsty."
The prince frowned, puzzled by the interruption.
"Take a seat, Soldier Crosswell," the commander ordered.
"Seems someone else took my seat without asking," Cris replied sharply.
"Doesn't matter—there are more seats, soldier," Patrival exclaimed seriously. "Sit."
Cris, surprised by his commander's sudden severity, obeyed without a word, sitting right beside him.
"Crosswell?" the prince asked, completely surprised.
"Cristóbal Crosswell, Your Majesty."
"Are you related to..."
"Son of Dário Crosswell," Cris replied, with courtesy so impeccable it bordered on offensive. "A pleasure to meet you. How's the family?"
Mateo frowned, visibly confused.
"I suppose they're fine. And yours?"
Good gods... Patrival thought.
"Not as well as I'd like."
"No?" Mateo asked. "That's strange—I thought you commoners only knew how to say 'Fine, thank you.'"
"Well, no. Truth is, we've had it pretty rough ever since your father..."
"Cris..." the commander murmured. "This isn't a joke—remember what we talked about."
"It was never a joke to me," he spat after a brief pause. "I think you know the rest, Don 'Mountbatten'," Cris said, his tone growing heavier with contempt.
"'Mountgarten'," Mateo corrected, frowning.
"Whatever—Valorian surnames," the young man spat with a ferocity that surprised several. "A country of savages."
Mateo remained still, holding the young soldier's gaze—he was barely older than himself.
"I wouldn't want to fight you like you suggested," Cris continued. "Then they'd say it was high treason, right? Though since you're here, there's something I'd like to talk about."
Mateo seemed on the verge of losing patience, sizing up the soldier before him with his eyes.
"I've got nothing to talk about with you. I was chatting with the commander, not you."
"I think you do," Cris continued in a low voice. "The commander and I were about to play cards. Care to join? I've heard games of chance are your specialty."
These two... I need to think of something fast... Don Patrival thought; his hands trembled uncontrollably with a nervous tic. What am I supposed to do? If I intervene, it'll be worse; if I don't, these two will tear each other's heads off.
"Though," Cris continued. "You are royalty. How much can a soldier's few coins really compare to the fortune of the royal family?"
"Boys, enough... This isn't..." Patrival tried to say.
Mateo didn't seem to think twice.
"Fine, fine, I accept. Let's play."
"Excellent, 'Gambler'..." Cris concluded.
This can't be happening, the old man thought, rubbing his trembling fingers over his eyes. Did I really think the prince would just drop it?
Mateo took his seat again across from Don Patrival and Cris. A woman approached them with a mug of beer for the prince.
"Get away, woman—I don't drink that garbage," Mateo exclaimed sharply, pulling a kind of cigarette from his pocket. With the skill of an expert smoker, he lit it using a metal lighter in his free hand.
Cris watched him with barely contained contempt.
"You should show more respect. She's just working here."
"Ugh, no—that's where I draw the line. I'll accept your extreme frustration, but don't go down that path. I can't stand the whining of women or their defenders," Mateo snapped. "That's as far as my patience goes."
The waitress looked at him with contempt she couldn't hide.
"What?" the prince asked. "If I were just some common customer, you'd have dumped that mug on me already, right? Go ahead, do it. Please."
The young woman neither replied nor obeyed the prince; she simply gave a small curtsy and tried to withdraw.
"Wait! I do want it," Don Patrival raised his voice. "I need it now more than ever. The prince has his vices, and I have mine."
"Yeah... That smell..." Cris murmured. "I'd recognize that smell anywhere. Is the prince smoking Ferris?"
"What? It's true," Patrival asked, completely surprised. "I hadn't noticed. Are you smoking Ferris?"
"It's none of your business—either of you."
"It is for those of us stuck in here—it smells rotten," Cris added.
Mateo turned his gaze back to Cris.
"From what I've been told, your father was a great man, Don Dário—a fine soldier, too. An example to us all. A true hero," he said, ignoring Cris's remark.
"I'll drink to that," the commander said, slightly raising his mug in an attempt to ease the tension.
"However," the prince continued, "I don't think it's right for you to use that to talk to me this way..."
"You won't call my father a hero," Cris interrupted. "Not in my presence—and not with a name like yours."
Patrival stopped drinking, lowered his mug, and stared at the soldier. Mateo exhaled a puff of smoke.
"What's wrong with it?" Mateo asked calmly. "And what's wrong with my name?"
"What's wrong with it? Your family is the reason he's gone. And on top of that, you call him a hero. You, just like the king, call a man whose grave his family had to sell because we couldn't afford the upkeep a hero. The medals they sent to our house didn't feed us," he continued. "Or well, actually they did—because we sold them too. We got thirty silver shields for all of them. Not much money these days."
Intervene. Say something. Shut him up.
But the image overlapped: a young soldier in the desert, also with blue eyes, begging him not to leave him behind.
And he couldn't.
So, just like now, he sat watching everything go to hell without moving a muscle.
"I don't care," Mateo replied.
"Hmpf... You think I hadn't noticed? The royal family gave us no support at any point—not even when..."
"Didn't you hear me?" Mateo interrupted. "I said I don't care."
They stared at each other for a few moments; the few laughs that had managed to bloom died out in an instant.
"I'm not saying it because of all that crap people wrote on the palace walls in Lamora," the prince said firmly, leaving his Ferris cigarette in front of Don Patrival. "It's incredible I even have to explain this, but it simply wasn't my fault—and I think it's stupid I have to say it. I didn't send your father anywhere. I was five years old. I only know stories. But you commoners love making up your own versions."
"How can you say you're not at fault? Your family is to blame! And you call me a commoner?"
"I'm calling you what you are—an ignorant commoner like all the rest."
"How can you say that in front of your own men?!" Cris shouted. "We all swore our lives to the crown!"
"I. Don't. Care," Mateo insisted. "What part of that don't you understand? Are you waiting for an apology?"
Patrival noticed his men glaring murderously at the prince. It's happening again...
"Yeah, sure," Cris affirmed. "If not for me, then for your family—who dragged us into a meaningless conflict..."
"I won't," Mateo said, leaning back in his chair.
Damn it, what fucking rage. Anything I do could make it all worse...
"Losing someone in the family... Alright..." Mateo murmured, resigned. "I'm sorry, truly. But you're not the only one. I suppose you're like me, and that's why I respect you. I understand you're angry—what you went through wasn't..."
Cris stood up abruptly.
"What do you understand?!" "My father was burned alive! How can you talk about understanding when you've never... Have you ever been burned from head to toe to know it?!"
"Watch your tongue, boy," the commander ordered. "Go to bed—it's a..."
"No, it never happened to me," Mateo said with icy calm. "But if you interrupt me again, I assure you you'll find out. And this time, it won't be the Kaohrians helping you do it. Will you play or not?"
They stared at each other for a few seconds. The prince didn't stand; he remained motionless. Cris clenched his fist tightly in rage.
"I'll deal the cards, alright? Let's cool down," Patrival murmured, resigned.
The dining hall was in absolute silence.
"I'll apologize, soldier," Mateo murmured reluctantly.
"Don't call me soldier, Your Majesty. Call me by my name," Cris interrupted. "Soldier Crosswell. Or does it scare you that much to say it?"
The silence grew even heavier.
"I will—when you stop calling me prince and 'Your Majesty,' soldier."
Cris fell silent. Don Patrival pretended not to hear and began shuffling.
"And does His Highness come here often?" he asked, trying to steer the conversation.
Mateo didn't answer right away; he took a moment to breathe.
"Yeah... I actually come here all the time. That's why they know me. I need a break from the silence and the scent of air fresheners in the palace," he admitted. "Other times I need to clear my head—escape the world."
"Really?" Patrival asked. "I wish I could just drop everything and travel."
Mateo said nothing; he raised the Ferris cigarette in front of him as an answer.
"Though I still haven't gotten used to the smell."
"Vega de Tréboles smells like that all the time—I've gotten so used to it I didn't even notice what it was. Ha ha," Patrival laughed. "Though forgive me—does King Matian know?"
"Yeah, he knows, and he doesn't care. I like to think he knows I'll be fine—though that might be naive of me."
"And... your brothers?"
"Mordred's busy, as always. I barely see him. Though right now he's in Tierrasagrada—he went to the 'Jousts for Glory' instead of Father."
"Prince Mordred went to Tierrasagrada?" Don Patrival asked. "How is it the king couldn't attend such an important event? And why did the king send him and not you?"
Mateo lowered his gaze to the table.
"I suppose silence is an answer too," Patrival added.
Cris slammed the table so hard he spilled the commander's beer mug.
"I can't believe you're talking right in front of me, like nothing, about that... that..."
Mateo looked up almost instantly.
"I suggest you obey your commander, soldier..." he warned unexpectedly, visibly annoyed, turning his gaze back to Patrival. "Actually, to be fair to him, my father doesn't think the Grand Master's outcome is more important than my wedding. Anyway, he'll congratulate him in..."
"Oh, that's right! I'd forgotten—it's been so long since they announced it. Over a year, right?"
"Yeah... It'll be in two weeks..."
"Many congratulations!" the commander exclaimed. He noticed he was the only one happy about it. Mateo smiled—more from the commander's excitement than the event itself. "Who's the lucky one?"
"You? Getting married?" Cris interrupted. "I'm not surprised you think the way you do. That's what disgusts me most—you don't know what love is. You just arrange marriages for convenience."
"What are you talking about?" the prince asked, indignant. "I don't even know who she is. My father summoned all the kingdom's suitors—and foreign ones too—so I could choose one."
"Even worse—more horrible than I imagined."
"Cris..." Patrival sighed.
"Another fancy ring would look great on your hand," Cris continued. "A new one next to the silver one and the other... bronze?"
Patrival turned his gaze to Mateo's hands.
"A bronze ring?"
"Mordred," the prince explained. "My aunt kept the gold one since my brother passed. The silver is mine, and Mordred entrusted me with his."
"Why?" Cris asked. "Is he so fat it doesn't fit him anymore?"
"Do you even know Mordred?" Mateo asked, irritated. "Strange—he never mentioned you. Though no, he has less belly than you. Why so interested in the rings? Want it? Here, I'll wager it. If you win the hand, it's yours."
Mateo removed the bronze ring and tossed it onto the table.
"Of course I accept your bet, Prince," Cris exclaimed confidently. "Of course I know your brother. I know everything about him."
"Impossible," the prince replied. "Mordred doesn't even know you exist. He wouldn't waste time on a lowborn commoner as rude as you."
Cris let out a smile.
"You know what? People had forgotten who sits on the throne in the capital until the troubles started. The younger ones didn't even know his name—we just saw his army marching back and forth," he continued. "Though well, they all have names starting with 'M.' It's hard to remember them all."
"I've never heard that one before," Mateo replied sarcastically, taking the Ferris again between his fingers. "You must feel like the greatest comedian to ever walk this earth."
"Ah, but now everyone knows who wipes their asses every day. Everyone wants to know who allowed the savages to burn their lands."
Mateo raised his eyebrows and narrowed his eyes.
"Maybe the king doesn't hold his heir in such high regard after all—Mordred's in Tierrasagrada," Cris continued.
"Ignore him, Prince, please—here," Don Patrival pushed the deck of cards toward Mateo, trying to draw his attention. "Please, cut the deck."
"Soldier," the prince ignored the commander. "You're pissing on my leg and telling me it's raining. If you keep going down that path, it won't end well for you."
Cris fell silent while the prince eyed the deck. Finally, he exhaled a puff of smoke and looked up, flicking the ash from his cigarette as he stared thoughtfully at the pile of cards before him.
"Mordred is my blood, my family. But he has his place in the court, Don 'Cristóbal Crosswell.' And my younger brother Melric is nothing more than an insufferable child. People expect me to take Marcos's place. Yet I forge my own path in the world," Mateo explained in a low voice.
"What do you mean, Your Majesty?" Don Patrival asked.
"The paths we walk, Commander—the paths that forge us. My path leads me far from the capital, but it is no less important," the prince concluded.
Cris let out a smile.
"Really? What's with this ridiculous reflection on paths? Is this the prince's way of saying he doesn't care about the duties that fall to him?"
"My brother is better suited for those matters," Mateo admitted impatiently.
"Your younger brother is better suited than you? Tell me—did Mordred agree to handle those matters? Or did you just leave him to fend for himself with duties that are yours? After Marcos's death, I thought you were next in line."
"You will not mention that name in front of me again." The prince's gaze changed; Patrival had never seen him like this. "But yes, I'm here because I've been entrusted with a different task."
"Oh, of course—I can imagine how important that task you mention is, seeing you here instead of organizing your own wedding or attending the appointment of the second most important person in the country. In the end, it's all politics—politics that we down below end up paying for. One day that will change. You're nothing without us, and that savage you call brother parades around the country."
The dining hall began to fill with soldiers in pajamas, awakened by the noise of the argument.
If I give the order now, it'll explode. If I don't, it'll explode anyway.
He saw Lieutenant Sevén looking at him, waiting for command, and all he could do was shake his head slightly.
It wasn't a decision. His body had already chosen for him: freeze.
Mateo stared at his opponent for a few seconds.
"Be very careful, Crosswell... This is your last warning. Do you really think this is about politics? You're in the wrong place to give speeches about that."
"I'm just saying things to your face. No one else will. That's what you wanted, isn't it? To not be treated like a prince."
You've gone too far, Cris... But now only the prince can give orders. I'm so sorry... Patrival thought, paralyzed.
"Commander Sánderes," the prince sighed as he picked up the bronze ring from the table and swapped it for the silver one. "It was pleasant sharing this chat with you. However, I have things to do," Prince Mateo concluded as he stood and began to leave.
Don Patrival looked up, perplexed by the prince's sudden decision.
This is for the best, he thought. That he's kept his calm until now is a complete miracle.
"May the eye of the most noble watch over you," he added.
Cris, looking perplexed, stood.
"What's this? The prince fleeing a challenge?! You owe me your brother's ring! Not this one!" he shouted impatiently.
"Don't get involved," Patrival demanded. "You've had your joke—you said what you had to say."
"Ha, now I get it all. That explains why the king prefers Mordred," Cris raised his voice.
Then Cris took the silver ring the prince had left and threw it to the floor near his path to the exit.
"Cris! I said enough!" the old man pleaded.
"That Prince Mateo is a damn Ferris-addicted gambling coward explains why the king would prefer a mere bastard over his own heir."
Mateo spun toward Cris quickly.
"My father died defending the House of Mountgarten, and here you are sullying the dignity you're all so proud of. The Kaohrians are nothing but disgusting barbarians who destroy everything in their path. How can you call one family?"
Mateo said nothing.
Cris laughed at Mateo's passivity.
"Your family will fall, Mountgarten," he affirmed, pointing at the prince. "People are starting to wake up. Your brother died for nothing! And when that happens, Mordred will be someone's slave somewhere—like any other filthy black Kaohrian!"
Mateo didn't respond. He just looked at him with a blank, dull expression. As if something inside him had gone out.
And then he lunged at him.
Crossing the table in an instant.
It was so fast that few managed to react. The bench fell backward, and the sound of wood echoed throughout the place. The table scraped with a screech as the prince's body crashed into Cris. In a blink, he had him on the ground. Mateo's fists rained down with savage fury. There were no shouts—only the raw sound of blows: flesh against bone, bone against bone.
Patrival wanted to yell "Stop!" but his throat closed.
All that came out was a hoarse, almost animal groan that no one heard amid the shouts.
The soldiers reacted immediately: mugs were thrown, benches pushed aside, men rushed to the center of the hall.
Patrival remained frozen, trembling in every limb.
"Hold him!" one shouted. "He's going to kill him!"
Two huge soldiers threw themselves onto the prince, trying to grab his shoulders. But it was useless. Mateo seemed immovable—as if another man, bigger, more violent, had taken over his body. His weight was overwhelming.
"Bastard prince!" one roared. "What the hell are you doing?! Stop, you damn lunatic!"
The uproar in the establishment was deafening, broken only by the rhythmic echo of the blows.
Patrival, panting ceaselessly, finally reacted. He threw himself onto the prince too, wrapping an arm around his neck and pulling back with all his strength.
"Dário! For heaven's sake, stop! STOP!!" he shouted, to the confused looks of his men.
Cris struggled beneath him—or tried to. He raised one arm, then the other, kicked blindly. But each blow sank him deeper. His nose exploded. A cheekbone cracked. Blood poured from his mouth, mixed with broken teeth. He tried to scream, but only a gush of red-tinged saliva came out. Mateo growled, hunched over Cris like an animal. His eyes were not those of a man. He saw no one, heard no one.
In the utter chaos, Cris grabbed the firearm from Don Patrival's waist and instinctively fired at the prince through the protector at his waist.
The prince reacted; his fists froze in the air for an instant, twisting in pain as the men trying to pull him off Cris shoved him backward. Quickly, the hall filled with half-dressed soldiers who had just woken up.
"He's not breathing!" a soldier shouted, his face drained.
"Someone get the damn doctor!"
Two soldiers easily subdued him, holding him motionless on the floor. Mateo stared at his hands, soaked in blood, with a completely lost and worried gaze. Cris lay on the ground, partially disfigured. His chest rose and fell with difficulty. The commander knelt beside him, cradling his head, trying to wipe the blood with his sleeve. His voice shook.
"Hold on... please... Don't leave me alone."
Mateo said nothing. He looked at no one. He didn't even seem to understand where he was.
"Is that our prince?!" one soldier spat, not bothering to lower his voice. "Not even an animal acts like that."
Don Patrival turned with disdain. His eyes were full of tears.
"Someone take him to Julián!" Sevén ordered, raising his voice.
"Who do we take first?" the soldiers asked in unison.
The soldiers watched their commander closely.
Patrival was still trembling; he couldn't help panicking.
In the commander's silence, Sevén took charge.
"Take both to the camp—the prince first. You, wake Julián immediately so he can treat them."
Patrival didn't nod; he didn't take his eyes off Cris, seeing not his subordinate's face, but his own commander's—completely bloodied. The soldier who had intervened helped him sit and stood beside him.
"Easy, sir. Please don't worry—he'll be fine."
Patrival didn't reply.
Mateo watched the scene in silence.
"Did... I do this...?" he murmured to himself, writhing in pain.
"The kid will be fine—I can feel it. Tell Julian to put the cuffs on him before he wakes," Sevén ordered, standing with a firm, clear voice.
Silence gripped the hall. The soldiers hesitated a moment before finally obeying.
"We'll take him before the king," Sevén said. "His father needs to know what his glorious heir has done. As soon as they can move, we march to the capital."
Don Patrival looked at him. His voice sounded cold, hurt.
"All this... It's my fault... I let it happen... Again."
The old man broke into sobs.
"I'm sorry, Commander... truly..." Mateo whispered as the soldiers lifted him from the floor.
"Silence," Sevén replied with a voice of steel. "The person who deserves your apology can't hear you."
Mateo's face went completely white, and he began gasping intensely.
Patrival, unable to breathe and through tears, fell asleep on Cris from exhaustion.
His cheek brushed the boy's still-warm blood, and in his broken dream he heard again the phrase that had haunted him for so long:
It's all a game, Commander... and this time you've lost the hand.