In the early morning, Queen Margret rode toward the military grounds.
Mist clung to the road, blurring the world around her, as if Salvania itself wished to remain unseen. Her hands were cold, though she did not feel the wind. Her mind was louder than her surroundings—filled with questions she could not silence.
How does one defend a country that does not believe in its ruler? How does one lead people who have never been allowed to stand?
She arrived without realizing the distance she had traveled.
Before her stood the army of Salvania.
Thin bodies wrapped in worn uniforms. Slouched shoulders. Eyes heavy with sleep and heavier with fear. These were not men prepared for war—only a crowd dressed as soldiers, trembling at the thought of resistance. They stood together, many in number, yet weak enough that the wind itself seemed capable of knocking them down.
Margret's chest tightened.
This was what she was meant to defend her country with.
Disappointment settled deeply, not as anger—but as truth.
She turned to her minister.
"Find me a man," she said quietly, "strong enough to teach them how to stand."
Not how to fight. How to stand.
As she spoke, a servant who had lived among the people stepped forward hesitantly.
"I know someone," he said. "A man the city trusts."
Without hesitation, Margret ordered the minister to bring him.
The next day, guided by the servant, the minister entered the city.
The air there was different—alive, watching. Eyes followed him with open distrust. These were not the obedient gazes he was used to. They were sharp. Judging.
Then he saw him.
Laury.
Strong, bare-armed, surrounded by people who listened when he spoke. This was the man the servant had meant. And the moment the minister stepped forward, the atmosphere shifted.
The people stared at him with open contempt.
The minister straightened his posture and spoke stiffly.
"The queen requests your presence."
Laury turned slowly. "Why?"
"We wish for you to train our soldiers," the minister replied. "We have no other choice."
Laury was silent for a moment.
Then he laughed.
Not softly—but openly, bitterly, as if the idea itself were an insult.
"Train your soldiers?" he repeated. "You mean the men you taught to kneel? The ones you broke before teaching them to fight?"
His smile vanished.
"I wouldn't even resist the thought," he said coldly. "Your monarchy, your rules, your bondage—you built all of it without ever feeling shame for what you did to the people."
He stepped closer.
"I will never serve that."
"Go back to your queen," Laury finished. "Tell her to find someone else."
The minister said nothing.
He turned and left, fury burning in his chest—not because he had been refused, but because, for the first time in his life, someone had spoken to him without fear.