We were once feared by the kingdom—an actual threat. But those days feel like a distant memory now, and I can feel the sickness spreading through my lungs, like tiny daggers piercing flesh. Sometimes, I wonder if Orerha deliberately placed the disease on that caravan, that it wasn’t merely some foolish, deadly accident.
I put pen to paper for you, Lucas, in what I know are my final moments. Don’t tell me they’re not, because I can feel it. David always wanted Adira to take his place, but I fear she isn’t the right one to lead. Times have changed, and the rebellion died long ago.
I hope this letter finds you in good health and that it reaches you.
And Lydus—if you’re reading this (and knowing you, you probably are, you nosy bastard)—try to work with her. It’s the only way any of you stand a chance of surviving after I’m gone. Life is too short and cruel to squander, so don’t. You deserve a place in leadership as much as she or Everett, regardless of lineage.
With my best regards, John
The discolored note creaked faintly in Lydus’s hands; the paper worn thin from countless readings. His eyes scoured the familiar words as if they might reveal something new, though he already knew them by heart. This was it? The question—or rather, the angry statement—always rose unbidden whenever he saw it. Yet the words on the page always sounded like his father’s voice in his mind, making it impossible not to feel a distant, aching sorrow.
He sat almost limp in a roughly carved wooden chair, the kind that creaked with the slightest movement. The room around him felt like a box, its thin walls closing in on him. If it weren’t for the ridge, the wind would have rattled through the cracks all night, the way it used to when his father knocked on the door every morning.
Somehow, the paper still smelled faintly of ink. Lydus knew that couldn’t be possible and told himself it must be a trick of his mind. Or perhaps the universe had its own cruel way of preserving the past, ensuring he could never forget. Never bury that one damned night.
Half the town had died in a slaughter—not by the hand of a human, but by the unforgiving force of nature, which always seemed to swerve into their path. Hunger, storms, disease—it didn’t matter. It was always something.
A knock sounded at the entrance door. Lydus slid open a drawer, carefully placing the note inside before closing it with a soft thud. Moving forward fluidly, he placed a hand on the cold silver doorknob. For a moment, the sensation felt almost too familiar, and so he took a breath before opening.
“Uh...” Lydus tilted his head, blinking at the unexpected figure in the doorway. “Everett?” The name left his lips more like a question than a greeting. Everett leaned against the frame, his posture relaxed, but his eyes darted briefly to the ground.
“Hey,” Everett said simply. The response caught Lydus off guard, more so than the unexpected visit itself. It was rare—no, come to think of it, it had never happened before.
“Everything okay?” Lydus asked.
Everett gave a short nod. “Yeah.” He dropped his hand from the frame to run it through his hair, his eyes flickering away for a moment. “Adira’s agreed to let a small group go hunting past the perimeter.”
Noticing the excited look that lit up Lydus’s face, Everett quickly raised a hand to cut him off before he could respond. “It’ll only be four of us,” he added firmly. “You, me, Matthew, and Arawn.”
Everett dropped his hand and glanced back toward the ridge, “Don’t get too excited,” he muttered. “This isn’t a free-for-all. If you can’t follow orders, don’t bother showing up.”
Lydus crossed his arms. “Whose orders?” he asked.
Everett’s lips curved into a faint smirk—half amused, half condescending. “Mine. We leave at first light. Be ready.”
As Everett turned to leave, Lydus hesitated, leaning slightly against the doorframe. “Why are you even telling me this?”
Everett stopped mid-step, his shoulders stiffening before he turned his head just enough to glance over his shoulder. “Because Adira said we needed you.” He responded gruffly.
Lydus frowned. “Not because you wanted me?”
“You’re a decent hunter, and that’s good enough.” Everett opened his mouth as if to say more but hesitated. Finally, he admitted, “And... I felt bad about the comment earlier.”
The man didn’t linger, turning to leave with a casual, “Don’t take long.” His footsteps faded down the path as he walked away.
Lydus watched him for a moment. The apology didn’t mean much—but maybe it should have. It was an effort, however small, and that was better than silence. He exhaled sharply, shaking it off, and turned away. His fingers brushed the rough wooden wall as he moved deeper into the modest home. At the threshold to the next room, a curtain—threadbare and fraying—hung in place of a door. He pushed it aside, and it swayed behind him, settling with a flap.
The air inside smelt of copper. Lydus retreated briefly to the main room, fetching a small oil lamp, which he set carefully on a narrow stand. Its flickering light cast uneven patterns across the walls, illuminating the centerpiece of the room: his father’s armor.
Sleek and plated, the set stood beneath a film of dust. Mail draped over the shoulders in a pattern long abandoned by modern smiths. Below the stand, a table held weapons: a bow and quiver, and a bastard sword. The blade, long and flat, had dulled over time, its edge nicked. Remnants of his father’s years in the Orerhan military—years then spent teaching Lydus to hunt, to fight, to survive.
He ran a hand over the front plate of the armor. The surface, though mostly smooth, bore small crevices where time had left its mark. A streak of dust clung to his fingertips as he drew them back. The sensation was strange. Surreal. And yet, as he stood there, he knew it was right. The gear belonged to him now.
Piece by piece he slipped into the set. Surprisingly, it fit well. Too well, perhaps, though it made sense. They had always been alike. Townsfolk used to mistake the two of them. What was once a burden would never happen again.
Satisfied, Lydus stepped out of the house, easing the door shut behind him to avoid a creake. The cold morning air greeted him with each breath hanging visible in the pale light. He squinted as sunlight broke over the horizon, its rays spilling across his face. Shielding his eyes briefly, he took a deep breath. Don’t fuck this up, Lydus told himself.
Smoke curled lazily from chimneys. There was a fleeting freshness to the morning, a crispness that faded as the day wore on.
“That’s quite the sight,” a voice remarked from his left
Lydus turned, spotting Emmelia as she strolled down the path, her arms crossed against the cold. The sunlight caught her hair, the faint shimmer of her eyes glinting as they scanned him.
“Is that…?” she asked.
“My father’s,” Lydus replied, a weak smile tugging at his lips as he stood atop the stairs. “What are you doing here?”
She stopped at the base of the steps, tilting her head to look up at him. Strands of her hair fell forward, shadowing her face as she hesitated. “Everett wanted me to come along,” she admitted, “but I said no.”
Lydus raised an eyebrow. “You’re a good hunter.”
“I know.” Her voice dropped. “That’s the problem.”
Lydus stepped off the porch, skipping the stairs entirely with a soft bend of his knees. As he strolled past her, she reached out, taking his arm. “You shouldn’t go,” Emmelia said abruptly.
He glanced back, “Why not?”
“If Adira finds out, there’ll be hell to pay, and—this could be dangerous.”
Lydus paused, turning fully to meet her gaze. His hand found her shoulder. “Can you watch Alex?” he asked, brushing off her concern with an easy tone. “We shouldn’t be gone for more than a few hours.”
Emmelia hesitated, her lips pressing together into a line so thin it seemed she might swallow her own words. At last, she nodded, offering a small shrug. “Sure,” she murmured, though her tone carried little conviction.
A moment passed before she reached out and flicked him lightly on the forehead. “But listen to me next time, alright?”
Lydus grinned, throwing up his hands in mock surrender. “Heard.” Without another word, he turned and started down the path, his pace quickening as if to leave the conversation behind.
Emmelia stood there for a long moment, watching his retreating figure. Nothing about this felt right. She shook it off, telling herself it was nothing, and climbed the steps. The door creaked as she slipped inside, the house quiet in his absence.
Her stomach growled and broke the silence. With a sigh, she made her way to the kitchen. If she was going to watch Alex, she figured, she had every right to grab something to eat. The first cabinet yielded nothing but old plates. The second held more promise: a loaf of day-old bread.
Breaking off a piece, she peeled back the tough outer layer to reveal the soft middle. The sweetness remained even without warmth. It tasted stale but was enough to satisfy her hunger. For now, at least.
Emmelia hoisted herself onto the wood-topped counter, the surface cool beneath her hands, and let her legs swing freely, heels brushing the air in a slow, idle rhythm. Her eyes wandered the room, tracing its familiar lines and flaws. The scarcity of furniture left the space feeling bare, vulnerable, as though it could barely hold itself together. Her gaze rose to the beams overhead. Their frailty so pronounced she imagined them snapping like dry twigs in a storm, bringing the ceiling down in a cacophony of anger.
Her attention then dropped to uneven floorboards. Tracks of mud streaked the surface, their brittle edges crushed into the grain. Fine scratches also marked the planks. Years of which were etched into the wood. Forming thin and jagged lines that created the unsettling illusion of darkness. She stared at them for a long moment, her mind wandering along their fractured paths.
Then her gaze shifted, drawn to the doorway across the room. She squinted and leaned forward slightly, her head tilting as her brow furrowed. At first, it seemed like a trick of the dim light—a shadow where none should be. But then the woman saw it more clearly: a small figure with fixed eyes.
Emmelia's breath caught until her eyes adjusted. It was Alex, standing still and silent, half-hidden by the doorway's frame. For a moment, neither of them moved, as though time itself had paused. Then Emmelia exhaled with a weak laugh.
"Hey, kiddo," she said and offered a tentative smile. Alex stepped into the faint sunlight, his resemblance to Lydus striking. In Emmelia's memory, this was exactly how Lydus had looked at that age.
Noticing Alex's expression, she tilted her head. "Is something wrong?"
"Lydus left, didn't he?"
Emmelia hesitated. The stale air of the room didn’t help. "Yeah," she admitted softly. After a brief pause, she added, "He's making sure it's safe before you come along. That's all." The girl tried to reinforce her words with a smile, but Alex's eyes flicked to her fingers tapping nervously on the table, realizing different. Smart kid, she thought. Yet Alex remained silent.
Finally, Emmelia reached out, placing a gentle hand on Alex's shoulder. "He'll be back soon," she reassured, "In the meantime, how about we find something to keep us busy?"
Alex nodded but stayed rooted in place. His voice broke the silence. “Thanks, Emmelia.”
The words caught her off guard. She blinked, tilting her head. “For what?” she asked.
He hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Without you, I don’t think Lydus could…” He trailed off, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth before he let out a short, stifled laugh. “Function. And you’re always there to look after me.”
The edges of her eyes softened, “Of course, Alex,” she said, sliding off the counter to stand at his level. “But what’s this all about?”
Alex shrugged and his tone shifted, “I mean, I know I’m just a kid, but I notice things.” He leaned slightly forward. Emmelia laughed at her boldness, but the moment faltered when he continued. “What about you? You’re always—” he gestured vaguely, searching for the right words, “—you know, caught up in our problems. But do you even know what you want in life?”
Emmelia’s mouth closed and the girl went silent. She wasn’t entirely sure. The rebellion, with all its dangers and uncertainty, wasn’t what she wanted—not really. Maybe something quieter. A life where she could travel without the constant fear of being hunted. Could that be possible? The Kingdom knew so little of the rebellion’s members—what they looked like, where they hid, what they did. Though the rebellion remained on their radar, it wasn’t as prominent as it had been before.
Yet even if she could leave, where would she go? And with who?
Lydus came to mind first, naturally. He’d always been there, and she couldn’t imagine him not being part of whatever came next. Adira, too—she’d always felt like a sister.
Her mind wandered deeper, drifting so far that the room around her seemed to dissipate. The beams overhead, the scratches on the floorboards, even Alex standing nearby—it all dissolved as her thoughts carried her elsewhere.
A sudden tap on her leg jolted her back.
“Emmelia?” Alex’s voice was quiet but insistent.
She blinked, her thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind. For a moment, Emmelia simply stared, caught between where her mind had been and where she was now. “Sorry,” she said suddenly and shook off the feeling. “I was just thinking.”
“Being a weirdo?”
“Hm?” She raised an eyebrow at him.
“That’s what you and Lydus call each other,” he explained with a faint grin.
Emmelia let out a weak laugh. “Yeah,” she admitted, a small smile creeping onto her lips. “Yeah, it is.”
The girl then reached out, giving his shoulder a light pat. “Come on,” she said, motioning toward the other room. “Let’s go find something to do.”
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