-----Chapter 15: Resolve and Doubt------
The room was dim. The fire in the hearth had long since burned to embers, leaving only a faint orange glow that flickered against the stone walls. The air was thick, heavy with something unspoken.
Three figures sat in silence.
Sylvian's gloved fingers rested lightly against the hilt of his sword, but he did not grip it. He did not move. His eyes were fixed on the table before him, tracing the uneven lines in the aged wood. His expression was unreadable, yet something in the way his shoulders tensed betrayed him.
It was not a warrior's tension. Not the sharp readiness before battle.
This was something else.
Something closer to doubt.
The words left him before he could stop them.
"Did I make the right choice?"
His voice was calm. Measured. But that calmness only made the question cut deeper.
Across from him, Aldric's golden hair caught the faint firelight as he leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. He studied Sylvian carefully, as if weighing his own response. His armor, though polished once, was dulled by years of battle. His gauntleted hands interlocked. Steady. Unwavering.
But even he hesitated.
"Commander…" Aldric finally spoke, his tone careful. "There's no way to know if it was the best decision." A pause. "But it was the most suitable one."
Sylvian's gaze lifted.
Aldric met his eyes without faltering. "We can't fight and protect at the same time." His voice was firm. "No army can. We need people who can do what we can't, even if it means trusting those we don't fully understand."
The reasoning was sound.
And yet, reason did not ease the weight pressing against Sylvian's chest.
The silence returned, stretching between them like an unseen battlefield.
Then—Varen moved.
The knight, seated a little apart from them, shifted slightly in his chair. His dark eyes flickered toward Sylvian, the firelight casting deep shadows over his angular features. His hands rested on his armored thighs, fingers tapping lightly. Not impatiently. Not nervously.
Deliberately.
Then, he spoke.
"Do you remember the first time we lost a comrade?"
Sylvian didn't move. But something in him stilled.
Varen's voice was quieter now, though no less firm. "Do you remember what you told us that day?"
"Do not weep for the fallen while the battle rages. Fight for them. Make them see, even in death, that they are not forgotten. That we still stand."
The words, spoken so long ago, echoed now in the silence of the room.
Varen exhaled. "We did, Commander. We fought for them. We fought for our kingdom until the walls crumbled, until the streets drowned in blood, until there was nothing left but us."
He leaned forward now, his voice carrying something deeper than duty.
"You think this was a mistake?" His eyes bore into Sylvian's. "Then tell me—what choice would have been right?"
Sylvian said nothing.
Varen didn't relent.
"Should we have kept fighting alone? Knowing we cannot hold every front? Should we have let the weak fend for themselves, knowing we swore to protect them?"
Sylvian's jaw tightened, but he did not speak.
Varen exhaled sharply. His fingers curled into a loose fist before he relaxed them again. "It is not your fault that our people suffered." His voice was quieter now. "You did not fail them. We did not fail them. We stood until there was no ground left to stand on."
A pause. Then—
"And we are still standing."
Aldric turned to look at him, then back at Sylvian.
Between them, something unspoken passed.
A weight that had lingered for too long.
A ghost that had haunted them since their kingdom fell.
For the first time since the Saintess had left, Sylvian let out a slow breath.
Not all his doubts vanished. They never would.
But he could move forward.
The Carriage Ride – The Saintess's Unspoken Fear
The wheels rolled over uneven ground, the faint creak of the carriage filling the silence.
Sofia sat by the window, her fingers resting on her lap, her eyes fixed on the shifting landscape outside. The world blurred past her, yet her mind remained elsewhere.
She had gotten what she wanted. An alliance. A chance to save more people.
So why did it feel like she had stepped onto a path she could never turn back from?
The silence in the carriage grew heavier.
Then—a voice broke it.
"Was it really okay?"
Bishop Veylin's tone was measured, but Sofia could hear the unease behind it. His wrinkled hands rested neatly over his robes, but his fingers twitched slightly, betraying his restraint. His aged face, worn from years of devotion, remained composed.
But his words carried weight.
"To ally with heathens who abandoned the grace of the gods?"
Sofia did not immediately answer.
Her fingers curled slightly against the fabric of her robes.
"Bishop," she finally said, "if we were fighting alone, on a battlefield where not even half of us are skilled in combat, do you believe we could maintain faith while keeping casualties at a minimum?"
Veylin opened his mouth—then closed it.
His brows furrowed, deep lines etching into his forehead. He struggled for an answer.
And for the first time, he found none.
The silence that followed was not one of agreement.
It was one of a man wrestling with his own convictions.
Sofia turned her gaze back to the window.
Her thoughts gnawed at her.
Not everyone had seen what she had seen.
Not everyone had looked into the eyes of the gods and seen greed staring back at them.
Her people followed because they believed. Because they thought that if they prayed hard enough, if they worshipped with enough devotion, the gods would protect them.
She knew better.
She had seen the truth.
But how could she tell them?
What happens when faith is the only thing keeping people from falling apart?
She swallowed.
Her fingers clenched slightly in her lap.
She feared for them.
She feared what would happen when they finally saw what she had seen.
She feared that when they needed their gods most—they would be left to suffer, alone.
The carriage rolled on, carrying her toward a future she could no longer predict.