-----Chapter 19: The Burden of Survival-----
The battlefield stretched endlessly.
It was dead.
Corpses littered the earth, their bodies twisted, broken—some human, some monstrous, some… unrecognizable. The blood-soaked soil had hardened, as if it had swallowed too much death to remain soft.
Weapons lay shattered, their edges dulled by time. Flags, torn and nameless, fluttered in the nonexistent wind.
There was no wind.
No breath.
No sound.
Sylvian stood in the middle of it all.
His fingers twitched toward his sword—but it was gone.
His heart pounded, but his body remained still.
It was silent. Too silent.
And yet, he was not alone.
Bodies surrounded him. Some wore armor he recognized—his knights, his men. Others bore insignias foreign to him, warriors he had never met, but somehow, he knew they had fought for him.
And then—he looked up.
A lone figure stood in the sky.
It loomed, not as a god, not as a king, but as something far worse.
A presence. A force. A truth that should not exist.
And yet, it was there.
It did not descend. The sky itself darkened around it, as if the world itself feared its presence.
Darkness bled from it, creeping into the very bones of the battlefield. The already-dead earth began to rot further, sinking into itself.
Sylvian tried to move.
He couldn't.
The pressure bore down on him.
The figure loomed closer.
It was coming.
It was coming.
Then—
Blackness.
---
"Commander!"
The voice shattered the void.
Sylvian's body jerked awake. A sharp, agonizing gasp left his lips as a searing pain exploded in his chest.
He barely had time to process his surroundings before Varen's panicked face appeared above him.
"Commander!"
Varen's voice was raw, his breaths ragged, heavy—as if he had been running for hours. His hands clutched Sylvian's shoulders, gripping too tightly, as if afraid he would slip away again.
Sylvian blinked, vision swimming.
His body felt like lead. His lungs burned with every inhale.
Pain stabbed through his skull. His ribs ached with every breath, his body screaming at him to stop moving.
Yet—Varen looked worse than he did.
His usual grin was gone. His eyes were red, unfocused, his face contorted with something Sylvian had never seen before.
Fear.
"You—" Varen swallowed hard, his voice wavering.
Sylvian tried to speak. His throat was dry.
He barely had the strength to move his arm, but he raised his hand slightly—not to comfort Varen, not to reassure him.
Just to remind him that he was still here.
Pain pulsed behind his eyes, dragging his thoughts into a fog. His head throbbed, the remnants of the vision still clinging to him like a nightmare refusing to fade.
A faint shuffle of movement.
Sylvian turned his gaze slightly.
A dimly lit room. A worn chair beside his bed, where Varen sat, his arms resting on his forehead, as if shielding himself from reality.
Sir Aldric stood near the door, unmoving, his arms crossed, sword at his waist—but his posture was tense.
And just outside the door—Sofia.
She did not step inside. She simply stood, watching.
Her hands were clasped together, her expression unreadable. For the first time, there was no hostility in her gaze.
Just quiet contemplation.
Then—Aldric spoke.
"You did well."
His voice was quiet, but firm—a statement, not a comfort.
Sylvian turned his head slightly, his weary gaze meeting Eldric's.
His question was unspoken, but Aldric understood.
Before he could answer, Sofia's voice cut through the silence.
"The aftermath has been taken care of."
She stepped forward, her presence steady. She did not look at him with pity.
"The survivors were taken in. We lost men—both from your side and mine. But we won in the end. The fortress is reclaimed."
She let the words settle. Then, she turned away.
"Rest, Sir Sylvian."
Then, she left.
The door closed softly behind her, leaving only three knights in the dim light of the room.
The silence stretched.
Aldric exhaled, shifting his stance. His gaze never left Sylvian.
"I remember," he began, "like it was yesterday."
His voice wasn't heavy with sorrow, but with something deeper.
"When I first saw a boy—no older than twelve—pick up a sword he could barely lift." His lips curled into a pained smile. "A boy who raised a blade to fight for his dying mother."
He shook his head, his fingers tightening into fists.
"I didn't know when that boy became a man."
A breath.
A slow blink.
Then, Sylvian spoke.
"...It has been too long."
His voice was hoarse, tired.
"Too much of a burden."
Aldric exhaled softly, his fingers trembling against his gauntlets.
Then—a choked breath.
Varen lifted his head.
His eyes were red, unfocused. His voice was raw.
"Commander... You promised me."
Sylvian's gaze slowly shifted toward him.
"You promised us."
Aldric looked away, his lips parting slightly—as if he wanted to say something. But no words came.
Varen's shoulders trembled. His fingers curled into fists, knuckles white.
"You promised me that you would fight beside me until the end."
Aldric finally let out a slow, shaking breath. His jaw clenched, his gaze unreadable.
Varen's breath hitched. His hands shook.
"We almost lost you again, Commander."
A pause.
"You were gone for seven days."
His voice was soft.
But it shattered the room.
Sylvian did not move.
Because there was nothing to say.
Aldric exhaled. His hands clenched.
Varen let out a slow, shaking breath.
And then—Sylvian closed his eyes.
Just for a moment.
Then, with quiet finality, he spoke.
"...I'm still here."
Not a reassurance. Not an apology.
Just a truth.
One that might not last forever.
And in that moment, all three of them knew it.
The night stretched on.
When Sylvian finally left the room, stepping out onto the balcony, the ruined city lay before him.
Fires burned softly in the distance, casting flickering golden hues over the broken walls.
Knights and priests worked together. Survivors helped one another.
The tension that once divided them was fading.
Sylvian exhaled. His shoulders relaxed—just slightly.
Then—a whisper.
Soft. Fractured. Unintelligible.
His breath hitched.
Then, just one word came through.
"Please..."
A voice not unlike his fallen people.
Sylvian did not react.
But his fingers curled against the stone railing.
Because no matter what that whisper was—it felt real.
And that meant something was coming.
Something he would have to stop.