The plains stretched wide and dry under a bruising sky as dust swirled in lazy eddies around Rodrigo's boots. He'd left Havenport behind hours ago, and now, the Guildhall's stone walls now a memory swallowed by the horizon.
Ahead lay Blissford, a name that pulled him forward like a taut rope. His machete hung heavy at his side, and the token jingled in his pocket just beside Franca's locket. Each step kicked up grit that clung to his sweat-damp shirt, but he pressed on, alone with the wind and his thoughts.
He'd walked away from Lira, Tobi, and the life he'd started to carve. Eclipse's words echoed in his skull.
A rare chance. A spark to kindle.
Havenport had been solid ground, a place to plant his feet, but it moved too slow for the fire in his chest. Blissford promised answers, a way to sharpen the Strength Essence that surged through him. Yet doubt crept at him.
What waited there? A forge or a trap?
His mind drifted back, unbidden, to the war. Cheron's panicked shout. Pablo's last grin before the bullet took him. Avange's head rolling in the dirt. The faces of his squad haunted him, shadows he couldn't outrun. He'd led them into hell, and they'd trusted him to the end. Now he walked a new world, alive when they weren't.
The locket pressed cool against his skin. Franca's silent presence was a tether to who he'd been. "Keep me straight, Ma. Show me the way…" he muttered, voice lost in the breeze.
The road curved, cutting through brittle grasslands that hissed under the wind. Something glinted ahead, a speck of metal catching the sun. Rodrigo squinted, slowing his pace. A rusty tin can sat crooked beside the path, dented and abandoned.
Next to it slumped a figure, ragged and still, head bowed low. The man's gait wasn't right, too slow, almost spectral. Rodrigo's hand drifted to his machete, instincts flaring, but he stepped closer.
The figure was gaunt, clothes torn and caked with dirt, and its hair a matted tangle over hollow cheeks. A faint wheeze rasped from his chest, each breath a struggle.
Wait.
Rodrigo froze, heart thudding.
The shape of that jaw, the slant of those shoulders.
No. Impossible.
He took another step, boots crunching on dry earth, and leaned in.
"Avange?" The name slipped out, raw and quiet.
The man didn't move at first, his gaze fixed on the ground. Then…
He lifted his head. Eyes, cloudy with exhaustion, met Rodrigo's. A flicker of recognition sparked there, faint but real. His cracked lips parted, and a weak smile tugged at them.
"Took you long enough, sir."
Rodrigo's knees hit the dirt before he knew it, dust billowing around him. He grabbed Avange's shoulders, gentle but firm, searching his face. "You're alive. You… YOU'RE ALIVE! AVANGE!"
"How the hell are you alive?!" His voice trembled, caught between disbelief and relief. He'd seen that blade swing, watched Avange fall in the chaos of their last stand. Yet here he was, breathing.
Avange's smile faded, his head lolling slightly. "I… don't know. Woke up… somewhere else. I've been wandering since, sir." His words came slow, slurred with fatigue, and his eyes drifted, too unfocused. Dirt streaked his face, and his hands shook as they rested on his knees.
Rodrigo's chest tightened. He'd lost them all, or so he'd thought. Now Avange sat before him, a ghost pulled back from the grave. He fumbled at his pack, fingers brushing the stale bread he'd kept from the inn two nights back. It was hard, edges crumbling, but he held it out. "Eat. You look like death..."
Avange stared at the bread, hesitation flickering in his gaze. His hands twitched, then reached forward, slow and deliberate. He took it, fingers brushing Rodrigo's, and bit into it. The crunch was loud in the stillness, and he chewed with effort, swallowing hard.
His throat bobbed, and he paused, staring at the chunk left in his hand. "Been a while, Sir Rodrigo…" he rasped, voice barely above a whisper.
Rodrigo watched silently. The way Avange ate, cautious and measured, told a story of hunger, days or weeks without enough. His frame was thinner than Rodrigo remembered, ribs sharp under the rags.
War had hardened them both, but this was different. Avange had been broken, left to drift. Rodrigo's jaw clenched, guilt twisting in his gut. He should've been there. He should've found him sooner.
"You holding up?" he asked, keeping his tone steady.
Avange shrugged, a weak lift of one shoulder. "Barely. You?"
"Same," Rodrigo said, settling beside him on the dusty ground. The machete rested against his thigh, its warmth a quiet hum. "I'm heading to Blissford. Figured I'd rest there, sort things out."
Avange let out a dry, wheezing laugh, the sound jagged but alive. "Rest? Blissford's anything but restful." He coughed, pressing a hand to his chest, and the laugh died into a grimace. "You don't know what you're walking into, sir..."
Rodrigo's eyes narrowed, heat prickling in his chest. "You've been there?"
"Near it. I couldn't enter," Avange said, staring at the tin can beside him. "Heard things. Seen things. It's not just training. They dig into you, pull out what's buried." His voice dropped, heavy with something unspoken. "Sir Rodrigo… Are you sure about this?"
"No," Rodrigo admitted, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. "But I've got this." He pulled the token from his pocket, and he held it up. The Blissford crest caught the light, silver and stark. "They say it's a chance to get stronger. Maybe figure out what this blade's about." He tapped the machete, its etchings pulsing faintly.
Avange studied it, then felt some sort of aura emanating within it. He then studied Rodrigo, his gaze sharper now. "That thing's alive. You feel it, don't you?"
"Yeah," Rodrigo said, voice low. "Strength Essence, they call it. Burns in me, ties to this steel. Blissford might know why."
Avange nodded slowly, chewing another bite of bread. "They might. Or they might use it against you. Watch your back, sir."
Rodrigo grunted, tucking the token away. "I always do." He looked at Avange, really looked. The man was a wreck, but the fire in his eyes hadn't gone out. Not completely. "You're coming with me."
Avange blinked, bread halfway to his mouth. "What?"
"You heard me," Rodrigo said, standing and brushing dust from his pants. "We're not splitting again. Not after…" He stopped, swallowing the rest. The memory of Avange's death—or what he'd thought was his death, hung between them.
Avange stared up at him, then dropped his gaze. "I'm not much use like this."
"You're still breathing, soldier," Rodrigo said, offering a hand. "That's enough. We'll figure out the rest."
Avange hesitated, then took the hand, his grip weak but firming as Rodrigo pulled him up. He swayed, steadying himself against Rodrigo's arm, and let out a ragged breath. "Stubborn bastard."
"And always a stubborn bastard," Rodrigo replied, a faint grin breaking through. He slung his pack over his shoulder, machete secured at his side. "Let's move."
They started down the road, side by side, steps uneven but matched. Avange leaned on him at first, his weight light but present. The plains stretched endlessly around them, grass rustling in the wind, and their silhouettes cut a jagged line against the fading light.
Two soldiers, torn from their past, walking into the unknown.
Rodrigo kept his pace slow, matching Avange's faltering stride. The heat in his chest settled, like a gentle glow rather than a flare. Finding Avange hadn't erased the guilt, but it eased the solitude that had dogged him since Havenport. He glanced at the man beside him, gaunt and worn, yet alive.
A piece of his old world, reclaimed.
"What's Blissford like?" he asked, breaking the quiet.
Avange's lips twitched, a shadow of his old smirk. "Fancy. Ruthless. You'll see." He coughed again, then straightened slightly. "They'll test you. Hard."
"Good," Rodrigo said, eyes on the road. "I don't break easily."
Avange chuckled faintly. "You never did."
The sun dipped lower, painting the plains gold and red. Rodrigo felt the machete's pulse, a rhythm syncing with his steps. Strength Essence coursed through him, unrefined, but now he wasn't alone to wield it.
Avange's presence grounded him, a reminder of what he'd fought for, what he'd lost, and what he could still hold onto.
They walked on, two figures against the vastness, far from whole but no longer apart. Blissford neared, a promise and a threat. Whatever it held, Rodrigo would face it with steel in hand and finally… with a brother at his side.