Gael sat there, motionless, crouched on a mossy rock, arms wrapped around his knees, his gaze lost in the last embers of daylight. The scene replayed endlessly behind his eyes, as vivid as if it were still unfolding before him. The clash of blades echoed in his mind, the roar of the Monarch still vibrating in his ears. And at the heart of it all... that man. The Swordbrother in the tricorne hat.
He could still see the warrior's silhouette standing against the beast, unwavering, resolute, like a hero torn from legend.
Gael buried his face in his hands, fingers digging into his skin.
'It's his fault... It's his fault this nightmare fell on Kerneval!' The voice inside him hammered relentlessly. His gut twisted at the thought.
He should have hated him. He should have despised him for bringing this calamity upon them... And yet. He closed his eyes, remembering the Swordbrother's upright stance, as straight as justice itself, charging toward the cliff, and into a death he knew awaited him.
'I can't hate him! Not a guy who had the guts to throw himself to the wolves to fix his own damn mess! Yeah, maybe he screwed everything up... but he also gave himself up trying to make it right.'
Gael clung to that thought, desperate not to lose sight of his own purpose.
The forest seemed to close in around him, shadows stretching like fingers ready to choke him. He looked up at the sky, jaw clenched. The Mother Moon, nearly full, loomed above, cold and distant.
'Fucking moon! Branded us like cattle. She's watching me. Waiting for me to fall like all the other Swordbrothers. Go ahead, send your monsters! I'm not going down! Fucking moon!'
He slowly got to his feet, sore muscles groaning with the effort. His clothes, caked with dirt and dried sweat, clung to his skin like an extra weight. Instinctively, his hand went to the hilt of the knife still tucked under his tunic. The worn leather felt warm under his fingers, as if it still held the heat of his late father.
'No way I'm giving up. Not now. Not after everything I've swallowed, after what others gave up so I could keep moving forward. My father would've stood back up. So will I!'
He shut his eyes. Breathed. The cool air filled his lungs, bringing fragments of calm with it. Then he opened them again, his gaze sharpened by a new resolve. Doubts didn't matter. Hidden truths didn't matter. I can't turn back.
'Even if it was a mistake... even if everything's messier than I thought... I have to learn. I have to follow this path.'
The wind rose, carrying his words toward the treetops. And somewhere in the dark, an owl hooted, a silent witness to his newfound resolve.
Gael stared up at the moon, silently defying the celestial judgment.
'You won't break me. Fucking moon.'
_ _ _
Brann walked without hurry, but with that steady cadence that devoured miles effortlessly. His long dark coat, worn, tattered in places, wrapped in Umbra, swayed with each step. His steel-grey eyes stared ahead, unmoved by fatigue or the passing of time.
It was the soft crack of a twig behind him that pulled him out of his thoughts.
He didn't stop. Only his gaze shifted slightly, catching the sound from the corner of his eye. No need to look back. He already knew.
A sigh slipped from his lips, dry and chapped from cold and dust. He raised a hand to adjust the strap of his sheath and muttered:
"Persistent, that kid... can't take that away from him, at least."
But still, he didn't turn. What would be the point? Words had failed so far. Let him follow. He'd give up eventually.
Hours passed, swallowed by the traveler's relentless pace. The forest gave way now and then to bleak moorland, only to close back in around them like the maw of a starving beast.
Behind him, the boy kept his distance, not too close, not too far, his footsteps echoing faintly along the dirt road like a stubborn shadow.
'What's he waiting for?' Brann thought without slowing. 'Does he think I'll give in? That he'll learn just by sticking around?'
His lips curled into a joyless smirk.
'Perseverance ain't everything. Experience… now that's a far sharper blade.'
Night fell like a veil of soot. The sky, now clear, revealed a sea of dull stars, cold and indifferent to mortal struggles.
Brann stopped in a small clearing, where the ground lay flat and the wind bit less sharply. With a practiced motion, he planted his sword into the earth and gathered dry branches. A few sparks, a measured breath, and soon, flames flickered to life, casting dancing shadows across his face.
Seated on a stump, he pulled a strip of dried meat from his satchel. He didn't really need to eat, Umbra fed his body now, dulled his hunger, but the act itself was comforting. A trace of a time when fire meant warmth, company… humanity.
He chewed slowly, his eyes lost in the flames, mesmerized by the glowing spirals rising toward the night sky.
At the edge of the clearing, another fire sprang to life. Small, hesitant. Brann barely glanced up.
The kid set up his own camp... far enough to keep distance, close enough not to lose the trail.
A thin column of smoke rose, carving a grey line among the blackened branches.
He couldn't see the boy, just that flickering glow.
'Cautious, at least. He shrugged. That counts… a little.'
Sleep didn't come. Too many years of sleeping with one eye open, always ready to spring.
He stayed still, elbows resting on his knees, the firelight flickering in his eyes like ghosts reawakened. Forgotten faces. Muffled screams. Broken oaths.
He brushed the thoughts away with a wave of his hand and drew in the acrid smoke of the fire.
At dawn, the shadows paled, and the forest stirred awake with a whisper of trembling branches.
Brann rose to his feet, shook the ashes from his cloak, and pulled his sword from the ground with a metallic rasp that echoed in the morning chill.
Without a word, he resumed his march, his boots crunching the thin layer of frost that coated the earth.
Northbound, always. Toward that goal he'd set aside for far too long.
As for Daemon... tracking him would be tricky for now. The man's horde had thinned, forcing him into hiding.
"Tch… All the better." Brann had other matters to settle first.
A city in the north. An old score to settle. A debt. And Brann never left debts hanging.
The days slipped by. The scenery shifted: forests with clawed branches, wind-blasted valleys, rocky paths lined with brittle shrubs.
And always… those footsteps behind him. Never rushed. Never discouraged. The kid kept following.
'What's he waiting for?' The thought crept back into his mind. What's he still hoping for?
The boy's persistence was admirable… and foolish. Brann had spoken. He'd warned him.
'I told him not to follow me.' But words are wind when faced with a stubborn heart.
Brann had no intention of giving in. Not yet. But deep down, another question began to gnaw at him…
What if the kid never gave up?
The wind blew, carrying away the smoke of old campfires, and with it, the warrior's thoughts, scattered into the unknown.