The courtyard still glimmered dimly with the shimmer of the boy's teleport. The air was motionless, not in quiet, but in stillness before a storm.
Chief Ivers fixed the spot for a beat longer than Lindsay did. He turned then.
"Walk with me," he said brusquely.
They walked past guards and nobles, who gave way ahead of them with fidgety bows. No one asked questions. Not yet.
"He didn't flinch," Lindsay said finally. "Not once."
"No," Ivers answered. "He didn't have to."
"…You know who he is."
"I believe I do. But I hope I'm mistaken."
They faced the stone staircase.
"If I'm not," Ivers went on, his tone low and serious, "then we've already lost the war we haven't started."
She halted walking. "Wait. You think this will begin a war?"
"I don't think so. Mobilize the entire garrison. I'm going to the King."
She opened her mouth to question him—but the look he gave her ended it. It wasn't fear in his eyes. It was certainty. She nodded once, then broke into a sprint.
The Mobilization
The training grounds of Balmat had never filled this fast.
Within the hour, more than a hundred soldiers lined up in full combat gear, breath misting in the air. The sound of steel unsheathing and boots hitting stone echoed like a heartbeat.
Lindsay stood above them, posture straight, arms folded behind her back, trying to look calmer than she felt.
Not everyone had made it, but most had. And they were enough to start.
"Eyes front!" she called.
The entire field stilled.
"We're not here to parade," she told them. "You were yanked out of your homes, your dinner, your sleep. I know. I called it. You'll see why in a minute."
A murmur spread through the crowd. Then one voice cut through.
"What's the reason, then?" a voice shouted from the third line.
Felix.
Stocky. Arms crossed. Brow scrunched up like stone. His short fuse already starting to fray.
Lindsay narrowed her eyes.
"Felix—"
"No. I'm saying it out loud," he snapped. "We're not chess pieces. We're not pawns. Moving the entire garrison without intelligence? We're not Heming's lapdogs. We're better than this."
Some of the soldiers shifted uncomfortably. Some nodded. Felix had that effect.
Lindsay advanced.
"You're right," she said.
That threw him.
"But when the Chief of Balmat walks back from an encounter looking like that, and tells me to prepare for war…" Her voice sharpened. "I don't ask questions."
Felix opened his mouth, but she cut him off.
"And neither should you. Unless you think you're smarter than him?"
He stared at her for a long beat. Then looked away and spat to the side.
"…Fine. But we train with live steel."
"You always do."
The field moved. Soldiers formed ranks. Weapons drew. The mood had shifted.
Felix grunted as he moved into his group. Kraft, just behind him, muttered, "Maybe keep your voice down next time."
Felix shot him a glare. "Someone had to ask. I'm not here to warm benches while blindfolded."
"No one said you were second-best for your manners," Kraft quipped.
Felix snorted, but said no more.
The ring of swords colliding resonated through the training ground. The sun had hardly shifted, but already tunics and armor were slick with sweat. The practice was ceaseless. No intermissions. No instructions.
Felix cleaned blood from his lip — not from a sword, but from the handle of a new recruit who'd lost control during a parry.
"Idiot," he muttered, tossing the kid a half-hearted nod to get up. "You swing like a drunk bird."
"Least I don't squawk like one," Kraft said from nearby, sword still resting on his shoulder.
Felix turned, eye twitching. "You want to go, pretty boy?"
"Sure. After you explain why you're yelling at everyone like you own the place."
Felix threw down his practice blade and walked over. "Because nobody's telling us anything. Don't pretend you're fine with that."
Kraft met his eyes. "I'm not. But yelling doesn't make answers appear."
"That's rich coming from you. You've been itching to punch someone since the bell rang."
A few soldiers nearby slowed their footwork, ears perking.
Felix continued. "We're pulled out of bunks, bristling with guns, and we're to be tomorrow's war - and we're good with that?"
"No one said good," a growl came from behind them.
Sergeant Haldin - older, scarred, eternally serene - stepped between the two. "We don't have to fight amongst ourselves when the real fight's probably on its way."
Felix's mouth opened, then closed. Haldin had that kind of sway.
"Ivers wouldn't mobilize unless he had a reason," Haldin continued. "And Lindsay… she's not the type to cry wolf."
Felix glanced away. "She looked scared."
That silenced everyone.
Kraft leaned on his sword. "She looked like she was holding back panic."
"Exactly," Felix said. "She's calm when limbs are flying. But today? Today she looked like someone lied to her soul."
A young archer, Deiss, moved forward, readjusting his quiver. "You think it's from Heming?"
Felix mocked. "Heming dreams of it frightening Lindsay."
"Then what is it?" Deiss questioned.
No one replied.
Later – Under the Tower Shade
Felix sat perched on a low wall, dangling his feet. Kraft sat beside him, passing over a flask of water.
"No poison, huh?" Felix inquired.
"No guarantees."
They sat in quiet for a moment.
"You believe it's him?" Kraft asked at last.
Felix frowned. "You've heard the stories?"
"Everybody has. The man from the dead project. The man who disappeared. The man who lived."
Felix let out a weary laugh. "Ghosts. Legends."
"Lindsay saw him."
"…Yeah." He rubbed his eyes. "Which means legends aren't legends."
"You afraid?"
Felix glared at him. Then out toward the tower. "Not afraid. Just… uncertain what we're fighting for anymore."
Kraft nodded slowly.
-----
Meanwhile – Lower Courtyard
Smaller groups murmured under breath, swapping theories.
"He teleported?"
"While holding a girl. Didn't say a word, just looked."
"They say his eyes were… wrong. Like time didn't matter to him."
"…Is he on our side?"
"No idea."
"But they say Ivers wants to invite him?"
Someone snorted. "Good. Maybe that means we won't have to fight him."
"Or maybe it means we've already lost, and nobody wants to admit it."
The Throne Room
Meanwhile, Ivers pushed through the main hall and into the throne chamber.
The King sat solemnly on his elevated seat, guarded by silence and sharp eyes. Nobles filled the long room, already whispering. At the King's right stood a man no one recognized—dressed simply, with eyes too calm. Dangerous calm.
"Chief Ivers," the King said.
"Sire." Ivers knelt. "I bring news. Urgent."
"Speak."
Ivers did. He described the event with precision—what was said, what wasn't, what he felt. He left nothing out.
One of the western lords stood. "You say he teleported with a child in his arms, then vanished?"
"Yes."
"He's a spy," the lord snapped. "From Heming. This is exactly how they bait us—unseen, unprovable. We should prepare for attack."
"No," Ivers said. "He's not one of them."
The room turned quiet again. He had everyone's attention.
"He's something else. Something I once studied… years ago. He ended the experiment. And he survived."
The murmurs returned, louder this time.
"You're suggesting him?" another noble asked, aghast. "You want us to reach out to that… that thing?"
Ivers stepped forward, calm but cold.
"If he wanted Balmat reduced to ash, it would already be ash. We are not the ones holding power in this equation."
"And you want to invite him into the palace?"
"I would like to request his assistance," Ivers said. "Because I think war is imminent. And our army, as talented as it may be, will not be sufficient. We lack numbers. We lack information. We only have the fantasy of command."
There was silence.
At last, the King stood.
"Fetch him."
Ivers bowed low. "As you say."
---
Elsewhere
Far from the palace, the boy reappeared beside a small wooden house tucked in a quiet valley. Marie giggled in his arms as the magic faded.
"That was fun," she said.
He knelt and looked her in the eyes.
"Listen to me. I have to leave for a bit. Stay inside. Reinhard will look after you."
She frowned. "I don't like when you're gone."
"I know."
And then he vanished.
The city of Regin bustled in ignorance.
On the outskirts, an old soldier stood before a forge, wiping sweat from his brow when the voice came.
"Reinhard."
He turned. Eyes widened.
"You're alive."
"Come with me."
Before he could react, they were gone.
Back at the House
They landed in the small home again. Marie sat at the table, feet swinging.
Reinhard looked around, bewildered. "What is this?"
"I need you to stay," the boy said. "With her."
"Why?"
"I don't know. Just a feeling. Something's about to happen."
Reinhard studied him. There were more lines on the boy's face now. A weight he hadn't carried before.
"…Alright."
The boy nodded once. Then vanished into the ether.