Turtanu, still reeling in the aftertaste of wine, seized the moment and raised his goblet high. “To Julian!” he roared. “His legacy lives in every sword drawn and every oath kept. The war is not over! And now—now we call for more men than ever! Five thousand gold pieces to any man who volunteers…and returns with victory!”
The promise struck the room like a thrown stone.
Mourning cracked. Opportunity bled through the fissure. Faces that had been frozen in piety sharpened and turned, as fast as a torch whipped by the wind. Conversations that had been polite and stagnant began to edge toward plans.
Five thousand gold. The sum ran through me like cold water. Men nudged neighbors. Eyes measured shoulders, dowries, and youth. Where grief had been a flat sea, a current now ran beneath it—coin, honor, the chance to change a life—or to die trying.
The room tilted. The ledger of the hall shifted. Wine tasted of salt and steel. Night, which had been heavy with loss, had become a blood market.
I stood frozen, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and hunger. My thoughts stopped mourning and started counting—possibilities. My mother’s frail shape was beneath a threadbare blanket. Amara’s hands were always working. A plot of land I could not yet buy. A home I would never raise if I stayed where I was.
I knew the cost. I knew the risk. I knew this might be the only chance I would ever get.
So, I would take it. I would take anything to break the life that held me down.
I stepped forward toward Lord Lorian, knowing the disdain in his eyes for those like me. I bowed my head as the hall watched and said, steadying my voice, “My lord—I am sorry for your loss. Julian was a hero. I will take up arms. I volunteer to ride and fight in his name.”
He did not thank me. He did not so much as glance my way. Instead, his gaze cleaved the hall like a thrown axe fell upon his son.
“My son,” Lord Lorian said, voice as cold as a whetted edge, “was a true hero—a man of honor. And now I am left with the shame of a second son who is little more than a disgrace.”
Salvatore’s jaw tightened. His voice was even, but an edge lived in it like steel beneath silk. “I will make you proud, Father. I will join the ranks. I will bring honor to our name. I will surpass Julian.”
Lord Lorian laughed—or made a sound like a laugh—low and without warmth, a thing that bruised though it barely rose above a whisper. “You?” he sneered. “You think you can survive a war? You’re barely a man. You cannot survive a conversation without proving your own worthlessness.”
Salvatore’s fists clenched. His chest rose; his nostrils flared. He did not look away.
“I’ll prove it,” he snapped. “I’ll kill the enemy myself. I’ll bring you his head.”
Lord Lorian rose; his chair scraped harshly on stone. The room froze.
“Prove me wrong,” he spat. “Until then… you’re nothing. A stain on my house.”
Then he turned and walked away—no look back, no mercy.
Salvatore stayed where he was. The oil lamp’s glow caught the hard line of his jaw and the tremor in his hands. He stared at the door his father had gone through, eyes distant and raw.
I crossed to him and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t let him poison your mind,” I said. “You’re stronger than him, Salvatore. You always have been. When the time comes… We’ll bring the enemy’s head together.”
His eyes found mine—red-rimmed, glassy, hungry.
“You’ll come with me?” he asked.
“Yes.” I didn’t hesitate. “Five thousand gold could change my mother’s life. But this is bigger for you. You don’t want to be a soldier—you want to be seen, and you will be.”
Something like pain and gratitude braided across his face. “You’re the only one who gives a damn, Lazarus,” he whispered.
I tightened my grip on his shoulder. “We might not be brothers by blood,” I said, voice hard and steady. “But what binds us is stronger. It won’t snap—not by war, not by him, not even by death.”
I stepped closer, “Together we’ll carve our names into this world. We’ll pull honor back for our families, even if we must tear it from the jaws of war.”
He did not answer with words. His eyes smoldered. The fire in him matched the one in me—resolute, unflinching. A storm was coming; we would not run. We stood at its mouth and would walk forward, arms empty and ready.
Grief had been our sculptor; loss hollowed the places grief could not fill.
Now those caverns were occupied by a new trinity—purpose, a white-hot rage, and the fierce covenant of brotherhood.
