It’s a fitting description.
I remember the battles. The sieges. The crack of bone under steel. The roar of broken worlds. I remember how I felt — invincible. Immortal. The stars bowed when I walked.
But in the darkness of that room — after she walked away — I felt mortal. Fragile. Exposed.
That’s a lesson I don’t teach easily.
But sitting here now, under this moonless sky, I realize: maybe there’s more honor in letting walls fall than building new ones with blood.
It begins with dirt.
I dig another handful, then another. Unclench. I let the earth sift through my claws. The scent: wet soil, decay, life. I inhale deeply. It grounds me. Reminds me I’m made of bone and flesh — not just bone and war.
A soft rustle of undergrowth. Then another sound: a faint humming light. The comm-link I keep even here for emergencies. Its panel glows — a soft teal. Parfi.
I tap the holopad open, wiping mud and soil from its surface. The light casts faint reflections on my face — red eyes dim in the holopad’s glow.
“Warlord,” Parfi’s tone filters through: soft, even, as if she tends to saplings instead of warlords. “I’ve been waiting.”
I lean back on my heels, dust motes drifting in the dim radiance.
“You spoke once,” I say flatly. “Of dismantling bricks. Changing walls. I don’t know how to do that.”
She doesn’t laugh. I know her enough to sense weight in silence.
“Walls are built of fears, of grief, of blood-stained memories. They keep the hurt out — or bury it. But walls die. They crumble. They can shelter or suffocate.”
Her words taste like fresh rain on rock.
“Tell me,” I say. “How do I unbuild them?”
From her side, a soft inhale. A movement I can’t see through the comm but can hear in the crackle of static.
“First,” she says slowly, “you need to make space. In your mind. In your fortress. Let dirt fill the cracks so you can plant new seeds — not bones. Not weaponry. Seeds.”
I look down at the dirt in my hands again. Palms cupped. Fingers stained.
“Seeds,” I echo.
“Seeds of trust. Of safety. Of time.”
“Time,” I murmur.
“All great walls are built or dismantled in time,” Parfi says. “Let her see your foundation shift. Let her sense the change in the ground beneath her feet.”
I close my eyes. Let the cold air gather in my lungs. Let the ache in my ribs settle.
“You still think about her,” she says quietly. “Every breath. Every man who’d kneel, every moon you’d burn — you think of her. Don’t lie to me.”
I don’t answer. The soil slips through my fingers again, scraped, powdered.
“Good,” she says. “Then show her that. Not with words. With silence. With protection. With patience. With honor.”
Silence stretches over the holopad, then cuts out with the final hiss of the connection.
I lower the pad. Lay it next to me in the dirt. It’s cracked — the glass spidered from a misstep during a raid. But it still works. Still speaks. Its light still burns. Maybe like me.
Maybe it’s time to rebuild.
