"You fool, don’t you read?"


    Eric smirked, unfazed. "That’s a bit harsh. I do read—I just prefer better books."


    Across the wooden table, Bolan clicked his tongue. His fingers traced the worn edges of an old manuscript, its ink faded with time.


    "Tsk. Typical," he muttered, lowering his voice as if the walls had ears.


    Eric leaned in, sensing the shift in Bolan’s tone. The dim torchlight flickered against the cold stone walls, casting long, jagged shadows that danced in uneasy patterns.


    "The Great Persecution," Bolan murmured. "It happened long before King Fazar Guarola''s time—a purge, orchestrated by King Razcef himself."


    Eric’s curiosity sharpened. He had heard whispers in the barracks, drunken murmurs in the marketplace, but no one dared speak of it in detail.


    "A purge?" he pressed. "Of whom?"


    Bolan hesitated, glancing around before continuing. "His own bloodline. Every living heir."


    Eric frowned. "That makes no sense. Why would a king destroy his own lineage?"


    "No one knows," came a voice from the shadows.


    Both men tensed.


    At the far end of the hall, King Geffer swirled his drink, a smirk playing at his lips. Draped in golden robes, his posture was regal yet relaxed, like a lion watching over its territory.


    "Did you think you were the only ones curious about old ghosts?" he said, setting his goblet down with deliberate ease.


    Eric and Bolan exchanged wary glances. A king with knowledge of forgotten history was dangerous.


    Then, a slow clap echoed through the hall.


    Zalaam emerged from the shadows, arms crossed, his eyes gleaming with intrigue.


    "Fascinating," he mused. "The past always finds a way back, doesn’t it?"


    Geffer chuckled, reclining in his seat. "Indeed. And if not for a certain boy, I wouldn’t be sitting here today."


    A heavy silence draped the hall.


    "A boy?" Bolan echoed.


    Geffer’s expression darkened with memory. He exhaled, as if releasing ghosts from long ago.


    "Hiding in a horse shed, desperate to live another day. And then a voice—‘What’s wrong?’"


    His gaze drifted across the room until it landed on Garjel.


    "Hahahaha! Isn’t that right, Garjel?"


    All eyes turned.


    Garjel, who had remained silent, finally lifted his head. The weight of history lingered in his gaze.


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    "You never forget a question like that," he murmured.


    The hall fell still.


    "You’ve been quiet tonight, Commander."


    He turned to see Zalaam approaching, his long robes billowing slightly as he walked. His sharp gaze betrayed his ever-present curiosity.


    The King’s voice cut through the night.


    "Garjel—tell me, how was the East?"


    Garjel’s grip tightened around the hilt of his sword. The Eastern Wars—no, the Platonic Wars—were still fresh in his mind.


    "Did they really cause us trouble?" Geffer pressed, swirling his wine. "Or was it all exaggerated?"


    Zalaam’s expression sharpened, watching Garjel carefully.


    Garjel exhaled, voice low. "They were different from us. They did not fear death, nor did they believe in the wars of men. To them, war was..." He hesitated, searching for the word. "...a lesson. Every battle was a question, and if you could not answer, you died."


    The King frowned, leaning forward.


    "You’re saying they fought with philosophy?"


    "I''m saying they fought differently."


    Silence.


    Then, the queen spoke, her voice soft yet firm.


    "My king," she said, "shouldn’t this man see his family?"


    Geffer blinked, as if awakening from a dream.


    "Garjel! How old is your son now?"


    "Almost six, my lord."


    "WHAT?! Go to them at once!"


    Laughter rippled through the hall, but beneath it was something real—respect, camaraderie, the weight of time.


    Garjel, momentarily stunned, rose.


    "Everyone, give this man a standing ovation!"


    The room erupted in applause.


    Yet, as Garjel stepped away, he felt a familiar heaviness settle over him.


    <hr>


    A Restless Return


    Garjel stood in the palace courtyard, waiting for his carriage. The wind carried the scent of damp stone and burning oil from the torches lining the walls.


    "Don’t disappear again, Commander."


    He glanced back.


    Zalaam’s gaze was knowing.


    "You haven’t been home since the Platonic Wars. Something changed in you."


    Garjel didn’t respond.


    Zalaam sighed, shaking his head. "Consider retiring, Garjel."


    But Garjel knew better.


    The war was just beginning.


    The courtyard stretched vast and silent beneath the pale glow of the moon. Garjel’s royal caravan awaited, but he hesitated.


    A thick cloud drifted across the moon, swallowing its light.


    "A heavy cloud," he mused. "Yet still it floats."


    A whisper of movement.


    His instincts flared.


    Then—


    A figure emerged from the mist.


    Clad in silver armor, he stood motionless, his smirk barely concealed. The moonlight glinted off the crest on his chest.


    "I can finally show you," the figure said.


    White Ether flared, raw and untamed. The ground trembled beneath its force, sending ripples through the stone.


    Then—


    He charged.


    BANG!


    A thunderous impact shattered the stillness.


    Garjel hadn’t moved.


    His elbow intercepted the blow effortlessly, the force dispersing like mist against a mountain. The residual Ether crackled in the air.


    The young warrior staggered back, his expression shifting from arrogance to disbelief.


    Then, he laughed.


    "Even with a sneak attack… you blocked me with ease, sir."


    Garjel’s gaze, cold and unreadable, bore into him.


    The clouds shifted, and moonlight illuminated the young man’s face.


    Garjel’s breath stilled.


    "You wear our kingdom’s crest."


    The warrior straightened. The glow of Ether faded.


    Garjel’s eyes narrowed.


    "Tobi?"


    The young man smirked, standing tall.


    "Ward Commander Tobi, sir!" he declared, saluting.


    Garjel’s expression remained unreadable.


    "You can control Ether?"


    Tobi’s confidence wavered.


    "I—yes, sir."


    Garjel’s voice dropped to a whisper.


    "Are you insane, Tobi?"


    The weight of the question settled between them.


    "Huh?"


    "What will your mother think?" Garjel asked. "How would she feel?"


    Tobi flinched.


    "She doesn’t need to know."


    Garjel stepped closer.


    "Do you understand what you’ve done?"


    Tobi clenched his fists. "I did what I had to do. Power is needed to protect what we love."


    Garjel exhaled, his shoulders slumping under an unseen burden.


    "I’ve heard those words before."


    A long silence stretched between them.


    "Any power that leads to ruin… isn’t power at all."


    Tobi swallowed hard.


    The moon, ever-watchful, bathed them both in its silent judgment.


    Tobi whispered,


    "I know… but it’s already done."


    Garjel closed his eyes.


    He had seen this path before.


    And he knew where it led.