Wystinia Forest, Year 079 Y.D.

Every end of wars begets tales from glorified gossips of mouth. Tales beget epics of valorous heroes. And heroes become the champion of the people, not of the realm, not of the sovereign's.

Today marks the fourth day of Ilayan's journey, only five sunrises away from the capital. They paraded on three neighboring cities, refugees in grimes and rubbish linen tunics wandered for alms in their streets. And the deserted trade districts were the only signs of prosperity. Those of closer distance to Gedeva produces a somehow similar situation as the broken city. And the farther apart, the less of a quagmire.

The earth bathed in orange and purple, comforts his exhaustion and those of his entourage of fifty, steel boots rest by their saddle's stirrup iron, trot their mounts on the picturesque scenery by the road of Wystinia forest, a sea of lavender sprawled by larch, oaks and red pines. Yet, more than that is the blossoms of alluring wisteria, not even a direction without.

It is no more suitable for them to proceed, as the emerging moon gradually devours the sun's fading brilliance.

He dismounts, ordering for the cavalry to halt, then, instructs the preparation for the temporary camp, assigning five soldiers—who executed the task efficiently—to search a suitable clearing for their night's settlement. And two groups of four people for an interchanging night patrol.

By the hour the black canvas full of persistent white specks blanketed the sky, in the middle of dancing cascades of pale purple flowers, three balls of fire ravage a pile of dried woods, spraying embers from time to time. There are several sharp shrieks of birds, an orchestra of crickets, and debates of frogs, yet nothing major disrupted their rest. Still, Ilayan is in no mood to slumber.

Inside his triangular tent, he lies in a quilt, pillowed on his arm like there wasn't any cushion under his head. Captain Arches is motionless, only half a meter away from him, stiff in separate bedding, and there was no noise by his end. He can only tell that he faces his direction, yet there is no sign of him being awake. His vein embellished hand holds a paper ravished by scribbles, the same paper and writing his eyes drill.

'My lord, Dear husband.'

Erin.

It is already four years of marriage and three years of separation. Yet, the knowledge in calligraphy he personally passed on him, still appears with no improvement, never failing to amuse him. The only consolation to the guilt he felt for the pregnant, eighteen-year-old concubine he left just a year after their union. Not even in his certainty if the son he never met can recognize his face, neither was he able to coax him to sleep nor witnessed his first toothing.

"You are not asleep, my lord?" suddenly, Captain Arches shatters the silence.

Ilayan eyes him keenly, unable to penetrate the night covers that hid his expression. For the death-battles of which they had fought together, he has long been a reliable figure for his sentiments. And they are no strangers in man-to-man conversations.

"Say, Arches, how long since you last saw your wife?" he asks in a low voice, sliding his hand on the pillow, hiding the letter.

"It has been three years as well, my lord," he says, seemingly understanding the root of Ilayan's difficulty in sleeping and rare dazing these consecutive days, even before they had not left Gedeva.

"Then, how long have you been married?"

"Almost twenty years, my lord. I did not take in another wife after," he says a little vigorous, with a hint of joy in his voice. Then he realizes that the atmosphere is far suitable for his merry thinking, his attention returns to Ilayan. "Are you worried about your concubine, my lord?"

Ilayan did not answer, raising his left arm to cover his eyes. His breath is subtle, yet it is the only noise against the dead silence.

"I am ashamed of myself Arches," he says, in a low, stable voice. There is no fluctuation in his volume, yet it is heavy. "I do not know whether his letters were the truth at home, my family's treatment to him. In their eyes, he is a mere concubine. Laughable, in streets they proclaim me a hero, yet I'm afraid, I cannot even secure the well-being of the person I married and my son."

"That … well now the realm is peaceful, and the empire cannot sustain another war for several years. I'm certain that your return will ignite nothing but delight to him."

"I do hope for that too."

At dawn, as the sun hints its dominion, shading the sky with faint radiance, the soldiers briskly packed their baggage in a carriage with the collected tents. After, they gather on the grounds, to eat breakfast; dried meat, half bread, and boiled egg. While Ilayan and Captain Arches sit further from them, in a wooden stall, and a map by their table. They start reviewing the route, marking the resting sites, and calculating the travel time for each. A usual, mundane morning of the returning cavalry.

Suddenly, a young man dressed in chain mail rushes a salute to Ilayan. His eyes are firm yet unable to contain the restlessness in his furrowing brows. A soldier may he be, but there is sweat trickling down his forehead and his racing breath can already tell that his news is no good.

"Reporting to the general," he paused, "we have spotted the Duke of Kienfolk's carriage at the entrance of the woods, currently confronting with unidentified men dressed in black robes."

"The Duke of Kienfolk?" Captain Arches raises his brow. Even to his limited understanding, for a duke to take a route in the dense forest, dreaded by travelers and inseparable with danger is a vivid deliberate choice. "General he cannot appear here without any reason."

"What is their specific situation?" without any fluctuations, Ilayan asks.

"The Duke of Kienfolk has brought about a hundred of guards, there also, his shadow guards. Yet they seem to be at a disadvantage."

"The enemy's number?"

"Undetermined. Our rough estimation is about twenty."

Eyeing Ilayan carefully, Arches draws a breath. "General, for an army to decapacitate fourth fold of their number should not just be simple rogues."

"I am well aware of that, but the reason will come useless if the duke dies today. Gather twenty-five of our people," he commands Arches.

Then he paces towards his mount, placing the saddle on. By the time he finishes, twenty-five people in mailed coat, stern in their reins, already await his order, Captain Arches is not among them, standing on a distance with the remaining soldiers. His sharp eyes catch the patrol soldier's over-raised chest and stiff neck.

"Lead the way."

A gust of wind races by the horses' charge, not long they arrive, only several meters away.

Plummeting wisteria petals play with the breeze before landing on yellow mud—painted in crimson strokes—and the soiled bodies—dead and wounded—stifling groans and clutching their wounds preventing blood to escape. Most of their injuries are thin cuts in vital places, wrist, slit on the neck, exhausting their strength and number, yet only four men in black were slain.

Ilayan made no move to gather his sword, only the soldiers under him, though he carefully analyses the strength of the enemy. Light but sharp and precise, befitting the fine double-edged steel sword they wield. Both sides exchange blows and swords, blades violently slapping, producing strong after-impact yet not even a flinch from the wielders' hands. Once in a while, there will be sounds of ripping chain mails or aggressive clanking.

Against the famous Silver Tiger Cavalry, the rogues' martial arts are surprisingly on par, holding their grounds against Ilayan's trained and experienced soldiers, proving their mastery in combat.

The fight progresses, and the duke's remaining five guards surrounding the carriage, among the hundred, collapses on the ground exhaling deep sighs and releasing air of exhaustion. Yet they rise again after a breath, as a figure of a young man dressed in a violet long-tailed coat emerges from the butterflying wisteria. A white mask covering the lower part of his face, a sword by his waist, and a long raven hair fixed by a golden moon hairpin. He has the aura of a skilled swordsman not inferior to Ilayan. He rushes towards the duke's carriage with clear intention.

Kill.

Ilayan, not expecting his appearance, has no time to blame his carelessness, storms to block the other's advancements. Both possess speed above ordinary soldiers greets each other with a slash. Equipped with the skills of a general and the experience in battle, Ilayan's movements are neat, polished, and resolute, mandating his dominance and strength in swords. Yet the youth's sophisticated fighting style smoothly counters his powerful and heavy attacks, stunning him. He is flexible and elegant yet explosive and each of his moves is deadly. He wields the sword like a ribbon, dancing on a beautiful stage.

On the fifteenth exchange, their blades froze in the air, repelling each other's force, he scrutinizes the youth's features, a delicate figure in smooth white skin, and fluttering lashes carrying fierceness of the phoenix eyes. The youth also did the same, for each discovers more of the other, the more stupefied they are. A momentary silence born of their gazes, disregarding the ongoing commotion, like being separated from reality by an invisible wall.

"Retreat!" the youth snaps.

In haste, the men in black disappear in the woods, as if already familiar with the terrain. The soldiers chase to pursue yet they are all helpless, and there are still wounded to attend.

Only Ilayan remains motionless as he watches the back of the youth's violet coat vanish. There is still a sense of disbelief in his mind, yet clearly, he saw the other's purple irises.

"A seith," he murmurs.

---End of Chapter---

-noir_alois-