"You two! Get up!"
The sharp, commanding voice pierced the silence like a bullet, making both Alfred and Charles freeze in place. Slowly, they turned to see an imperial soldier standing rigidly, his rifle aimed squarely at them with his finger on the trigger. His eyes were cold, calculating—like a predator sizing up prey.
"Get out of there, now!" he barked.
Carefully, Alfred and Charles rose to their feet with their hands up and their breaths shallow and reserved. The rubble beneath them shifted and crunched with every step as they made their way back to the sidewalk. The imperial soldier had his guard up, but lowered his weapon when he saw Alfred. Though, his suspicion lingered.
"Don't you know it's unseemly to rummage through rubble like a pair of beggars?" the soldier sneered, his tone dripping with disdain.
He turned his attention to Charles, his bayonet gleaming in the faint morning light as he pointed it directly at him. The sharp and cold tip of the blade pressed against Charles's chest as if daring him to flinch.
"You. What is your relationship with this boy?"
Charles felt his chest constrict, the sharp pressure of the bayonet was intimidating and suffocating. He steadied his breathing, forcing himself to speak with a calmness he didn't feel.
"This is my nephew," Charles said, his voice even but strained. "His name is Alen."
The soldier's eyes narrowed as he studied Alfred, his gaze crawling over the boy's face and frame. Alfred met the soldier's scrutiny head-on, his glare as sharp as the bayonet that is pressed against Charles.
"Hmm," the soldier muttered, huffing in amusement at Alfred's defiance. "The two of you don't look related."
Charles forced out a nervous chuckle. "His father took all the pronounced Votyan features and left me with none, unfortunately. But we're blood, I assure you."
Alfred shot Charles a sideways glare, his eyes full of silent protest. Being falsely labeled as a "Votyan" only fueled Alfred's anger. But Charles ignored him, focusing instead on the soldier, who threw his head back as he laughed.
"Oh, that's terribly unfortunate, you ugly, old bastard! Now," the soldier said, his tone hardening, "why were you two rummaging through the debris? This area is off-limits. We just demolished some treasonous whore's home and are investigating for contraband and espionage."
The soldier spat onto the ruins of Alfred's home. The wet slap of it against stone sent a jolt through Alfred, his fists clenching at his sides, his jaw tightening until it ached. His home. His family. They were being desecrated and mocked like trash. Rage flared in his chest and for a brief, dangerous moment, Alfred nearly stepped forward.
Charles noticed the shift in Alfred immediately. Without hesitation, he quickly grasped the boy's wrist, pulling him close. The touch was firm and grounding, silently and desperately pleading to him: Not now. Don't do this.
"I-I'm so sorry," Charles stammered, his voice trembling with forced contrition. "I had no idea this was a restricted area. My nephew helps me at my pawn shop, you see. We go around looking for salvageable things to sell. It was a mistake—truly. Please forgive us."
The soldier grimaced at him, his face contorting in disgust.
"What—so you are some kind of scavenger? A garbage man?" The soldier lowered his gun and let out an audible repulsed sigh like the words left a sour taste in his mouth. "That is no job for a Votyan."
He turned his attention back to Alfred, jabbing the boy's forehead with a calloused finger hard enough to make Alfred's head jerk back slightly. "And you. Your nephew. He has potential. Why make him waste it on your useless job?" He leaned closer, his voice dripping with condescension. "Tell me, boy. What do you actually want to be when you grow up?"
Alfred's breath was heavy, seething. His entire body trembled with barely contained fury, his clenched fists shaking at his sides. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, taut with venom.
"I want to be a soldier," Alfred hissed. His eyes, unflinching and daring, bore into the soldier's. "I'll pick up a gun, and I'll kill every last one of these evil demons plaguing our nation. I'll make sure the only time they open their mouths again is to eat a handful of my bullets."
…
The words hung in the air, sharp and defiant. Charles's heart nearly stopped. The soldier stared at Alfred in stunned silence. Charles turned to Alfred, his eyes wide with panic, his lips parting to intervene—but the soldier beat him to it.
To their shock, the soldier threw his head back and laughed a booming guttural laugh that echoed through the streets, catching the attention of the other soldiers patrolling nearby.
"He has fire, this one!" the soldier exclaimed. "Yes! That's exactly what our empire needs—ambitious, patriotic young men like you. This one is raised right, old man."
A wide, satisfied grin formed across the soldier's face.
"Go on, get out of here. And make sure your nephew joins a club or something before he enlists. He'll be more useful with skills other than picking up trash. Now go."
Charles didn't need to be told twice. He placed a firm hand on Alfred's shoulder and ushered him away, the boy's anger radiating off him in waves. As they turned the corner and the soldier disappeared from view, Charles let out a shaky breath.
"Alfred," he whispered, his voice low and urgent, "what were you thinking?"
But Alfred was unyielding. His eyes, burning with silent fury, remained fixed on Charles and his fists remained clenched at his sides.
"I'm serious," Alfred said, his tone cold and resolute. "I'm going to join the war, and I'll make all of them pay."
Charles's expression shifted, the weight of Alfred's declaration pressed down on him like a boulder. The stress and fear from the past few minutes finally began to surface in his face, darkening his features.
"Alfred..." he sighed, his voice heavy with exhaustion. He searched for the right words to say but found none. "We'll talk about that later."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Charles glanced down at his hands. The white dust from the rubble clung to his fingers, etched into the creases of his skin like a ghost of their homeland. He rubbed his hands together, trying to shake off the grime, but it wouldn't budge.
"Luckily," Charles began softly, his voice thick with careful optimism, "I don't think your father is dead. I didn't find any bones in the ashes. And... I doubt the Votyans have a reason to imprison him at this point."
Alfred felt relieved but it was soon replaced with a gnawing concern.
"Then... where would he have gone?" Alfred asked, his voice tinged with uncertainty.
Charles shook his head. His face was clouded with doubt and fatigue. "I don't know, Alfred. I just don't know. For now, let's-let's just go back. I need some time to... settle down."
He turned away, his back hunched and his shoulders sagged low. Alfred watched him take a few steps before silently falling in line behind him. He didn't understand why Charles seemed so shaken. It didn't make sense to him.
Charles was a soldier once, he thought. He should be used to this kind of thing.
Yet there was something in Charles's demeanor, something haunted and fragile, that kept Alfred from voicing his confusion. As they walked back through the streets, the air felt colder. Alfred kept his eyes sharp as he scanned the imperial soldiers and alleys with a quiet vigilance. His thoughts churned of his father, of the war he swore he'd fight, of his revenge.
In front of him, Charles trudged on, his figure weighed down by more than just exhaustion as it blocked the sun from Alfred's eyes. He didn't look back, but Alfred could tell—Charles was fighting his own war inside, one Alfred couldn't yet understand.