The question hit Kellan like a blow to the chest. He had been away for quite some time, busy with his own battles and struggles, and had not taken Tony's absence seriously. He had assumed Tony was simply stationed elsewhere, perhaps on a different mission or assignment. But now, faced with Eamon's question, Kellan found himself looking at the trio, Gareth, Alden, and Finn, with a questioning gaze, searching their faces for an answer. The weight of the moment hung in the air, thick and heavy, as Kellan tried to process what was happening.
Alden was the first to break the silence. His voice was low, barely above a whisper, but the sorrow in it was unmistakable. "Tony... Tony didn't make it, Kellan. He fell in the last battle."
The words settled over the group like a shroud, casting a pall of grief over them all. Kellan felt a sharp pang of guilt and regret, a gnawing sense of failure for not realizing sooner, for not questioning Tony's absence. He had been so consumed by his own survival, his own battles, that he had overlooked the fates of those he once called comrades.
Alden continued, his eyes fixed on the ground, as if the weight of his words was too much to bear. "It's one of the reasons we followed you so easily, Kellan. We wanted to get away from it all. We're tired... tired of the fighting, the loss, the endless cycle of death. Tony's death was the final straw for us."
Kellan's mind raced, memories of Tony flooding back. Tony had been a large and sturdy man, a warrior who had rampaged through the enemy lines with an almost reckless abandon. He had been a force of nature, someone Kellan had always thought invincible amidst the chaos of war. But now, that same Tony was gone, his life snuffed out like so many others. The realization hit Kellan hard—Tony's strength had meant nothing in the end. His absence was a stark reminder of the fragility of life on the battlefield and just how lucky Kellan had been to survive so far.
Eamon, who had been listening quietly, finally spoke, his voice laced with bitterness and frustration. "When we operated independently under Lord Arlyn, it was different. We had freedom—freedom to make decisions, to maneuver as we saw fit. But under King Thorian's direct orders, we had little to no freedom. We were just pawns in a larger game, forced to follow orders without question."
Kellan listened, his mind processing the shift in command structure that had occurred since he had last been with them. He had always known there were differences in leadership styles, but hearing it from Eamon, someone who had experienced it firsthand, made it all the more real. The autonomy they had once enjoyed under Lord Arlyn had been stripped away, replaced by a rigid and unforgiving chain of command.
Eamon's voice grew more intense as he continued, the anger in his words barely contained. "The bombardment from our mages made it even worse. We were restricted, forced into rigid formations, and had to face the enemy head-on. We suffered heavy casualties because of it. And if we strayed even a little, if we dared to engage the enemy in a way that wasn't part of the plan, more often than not, our own soldiers died from the spells of our mages."
The frustration and anger in Eamon's voice were palpable, a raw and unfiltered reflection of the horrors he had witnessed. Kellan realized that Eamon had seen the war from a perspective he had never fully understood. As a knight, Kellan had been shielded from much of the chaos that unfolded on the front lines. He had been close to the mages and the command, far from the brutal realities his comrades had faced.
As Eamon spoke, Finn, who had been quietly listening, suddenly turned his back to the group. Without a word, he lifted his shirt, revealing a large burn scar that marred his skin, a grotesque reminder of the violence they had endured.
"This," Finn said, his voice steady but tinged with pain, "is what happens when you're too close to the front lines and the mages don't care about your safety. I wasn't even fighting the enemy. I was trying to help a wounded comrade when one of our own spells landed near me. It's the bruise from that."
Kellan stared at the scar, a tangible and horrifying reminder of the brutal reality his comrades had endured. He had been blind to the suffering of those who fought beside him, oblivious to the dangers they faced not only from the enemy but from their own forces as well. The realization hit him hard, the guilt and shame swirling within him.
"I... I never knew," Kellan uttered, his voice trembling slightly. "I never realized how different it was for you, for the soldiers on the front lines. I'm sorry, guys. I could have done more. I should have done more."
Eamon placed a hand on Kellan's shoulder, his grip firm but gentle. "I know, Kellan. You did what you could, what you believed was right. But war... war is unpredictable. No one can see everything."
Kellan nodded, the weight of Eamon's words settling deep within him. He gathered his thoughts before responding, "the war is over now, Eamon. Forget it now, let's start fresh, away from these conflicts, my friend."