Captain Gideon stormed out of the headquarters tent, his face a mask of barely restrained fury. His steps were heavy, each one crushing the earth beneath him as he moved. The air around him seemed to pulse with tension, and even the most hardened soldiers instinctively straightened as he approached. He didn't meet anyone's gaze, not even mine, as his eyes blazed with an anger that simmered just below the surface.
"Line up!" he barked, his voice cutting through the camp like a blade. We scrambled to obey, the familiar clang of armor and weapons filling the air as everyone hastened into formation. There was no room for hesitation, not with the captain in this state.
As the ranks settled, his gaze finally found mine. It was a fleeting glance, but the weight of it was enough to send a chill down my spine. He motioned for me to step forward, and I felt a knot tighten in my gut. This wasn't going to be good.
I approached him, and when he spoke, his voice was low, barely above a whisper. "This is a suicide mission," he said, each word laced with a bitterness I hadn't heard before. "We're being sent to die."
He paused, the anger in his eyes replaced by something colder, more calculating. "You, Lucan," he continued, "and your platoon... You're going to flank their forces. Your task is simple but crucial: kill their commander. Aeryn will be with you. We'll create a distraction, but it's up to you to finish the job. The Lost Legion depends on it."
I glanced over at Lyra and Rylan, their faces lost among the sea of soldiers. My hundred-man platoon was barely a drop in the ocean compared to the might of the enemy. But Gideon's words were clear—the survival of the Lost Legion rested on this one mission. There was no room for doubt, no space for fear. We had to find a way to succeed, or none of us would make it out alive.
Gideon's face hardened, the deep lines around his eyes and mouth etched deeper as if carved by the weight of countless battles. His jaw clenched tightly, and for a moment, I could see the storm brewing behind his steely gaze—rage, frustration, and something far worse: resignation. His lips barely moved as he muttered, "Sorry, but this is how little our lives mean to them." The words were heavy, laced with a bitterness that even he couldn't hide.
For a split second, his eyes met mine, and I saw it—an undeniable sense of powerlessness, a rare crack in the otherwise indomitable man. The realization hit me like a punch to the gut: even Gideon, the unyielding captain of the Lost Legion, was shackled by forces far beyond his control.
Just then, a group of nobles emerged from the headquarters tent, their opulent robes trailing behind them as they strode with exaggerated grandeur. The leader, a gaunt man with a sneering face, Sir Reginald of House Ashcroft, looked down on us with disdain. By his side, Lady Vivienne of House Lancaster, her nose turned up as if she could smell something foul, laughed mockingly.
"Is this the mighty Lost Legion?" Sir Reginald scoffed, his voice dripping with contempt. "A rabble of misfits and rejects, fit only for cannon fodder."
Lady Vivienne added, her voice lilting with cruel amusement, "I wonder how they've survived this long. Perhaps they've had nothing but luck, certainly not skill."
Then, as if the humiliation wasn't enough, Sir Reginald turned to Captain Gideon, his lips curling into a cruel smile. "Kneel," he commanded, his voice loud enough to ensure every soldier could hear. "Kneel before your betters."
The camp fell into an uneasy silence, every eye fixed on Gideon. He stood there for a moment, his face unreadable, a perfect poker face that was somehow more terrifying than any expression of anger or rage. Without a word, he dropped to one knee, the motion slow, deliberate, almost as if he were kneeling before some unseen enemy rather than these arrogant nobles.
There was no fear in his eyes, no submission—just a cold, impenetrable mask that sent a shiver down my spine. It wasn't humility that made him kneel; it was the knowledge that resistance was futile. Yet, the way he held himself, the rigid set of his shoulders, told us all that this act of subservience was anything but.
As Sir Reginald and Lady Vivienne looked on, satisfied with their petty display of power, I realized how much it cost Gideon to kneel. Not in pride, but in the deep, seething knowledge that, in the eyes of the nobles and royals, our lives meant nothing.
Sir Reginald stepped forward, his polished boot gleaming as he sneered down at Gideon, who still knelt in the dirt. With deliberate malice, he pressed the sole of his boot against Gideon's head, forcing it downward. The captain's face, stoic as ever, barely flinched, but the sheer indignity of it made my blood boil. I could feel every muscle in my body tense, my hand inching toward my sword hilt.
Lady Vivienne's mocking laughter rang out like nails on a chalkboard. "Look at him," she said with a twisted smile, "the great Captain Gideon, reduced to nothing but a dog. Pathetic."
She leaned down, her lips curling in cruel amusement. "Perhaps we should get a leash for him, Sir Reginald. A dog like this should be properly controlled."
The other nobles snickered in agreement as Sir Reginald gave a forceful shove with his boot, grinding Gideon's face into the dirt. "A leash, you say? Why stop there, Lady Vivienne? Perhaps we should have him bark for us." He turned to the gathered soldiers of the Lost Legion, raising his voice so all could hear. "Wouldn't that be fitting? Your proud captain, barking like a dog for his masters!"
A wave of laughter erupted from the nobles, echoing through the camp. Rage surged through me like wildfire. My hand tightened around the hilt of my sword, and I stepped forward without thinking, ready to end this disgraceful display. But before I could take another step, a cold, firm hand gripped my arm.
It was Aeryn, her expression as cold and unreadable as ever. Her grip, though slight, was unyielding. She gave the slightest shake of her head, her eyes locking onto mine with a fierce warning. "Not now," she whispered, barely audible, but her voice carried an edge sharp enough to cut through my fury. "You'll only make things worse."
I clenched my teeth, my heart pounding in my chest. I knew she was right. As much as I wanted to drive my blade through Sir Reginald's chest, to wipe the smug look off Lady Vivienne's face, now wasn't the time. But standing there, watching them humiliate Gideon—our captain—it was unbearable.
As if to add insult to injury, Lady Vivienne stepped forward, her delicate, bejeweled shoe tapping against Gideon's head as though she were toying with him. Then, with a sudden movement, she spat—actually spat—down on him. The disgusting sight of it made my stomach churn with rage.
"How fitting," she cooed, her voice dripping with mockery. "The captain of the Lost Legion, groveling in the mud where he belongs."
Gideon didn't move, didn't react. His face remained in the dirt, but I could feel the tension in the air, a silent storm brewing beneath his calm exterior. He bore the humiliation, but the fire in his eyes—hidden from the nobles—was unmistakable to those of us who truly knew him.
I wanted to scream, to lash out, but Aeryn's grip tightened, pulling me back to reality. "Patience," she whispered. "This isn't the time. But it will come."
I swallowed my anger, forcing myself to stay still, though every fiber of my being screamed to act. As I stood there, powerless to stop the scene unfolding before me, one thought burned in my mind: this war wasn't just about survival anymore. It was about tearing down these arrogant nobles who treated us like nothing more than disposable pawns.
Someday, I vowed, they would be the ones kneeling. And they would regret every moment of this.