AUTHOR POV.
Months had slipped by like days for Yacha. Two full months had passed since they began their mission, and during that time, Sigurd had helped them grow stronger, preparing them for the inevitable. Though their mission had no official deadline, they all knew that the end was approaching. They had grown, not just in power, but also in their attachment to the village. Yacha, more than the others, found himself growing deeply attached to Sigurd and Leonora.
The New Year's celebration arrived, and the village was adorned with yellow lanterns. Each house had a tree inside, decorated with ornaments made from wood and leather. The peace that enveloped the village was absolute, a stark contrast to the inner turmoil Yacha felt. He and his comrades had been sent to kill, not to settle down. They were elite division soldiers, and their mission was not to relax and enjoy a foreign village's hospitality.
"We never celebrate this... Heck, we never even knew what a celebration was," Speira muttered, her voice carrying a tinge of bitterness.
Yacha watched her from a distance, a special fondness for her growing in his heart. The time they had spent together had revealed new combinations of fire and wind attributes between them.
"You can't deny it's wonderful to see," Ursang replied, but Yacha, slightly annoyed, snapped back.
"To see? Can't you feel it? This place has felt more like home than Akkadia ever did, Ursang."
Eline, sensing the tension, quickly intervened. "Please, don't start a fight."
Speira's voice softened, sadness creeping in. "What are we going to do now?"
They all knew that the Orionis Guard would send a scout. No, they would *definitely* send one. And if that scout saw them acting like family with the enemy, it would be counted as a betrayal. Yacha quickened his pace, distancing himself from the group.
"I'll meet you there," he said, referring to Sigurd's house.
Inside Sigurd's home, the warmth welcomed them like always. Sigurd, his family, and Oscar greeted them. Oscar, a lonely warrior who had found solace in Sigurd's family, had no family of his own. Leonora offered them cake, a simple gesture, but something they had never experienced before. The round, sweet strawberry-flavored cake melted in their mouths, their eyes glowing in awe of its taste.
As the night grew deeper, the children were sent to bed, but not before Inger and Lise hugged Yacha, wishing him a happy new year. "You're my big brother now, Yacha! Even bigger than Erik," Inger said, her innocent smile making Yacha's heartache. He said nothing, only feeling the weight of his emotions.
As midnight approached, Sigurd gathered the four soldiers around him. "You've grown strong, all of you. Even in just two months, you've reached new levels," he said proudly, enveloping them in a fatherly embrace.
Leonora chimed in, "Sigurd, you forgot something."
"Oh yes..." Sigurd pulled out arm rings, thick bands of twisted silver with intricate patterns. Each of the three received a symbol of Odin, but Yacha's arm ring bore the head of a wolf. As he fastened the ring to their arms, Sigurd smiled.
"This is a symbol of honor, loyalty, and status as a Nordic warrior," Sigurd said, as Leonora and Oscar cheered.
For Yacha, it was overwhelming. The emotions surged—regret, love, sadness, joy. It was all too much. Then Leonora presented each of them with weapons. Ursang received a double-edged sword, Eline another, Speira two daggers, and Yacha two axes. The weapons were purple, made of the rarest orihalcon metal, enhanced with runes carved into the blades.
Yacha's tears began to fall, the floodgates of his memories bursting open all at once. The woman from his dream, the man, his village, all flashed before his eyes. He heard the woman's voice in his mind, "Be proud, Yacha, survive." But it was too much. Yacha collapsed, screaming, as uncontrollable thunder erupted from his body.
Sigurd quickly reacted, forming a dome of earth around them to contain the chaos. Yacha, desperate and terrified, begged for forgiveness. "Forgive me, Sigurd... Forgive me!" he cried.
Sigurd, calm and composed, placed a hand on Yacha's head, channeling pure thunder mana into him, not the element itself, but the essence. Slowly, Yacha's mind quieted, and he collapsed, murmuring his apologies.
Speira, Ursang, and Eline stood in shock. Sigurd lifted the dome, assuring Speira that Yacha was all alright. "He broke the curse. Something triggered his thunderous attribute," Sigurd explained.
Leonora added gently, "For now, go to sleep. Yacha will be okay."
Though Ursang and Eline left the room in silence, Speira stayed behind, her eyes filled with concern.
"This boy isn't just a comrade. He's something more to me," she confessed quietly.
Sigurd exchanged a knowing glance with Leonora, nodding his approval to let Speira stay by Yacha's side.
Hours later, while everyone else was asleep, Sigurd sat quietly as Yacha stirred back to consciousness, still crying.
"Yacha..." Sigurd's voice broke the silence.
"Yes, Sigurd?" Yacha's voice trembled, his guilt evident.
"I know... not everything, but I know who you are. You're Orionis of Akkadia," Sigurd said, his tone calm but firm.
Yacha's eyes widened, his heart racing. How? How long had Sigurd known? The ground beneath his feet seemed to vanish.
"How... how long?" Yacha stammered.
"From the moment I met you. The bracelet you wear, your special suit, the symbols. But what amazed me most was that first-year soldiers made it into Orionis."
Yacha's heart sank deeper. "We were sent to kill you."
Sigurd chuckled, his voice carrying the weight of experience. "A suicidal mission." He paused before continuing. "You must have upset someone from the council."
"We don't know."
A heavy silence filled the room. The weight of the unspoken truth pressed on Yacha. He felt like a traitor. A man who had been welcomed into this home, showing love and family, now faced with the truth that he had been sent to kill Sigurd. The guilt gnawed at him.
"I... I can't do it," Yacha whispered. "How can I kill you, Sigurd? How can I kill my father?"
Sigurd stood slowly, walking towards Yacha. He leaned down and wrapped Yacha in a tight, comforting embrace, smiling softly. "I've lived long enough to know, son. You are not a bad person. I am proud to be called father by you, my boy."
Yacha broke down, sobbing into Sigurd's chest. "I love you, Dad. I really do."
After a long moment of shared emotion, the two warriors, bound not by blood but by honor and love, pulled apart. They nodded to each other, a silent understanding passing between them.
Yacha called his comrades together. "It's time," he said, his voice steady. Ursang looked shocked, but Yacha's serious expression silenced him. The girls said nothing, sensing the weight of the moment.
They donned their dark blue armor and took up their weapons. But Yacha kept the axes. He wanted an honorable death match, as two Nordic warriors, even though he knew he stood no chance. Either he would finish the mission, or he would die.
Sigurd stood at the doorway, saying his final farewell to his wife, her sobs muffled by the grief she tried to contain. Yet, deep down, she had always known this day would come. Her hands trembled as she handed him a potion, its contents shimmering within a glass bottle—something they had never seen before in Skara Brae. Yacha, standing by, couldn't bear to witness this heartbreaking scene. He turned away, his heart twisting inside him. How could he stand by and watch this man—his father in all but blood—say goodbye to his family, knowing it would be their last?
Sigurd moved silently through the house, pressing a gentle kiss to the foreheads of each of his five children as they slept, peaceful and unburdened by the realities of the world beyond their dreams. Outside, Oscar approached Yacha, his expression grave yet understanding, a look that would stay with Yacha for the rest of his life.
"He loved you, boy," Oscar said, his voice rough with emotion. "But I understand where you come from."
Yacha's face changed, his eyes wide with shock. "You knew?"
"From the beginning," Oscar replied.
"Sigurd told you?"
"No, but he warned me. He said that one day, a kingdom far to the southeast, in Arctyra, would send men to come for him." Oscar's voice was steady, without judgment, though Yacha could feel the weight of his words press down on him.
Yacha looked down at the ground, unable to find the words.
"Cheer up, boy," Oscar continued, placing a reassuring hand on Yacha's shoulder. "He killed many before you, those who were sent after him. If Sigurd wanted to, he could've done the same to you."
They walked in silence toward a hill deep within the forest, where no trees stood to block the view of the night sky. Ursang, Eline, and Speira joined them, their faces marked with the same quiet resolution. Yacha gazed up at the stars, bright and clear, with the aurora dancing in waves of green and blue across the sky. The full moon cast a soft glow over everything. It was a night so peaceful it felt wrong to disturb it with bloodshed.