Chereads / Twelve Thrones: Rali / Chapter 7 - Peace

Chapter 7 - Peace

1223-06-10

As the years go on and time flies, it becomes painfully clear that this war is less about land and more about the egos of the rulers in the UIK and the Merchant King of Rali. They don't truly care about their soldiers, about their men.

We live, we fight, we die—all in the name of a purpose that many of us have forgotten. Many don't even care about the land anymore. A part of us just wants to live; most of us just want to go home. That truth has grown louder and more undeniable over time.

Many soldiers had families waiting for them, people they could return to. That gave them strength. Yet, I felt like an outlier. The people I fought alongside, the soldiers I had grown accustomed to, were my family. That made me happy. I didn't need a grand plan, a great victory, or a sweeping revelation to give my life meaning. The lives of those soldiers I fought beside were enough.

In truth, the only thing that could make this fight for preservation worse is Shatar. Shatar entering the war would be devastation—for the world, for Rali, and for the UIK. Maybe that would be a good thing. It would force us to realize we need an alliance. But could we even form an alliance after fighting for so long? Would it even be beneficial?

The camp buzzes with quiet activity as the evening settles over the barren plains. Fires flicker in the distance, their light reflecting off weary faces. The men of the platoon are scattered, some tending to their weapons, others playing cards or staring into the flames. These are not soldiers of glory, but survivors of countless battles—scarred, hardened, and unrelentingly human.

Sergeant Darrek leans against a splintered wagon wheel, his fingers tracing the notches on the hilt of his blade. Across from him, Corporal Hynes grins as he flips a coin, its metallic glint catching the firelight. A small group nearby chuckles softly at an off-color joke, the brief levity cutting through the weight of their predicament.

Captain Myron observes his men in silence, standing near the edge of the encampment. They've been with him through every grueling march and skirmish, through mud and blood, through victories that feel hollow and losses that cut deep. They are his family now, more than anyone waiting back home. Yet, tonight, the weight of leadership feels heavier than ever.

"Myron," a voice interrupts his thoughts. General Kellan strides up, his cloak billowing in the evening breeze. His face is drawn, his tone grim. "There's a meeting in the main tent. Rumors about Shatar. We need to discuss it."

"Rumors?" Myron's heart sinks. "What kind of rumors?"

"That they're mobilizing. Preparing for war. It hasn't happened yet, but if they enter this conflict—" Kellan lets the sentence hang, the implications clear. "Come on. The others are waiting."

Inside the tent, the air is thick with tension. Around the table stand the other generals, their faces etched with fatigue. Maps are spread before them, covered in hastily drawn lines and markers indicating troop positions. At the center of it all, the Merchant King himself, Erhan Montague, sits with a look of stoic contemplation.

"What does the Merchant King think?" one of the generals asks, breaking the heavy silence.

Erhan's reply is measured, but there's no mistaking the gravity in his voice. "We cannot win a war on two fronts. Either we lose to Shatar, or we lose to the UIK. The question is—" He looks up, his piercing gaze sweeping the room, "—which one is worse?"

A murmur ripples through the gathered officers. Myron watches as General Cray speaks up, his fists clenched on the table. "Losing to the UIK would make a mockery of all the men who've died over these past years. Their sacrifices would mean nothing."

"And yet," another general counters, his voice tight with frustration, "facing Shatar could mean annihilation. You've seen what they're capable of. Their dragons, their tactics. They don't just win battles; they leave nothing behind."

"The rumors might be just that," Kellan interjects, though his tone betrays his own uncertainty. "But if they're true, we need to prepare. Once Shatar moves, it won't be a war—it'll be a slaughter."

The room falls into silence once more, the weight of the decision pressing down on them. 

I left the group, walking to my tent, trying not to think about the decisions we just debated.

The flap of my tent shifts. I glance up, hand twitching toward my belt, but it's just a woman. She's holding a plate in her hands. I don't recognize her.

"You looked like you could use something to eat," she says, her voice calm. She steps closer and holds the plate out to me.

I take it without thinking. Bread and dried meat. "Thanks," I mutter, setting it on the table beside me. "I didn't think anyone noticed me leave."

She shrugs. "You're not as invisible as you think."

I study her, trying to place her. She's young, with a loose braid and plain clothes. Probably someone from the support staff. "Why are you here?" I ask, trying not to sound suspicious.

"Thought you might need it," she says simply, nodding toward the plate. "You looked tired."

"Tired doesn't cover it."

She takes a step back toward the entrance. "They believe in you, you know," she says softly. "Even when you don't."

Her words hit harder than I'd like. I look at the plate, unsure how to respond. 

"Thanks," I say finally. "For the food."

She nods. "If you ever need someone to talk to, I'm around."

I sat there for a while. I stared at the empty tent. Her words linger longer than I expect.

She's right. I just needed someone to remind me why, why I'm here.