Desmond jolted awake, his breath catching in his throat as the dream faded, leaving only the phantom glow of fire behind his eyes. He sat up, sweat dampening his shirt despite the chill in the room. Five years, and the memories still lingered like ghosts haunting his every step. The clamor of screams, the weight of his father's sword, the burning resolve he had sworn to never break.
The villa was quiet, save for the distant creak of wood and the faint rustle of leaves outside. Desmond swung his legs over the side of the cot, rubbing his hands over his face. His body ached, not with the bruises of battle but with the weariness of years spent surviving, scheming, and fighting to keep what little remained of his family intact.
The villa was no longer the grand estate they had fled from, but it was shelter—barely. The roof leaked when it rained, and the stone walls seemed ready to crumble with a strong enough wind, but it was theirs, bought with the last of their dwindling wealth.
He stood, pulling on his boots and buckling his belt as he made his way out of the small bedroom. The main hall was cold, the hearth long extinguished. Maps and scraps of parchment littered the large table in the center of the room, weighted down by an empty goblet and an ancient candlestick.
The second brother, Alaric, sat at the table, his chin propped on one hand as he studied a map by the light of a single candle. Sixteen now, the boy had grown lean and wiry, his dark hair hanging just over his sharp eyes. He looked up as Desmond entered, his expression flickering between annoyance and relief.
"Another dream?" Alaric asked, his voice low to avoid waking their youngest brother.
Desmond nodded, sitting across from him and reaching for the goblet. He didn't care that it was empty; the motion steadied his hands. "What time is it?"
"Close to dawn." Alaric leaned back, stretching his arms over his head. "I couldn't sleep either. Too much to plan." He gestured to the map.
Desmond glanced down at the sprawling parchment, marked with circles, notes, and lines that only Alaric could decipher. A merchant caravan route was sketched in the corner, along with symbols denoting key outposts and potential obstacles.
"This is the one," Alaric said, his voice carrying a sharp edge of determination. "If we hit this caravan, we'll have enough capital to finally make a move. No more scraping by, no more selling off what little we have left."
Desmond frowned, his gaze sweeping over the details. "It's heavily guarded."
Alaric smirked. "I've accounted for that. There's a choke point here—" he pointed to a narrow canyon marked on the map, "—where their numbers won't matter. We'll only need to take out the front and rear guards to trap them."
Desmond leaned back, folding his arms. He studied his brother, noting the fire in his eyes. Alaric had grown far beyond the frightened boy he'd been five years ago, but that fire worried Desmond. It burned hot, too hot sometimes, and it made him reckless.
"You're certain this will work?" Desmond asked, his tone flat.
Alaric's smirk faltered, but his confidence didn't waver. "It has to. Unless you've come up with a better way to fill our coffers."
Desmond's silence was answer enough.
"Exactly," Alaric said, leaning forward. "This isn't just about us anymore. You want Nathaniel to have a chance at something better than this?"
At the mention of their youngest brother, Desmond's jaw tightened. Nine-year-old Nathaniel was still asleep in the adjoining room, blissfully unaware of the dangers and sacrifices that surrounded their lives. Desmond had worked tirelessly to keep it that way.
"This plan is dangerous," Desmond said finally. "But if it works, it could change everything."
"It will work," Alaric said, his voice filled with steel.
Desmond stared at the map again, weighing their dwindling options. The villa wouldn't last much longer, and neither would they without the resources to rebuild their lives. He thought of his father's proud voice, his mother's unyielding defiance, and the promise he had made in the forest five years ago.
"All right," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "We'll do it. But we do it my way. No unnecessary risks, no reckless moves. If this goes wrong, we lose everything."
Alaric nodded, his smirk returning. "It won't go wrong."
Desmond didn't share his brother's confidence, but he kept that doubt to himself. Standing, he placed a hand on Alaric's shoulder. "Get some rest. We'll need our strength."
As Alaric extinguished the candle and retreated to his room, Desmond lingered at the table. His eyes traced the lines of the map, but his mind was far away, thinking of the empire's shifting tides and the growing shadow of war. This plan was only the beginning, a single step toward a greater goal.
He whispered into the silence, the words half-prayer, half-vow: "I will not fail them again."
The first light of dawn crept through the cracks in the villa's walls, casting the map in soft gold. Desmond stared at it, the weight of his decisions pressing heavy on his shoulders. For his brothers, for their future, he would do whatever it took.
With that thought in mind he took a step into the morning sunlight filtered through the broken windows of the villa, casting uneven patterns on the crumbling walls. Desmond stood at the edge of the terrace, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the rolling hills beyond. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of dew-soaked earth and the distant smoke of hearth fires from the nearby village.
At thirty, Desmond was in his prime—a striking figure of command and purpose. His angular face, still unmarred by age, carried the weight of his responsibilities, the faint tan of his skin evidence of years spent under sun and sky. His Ravin black hair, thick and neatly combed back, shifted slightly in the breeze, lending him a polished yet rugged air.
But it was his eyes that marked him most—a deep brown that burned with intensity, unrelenting in their focus. They seemed to carry the shadows of battles fought and burdens borne, tempered by the raw determination of a man carving out a legacy.
He rested one hand on the head of his poleaxe, its haft planted firmly against the stone floor. His other hand toyed with the edge of his cloak—a finely woven garment of dark, practical fabric adorned with subtle heraldry showing the wear of time. Though the villa's decay surrounded him, Desmond stood as if he still carried the grandeur of his lost name, the dual strength of soldier and statesman in every movement.
Behind him, Alaric's boots scuffed against the stone as he stepped onto the terrace, the faint sound pulling Desmond from his thoughts.
"The scouts returned," Alaric said, tossing a roll of cloth onto the weathered table. His voice had deepened over the years, though there was still a touch of youthful sharpness in it. At sixteen, Alaric had grown into a wiry figure, his black hair curling loosely around his face. The mischievous smirk that had once infuriated Desmond now carried a hint of confidence, though it often veered dangerously close to arrogance.
Desmond unfolded the cloth, revealing a hastily drawn map and a few crumpled notes. He spread them out on the table, his sharp gaze scanning the details.
"They'll reach the pass by dusk," Alaric continued, stepping closer to point at a mark on the map. "It's perfect. Narrow enough to bottleneck them, and rocky enough to give us cover."
Desmond studied the route in silence, his fingers tracing the edges of the map. His voice, when he finally spoke, was steady and measured. "You're certain this will work?"
Alaric crossed his arms, leaning casually against the broken balustrade. "If we don't try, we'll be out of options by the end of the month. This is our best shot at rebuilding—at getting Nathaniel out of this place."
At the mention of their youngest brother, Desmond's gaze flicked toward the villa's interior. Nathaniel, only nine, was still asleep in the small adjoining room. The boy was too young to remember the fire that had taken everything from them, but Desmond carried the memory for him, along with the unyielding resolve to protect him from a world that had shown no mercy.
"We'll do it," Desmond said at last, his voice low. "But we do it carefully. No recklessness, no unnecessary risks. If this fails, it's not just the caravan we lose. It's everything."
Alaric nodded, his smirk softening into something more serious. "I know."
Desmond's eyes lingered on the map a moment longer before turning to his brother. "Get the men ready. Check the supplies. We move as soon as it's dark."
Alaric pushed off the balustrade, giving a mock salute before disappearing back into the villa.
Desmond remained on the terrace, the breeze tugging at his cloak. His mind churned as he reviewed the plan, considering every detail, every potential failure. The caravan would be their salvation if they succeeded—a chance to rebuild, to gather the resources they needed to finally secure a future.
But failure was not an option.
His hand tightened around the haft of his poleaxe as he whispered, half to himself and half to the ghosts of his past: "We rise tonight, or not at all."
The sun began its slow descent, the shadows stretching long across the hills. Desmond turned back toward the villa, his boots striking purposefully against the stone. Tonight would determine everything. And for his family, for the brothers who depended on him, he would not falter.
Alaric's smirk faltered, but his confidence didn't waver. "It has to. Unless you've come up with a better way to fill our coffers."
Desmond's silence was answer enough.
"Exactly," Alaric said, leaning forward. "This isn't just about us anymore. You want Nathaniel to have a chance at something better than this?"
At the mention of their youngest brother, Desmond's jaw tightened. Nine-year-old Nathaniel was still asleep in the adjoining room, blissfully unaware of the dangers and sacrifices that surrounded their lives. Desmond had worked tirelessly to keep it that way.
"This plan is dangerous," Desmond said finally. "But if it works, it could change everything."
"It will work," Alaric said, his voice filled with steel.
Desmond stared at the map again, weighing their dwindling options. The villa wouldn't last much longer, and neither would they without the resources to rebuild their lives. He thought of his father's proud voice, his mother's unyielding defiance, and the promise he had made in the forest five years ago.
"All right," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "We'll do it. But we do it my way. No unnecessary risks, no reckless moves. If this goes wrong, we lose everything."
Alaric nodded, his smirk returning. "It won't go wrong."
Desmond didn't share his brother's confidence, but he kept that doubt to himself. Standing, he placed a hand on Alaric's shoulder. "Get some rest. We'll need our strength."
As Alaric extinguished the candle and retreated to his room, Desmond lingered at the table. His eyes traced the lines of the map, but his mind was far away, thinking of the empire's shifting tides and the growing shadow of war. This plan was only the beginning, a single step toward a greater goal.
He whispered into the silence, the words half-prayer, half-vow: "I will not fail them again."
The first light of dawn crept through the cracks in the villa's walls, casting the map in soft gold. Desmond stared at it, the weight of his decisions pressing heavy on his shoulders. For his brothers, for their future, he would do whatever it took.