As we marched toward the castle, the silence was suffocating. You could hear the heartbeat of every soldier—man and mount alike. The steady rhythm of boots against dirt was the only sound, a quiet reminder that we were heading toward something we couldn't name.
Then, about halfway there, the commander called for him.
He wasn't anyone special.
Black hair. An ordinary face. A man so forgettable that, even after years of training together, most of us barely knew his name. He was neither the strongest nor the fastest. He had no great skill with a sword, nor was he a brilliant tactician. He was just… there.
And yet, the commander chose him.
Everyone was confused.
"Why him?"
"He's not the best among us," someone muttered. "I doubt he even knows how to hunt."
Laughter rippled through the ranks.
But he didn't laugh.
He only stood there, staring at the commander, eyes full of silent confusion. For a moment, I thought he might refuse, but then—without a word—he stepped forward.
The commander whispered something in his ear. None of us heard what was said, and if anyone did, they never spoke of it. The nameless soldier only nodded.
And after that, everything changed.
For the rest of the journey, he was given the best food, the finest wine, a proper bed.
The whispers began.
"What did he do to deserve this?"
"What is he hiding?"
"Is he some noble's bastard son?"
Nobody said it outright, but the question lingered in everyone's mind. Jealousy turned to resentment. Even those who once spoke to him ignored him. He sat alone by the fire, staring into the flames.
He never asked for any of it.
And he never complained.