Lord Torvares’s eyes blazed, but when Viola squared her shoulders and opened her mouth to fire back, he cut her off with a growl.
“Not here.”
His cloak whipped as he turned, gesturing sharply toward his tent. Viola followed without hesitation, fire meeting fire. Everyone in earshot knew if they argued in the open, their voices would carry across the entire camp—straight into enemy scouts’ ears if the wind was cruel. Better to let their clash rattle canvas than the battlefield itself.
That left Ludger standing with his father, who still had one hand over his face. Arslan muttered something about “reckless brats” before dragging a hand through his hair, looking a hundred years older than he had any right to.
Ludger didn’t linger. He slipped past him and made his way toward the smaller cluster of tents nearby. There, he found Arslan’s party—and Aronia.
The sight made him stop cold.
Selene sat with her armor half-peeled off, a strip of cloth wrapped around her ribs, her usual harsh stare dulled by exhaustion. Harold lay flat on his back, chest heaving, his axe discarded nearby as though even holding it upright was too much. Aleia leaned against a post, eyes closed, bow across her lap, hair damp with sweat and grime. Cor sat cross-legged, eyes shut, lips moving faintly in what might’ve been a prayer or just a desperate attempt at focus.
And Aronia—her hands glowed faintly as she moved from one to the other, patching wounds with precision, but her own face was pale, her breaths shallow. She was pouring herself dry to keep the rest of them standing.
The air reeked of fatigue, iron, and sweat. These weren’t proud adventurers anymore—they were half-broken tools still being forced to work.
Ludger stepped closer, jaw tightening as he took it all in. So this is what months of war does. Even the strong look like they’re one push away from breaking.
None of them noticed him right away. They were too tired to. For once, Ludger didn’t smirk. He just stood there, hands curling slowly into fists.
Aronia’s glow dimmed as she pulled her hands back from Selene’s ribs. Her eyes lifted—and widened faintly when they found Ludger standing there.
“…Ludger?” Her voice was thin, tired. “What are you doing here?”
The others stirred at her words. Selene’s head turned, Harold cracked one bleary eye, Aleia opened hers just enough to confirm it wasn’t a hallucination. Cor exhaled through his nose, too drained even to feign surprise.
Ludger slipped his hands into his pockets, smirk tugging at his lips. “What, you all look shocked. Did you think I’d just stay home knitting socks while you lot hogged all the fun?”
Harold gave a wheezing chuckle that turned into a cough. Selene only frowned, too weary to muster her usual sharp retort. Aleia shook her head, lips twitching faintly before sinking back against the post.
It wasn’t working. Their eyes still looked hollow, their shoulders slumped. His usual sarcasm bounced off the exhaustion like stones on steel.
Aronia managed the smallest smile, though her hands trembled as she lowered them to her lap. “Always joking, even now.” She shook her head slowly, strands of hair sticking to her face with sweat. “You shouldn’t have come here, Ludger.”
Her tone wasn’t scolding—it was almost pleading.
Ludger’s smirk faltered, but he didn’t let it drop completely. He looked at them all, one by one—warriors who once felt unshakable, now cracked by endless fighting—and the weight of it pressed harder against his chest.
No wonder Father hides behind his grin. If this is what his people look like, he doesn’t have much else to offer them.
Ludger crouched down beside Harold, who groaned as if the movement alone reminded his body of pain. The smirk lingered on Ludger’s lips, but his hands glowed faintly with the familiar glow of [Healing Touch] .
“Relax,” he muttered, pressing his palm against Harold’s shoulder. “I’m not here to steal Aronia’s job—just buying her a breather before she keels over.”
The magic seeped in, and Harold’s breathing eased, some of the tension in his battered frame softening.
Aronia blinked, surprised, and for the first time that day she actually sagged back, letting her trembling hands rest. “...Thank you,” she whispered.
Ludger shifted next to Selene, ignoring her scowl as he worked on the bruising around her ribs. “Don’t get used to it. This isn’t charity.”
“Then why?” Selene rasped, her voice hoarse.
Ludger smirked faintly. “Because if I don’t, you’ll all collapse before dinner, and I’m not hauling your corpses back home.” He moved to Aleia, then Cor, working quick and efficiency.
When the last pulse of healing faded, he leaned back on his heels, shaking his hand out. “Besides… Viola wouldn’t stay put once she caught wind of the rumors. She’s stubborn like that.” He gave a dry laugh. “So, I came along as the escort—make sure she didn’t get lost or set half the countryside on fire. Luna too.”
Selene raised a brow at that, skeptical even through her exhaustion. Aleia cracked the ghost of a grin. Cor opened one eye, studying him like he wanted to say something but was too drained to bother.
Aronia, though, exhaled slowly. Relief flickered across her pale features, even if worry lingered under it. “You’re too young for this, Ludger. All of you are.”
“Yeah,” Ludger said with a shrug, his smirk thinning into something harder. “But here we are anyway.”
The tent was quiet for a moment, only the faint sounds of the camp outside filling the silence. The exhaustion in the air hadn’t vanished, but at least now it wasn’t crushing them quite as flat.
The flap of the tent rustled, and heavy boots thudded against the ground.
Arslan stood in the entrance, shoulders squared, jaw tight. Gone was the easy grin, the loud bravado he usually wore like armor. His eyes cut straight to Ludger—hard, sharp, and for once, dead serious.
“Enough,” he said, voice carrying weight that silenced even Harold’s groans. “You’ve done your part, Ludger. Now step back.”
Ludger met his gaze, smirk twitching at the corner of his lips, but Arslan’s stare didn’t budge. There was no humor in it, no carelessness. Only a father’s fear ground down into steel.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Arslan continued, stepping further inside. “Not at your age. Not in this mess.” He swept a hand toward the party sprawled out around them. “Look at them. This is what war does—even to grown fighters who’ve lived their whole lives by the sword. And you think you can walk in here, toss around a few spells, and not drown in it?”
Ludger’s smirk faded, his jaw tightening.
“I’m serious, Ludger.” Arslan’s voice dropped, rough with something close to desperation. “You’re my son. I’ll boast about you all day, I’ll brag about your talent until people get sick of hearing your name—but I won’t let you burn yourself out in this pit. Not now. Not when you should still be growing, not breaking.”
The tent was silent except for the faint crackle of a nearby brazier. Aronia looked down, her hands clasped in her lap. Selene and the others kept still, too exhausted to interrupt.
For once, Ludger had no witty jab ready. His father’s words weren’t wrapped in bluster. They were raw, heavy, and honest.
For once, Ludger didn’t fire back. He let the silence stretch, staring at his father’s grim face. Then, slowly, he exhaled through his nose and spoke in a level voice.
“Mother told me to come.”
That alone made Arslan blink. Ludger pressed on, his tone sharper now.
“She said I should keep an eye on Viola. And I’m doing exactly that. The tavern’s covered—the regulars owe me favors, and they’ll help her if anything happens back home. It’s fine.”
Arslan’s brow furrowed. “Elaine told you to—”
“Yes.” Ludger cut him off before the disbelief could curdle into anger. “So unless you’re planning to break Viola’s legs and drag her home yourself, we’re not going anywhere.”
The words hung in the air like a blade. For a moment, the only sound was Harold’s wheezy snore in the corner.
Arslan’s mouth opened, then closed. He rubbed a hand down his face, groaning into his palm. Finally, he muttered, “Damn it all…”
When his hand fell, his expression was caught between frustration and resignation. “You really are my kid. Both of you. Too stubborn to quit, too reckless to think past tomorrow.”
His lips twisted in a humorless grin. “And the worst part? I can’t even scold you properly, because I never set an example.”
Ludger smirked faintly at that, but the weight of the moment wasn’t lost on him. He had won the point, but only because Arslan knew the truth—his children were echoes of his own recklessness, sharpened into something harder.
Aronia broke the silence softly. “Then maybe instead of scolding, you should guide them.”
Arslan sighed, shaking his head. “Guide them, huh? Easy for you to say.” But he didn’t argue further.
Arslan let the silence linger, his gaze moving over his battered party, then back to Ludger. The humorless grin faded, replaced by something harder.
“Fine,” he said at last, voice low. “If you’re set on staying, then you’re going to see what you’re actually walking into.”
Ludger arched a brow, his smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth again. “A father-son stroll through hell? Sounds heartwarming.”
Arslan didn’t take the bait. He adjusted the strap of his armor, the weight of command settling on his shoulders again. “I’m serious, Ludger. You’ve seen blood. You’ve trained, But this…” He jerked his chin toward the direction of the smoke, the distant sound of hammers, the horizon thick with unseen weight. “This isn’t a duel or a back-alley ambush. It’s thousands of bodies grinding against thousands more until the ground itself starts choking on blood.”
He turned toward the tent’s flap, his voice sharp. “Come on. You’re going to see the battlefield with your own eyes before you start talking about helping anyone.”
Aronia stirred, worry flickering across her tired features. “Arslan—”
He cut her off with a raised hand. “Don’t. He’s already here. Better he knows the truth than keeps playing at hero in the dark.”
Ludger rose without hesitation, brushing off the dirt from his trousers. “Lead the way, then. I’d hate to miss the family tour.”
Arslan gave him a look—equal parts exasperated and proud—and pushed out into the daylight. Ludger followed, boots crunching in rhythm with his father’s heavier steps.
The camp stretched before them, tense and alive, the murmur of soldiers carrying in low waves. Beyond it, past the smoke, lay the frontlines.
Time to see what hell really looks like, Ludger thought, his smirk fading into something grim.
They didn’t head straight for the ridge. Arslan cut a path through the heart of the camp, silent and purposeful, and Ludger followed.
The air grew heavier with every step.
On one side, a line of wounded sprawled on rough cots—groaning men and women with broken bones bound in splints, arms hanging limp in makeshift slings, ribs wrapped so tight their breathing came in shallow gasps.
The smell was worse than the sight: copper thick in the nose, sweat sharp in the heat, and under it all the faint rot of wounds that hadn’t been cleaned properly.
Further down, Ludger caught the flicker of firelight. He turned his head and froze.
Bodies.
A row of them, laid out with cloths drawn over their faces. Most still fresh, blood soaking through the fabric. Others already stiff, stacked beside a pile of wood waiting to be cremated. Soldiers moved around them with the same quiet rhythm of habit, too tired to mourn each face.
And then came the burn wounds.
Men and women lying still as healers smeared salves over charred skin. Some were awake, teeth clenched to keep the screams inside; others had passed out entirely. A sour smell clung to the air, like cooked flesh that turned Ludger’s stomach despite everything he’d already seen.
He forced himself to keep moving, jaw tight, eyes forward. His steps slowed when a boy no older than fifteen caught his eye—arm missing from the elbow down, bandages wrapped so thick they looked like a tree trunk. The boy met Ludger’s stare with hollow eyes before turning away.
Arslan didn’t explain. He didn’t need to. He only walked, letting his son take in every piece of it—the cost, the chaos, the relentless grind that turned fighters into corpses faster than anyone could count.
Ludger clenched his fists, smirk long gone. This isn’t a battlefield. It’s a butcher’s floor.
Arslan stopped in the middle of the camp, boots planted firm in the mud between the rows of cots and the smoke of the cremation fires. He didn’t look at his son right away—his eyes lingered on the wounded, on the weary healers, on the stack of bodies waiting to be turned to ash.
Only after a long silence did he speak.
“This is what you wanted to walk into, Ludger.” His voice was rough, not angry—just tired, like every syllable carried the weight of a war on his back. “Do you still think you’re ready?”
Ludger’s gaze slid over the broken bodies again. The stench of blood and burned flesh clung in his throat. The boy with one arm, the woman with her face half melted from fire, the men lying too still on their cots—it was all still there behind his eyes.
He could’ve shrugged . Could’ve thrown a sarcastic line to keep himself above it. But the words stuck.
Arslan turned, fixing him with a look sharp enough to cut steel. “You’re eight. You shouldn’t even be touching this dirt. But you’re here anyway. So tell me, Ludger—what do you see? Do you see glory? Do you see a place to sharpen your skills?”
His jaw clenched, shoulders squaring. “Or do you see what I see? Waste. Pain. Men and women bled dry so the bastards in the capital can sip wine and argue over whose name gets carved on a statue.”
The fires cracked behind them, the smoke curling into the sky.
Ludger held his father’s gaze, chest tight. His hands flexed against his sides, armguards creaking. There was no smirk left to hide behind.
Ludger’s throat felt dry, but his voice came out steady.
“This is the world,” he said, nodding toward the wounded, the smoke, the rows of bodies waiting for fire. “People fighting over land, over pride, over scraps. People dying for it. That’s all it really is.”
Arslan’s eyes narrowed, but he stayed silent.
Ludger clenched his fists, forcing the words out before he could retreat behind a smirk. “I don’t care about glory. I don’t care about statues. I just wanted to help our side stand longer. Heal a few men so they can get back up, maybe knock down some of theirs so fewer of ours fall.” He drew in a breath, sharp as steel in his lungs. “And one day… maybe think of a way to keep this from happening again.”
The camp noise filled the silence—the groans of the injured, the muffled shouts of officers, the hiss of fire eating the dead.
Arslan studied him, his weathered face unreadable at first. Then a slow exhale left his chest, heavy as stone rolling down a hill.
“You sound older than you have any right to be,” he muttered. “Older than me, some days.”
Ludger almost smirked at that, but the smell of ash clinging to the air killed the humor before it could rise.
Arslan rubbed a hand across his face, dragging away some of the weariness. “You want to help? Fine. But understand this—this isn’t a puzzle you solve in a day, or even a lifetime. Wars don’t end because boys with good hearts wish them away.” His eyes locked onto Ludger’s, sharp again. “You’re here now, so you’ll do what you can. But don’t lose yourself thinking you can fix all of it. That’s how good men break.”
Ludger held his father’s gaze, jaw tight. Maybe I can’t fix it now. But that doesn’t mean I won’t try.
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