“My name is Gustav Vasily. Would you grant me the honor of knowing yours?”
Blayden’s sharp gaze pierced Gustav, who introduced himself with an exaggerated, theatrical tone.
The sheer audacity of the man, presenting himself with such flourish after the ordeal they had just endured, struck Blayden as either profoundly ignorant or utterly brazen.
It was a spectacle, certainly, but one that grated on Blayden’s already frayed nerves.
His response was curt, a clipped sentence that carried the weight of disdain and exhaustion.
“You must not have suffered enough.”
Indeed, Gustav had not suffered enough, at least not in Blayden’s estimation.
When Gustav had left the “Heaven of the Nameless” just hours before, he was still profoundly hungover, a lingering testament to his indulgences.
His disheveled appearance, the slight tremor in his hands, and the palpable aura of self-inflicted misery had been evident to all.
He had refused breakfast outright, claiming a complete lack of appetite, a common symptom of his condition.
The journey itself had been punctuated by his weakness; he had been forced to dismount his horse no fewer than three times to violently empty his stomach.
Each time, the stench of stale ale and bile had wafted through the air, a stark reminder of his indiscipline.
Gabriel, ever the more compassionate of the group, had even voiced concern, wondering aloud if Gustav might tumble from his horse while riding with such a potent lingering intoxication.
It was a concern born of genuine care, a stark contrast to the hardened pragmatism of the others.
The rest of the squad members, however, harbored no such tender feelings.
They were not as affectionate as Gabriel.
Their camaraderie was forged in the harsh realities of warfare, a bond built on shared trials and unflinching loyalty, not on coddling or pity.
Their humor, when it surfaced, was dark and edged, reflecting the brutal truths they lived by.
A grim jest about physical ailments, delivered with a faint, almost imperceptible smile, was Lentz’s contribution.
Even the usually dignified Lentz, a man known for his composure and refined demeanor, allowed a faint, almost imperceptible smile to grace his lips as he delivered a sharp, biting remark, suggesting that a painful injury might finally force some much-needed rest upon Gustav.
It was a dry, pointed jab that underscored the unit’s lack of patience for self-pity.
The comments continued, each one a testament to their unforgiving environment.
One muttered about Gustav’s deathly pallor, advising a preemptive confession of sins, a grim reminder of their mortality and the ever-present threat of battle.
Another remarked on the extensive prayers needed for such a “fallen soul” to find redemption, implying a deep, perhaps irredeemable, depravity.
The casual mention of leaving his body unburied if he died, knowing full well the implications, painted a stark picture of their battlefield protocols.
The notion that “the local beasts will feast” was delivered with a chilling nonchalance, a grim acknowledgment of the natural order of the wilderness where they now found themselves.
These were not threats, but statements of fact, uttered with a detached amusement that highlighted the group’s hardened nature.
Their smiling words were chilling, indeed, each uttered with a detached amusement that sent a shiver down the spine.
And it was Blayden, true to form, who delivered the definitive, brutal conclusion to that terrifying conversation.
His voice was flat, devoid of emotion, yet it carried an undeniable finality.
“It would be an honor to die and become food for beasts.”
Such was the philosophy of their unit, a stark acceptance of their brutal existence.
Gustav, despite being the target of these barbed comments, merely grumbled about feeling hurt.
Yet, he didn’t seem intimidated in the slightest.
His demeanor remained unruffled, a curious blend of impudence and good nature.
It was hard to discern whether he was simply shameless or possessed an unshakeable affability, but one thing was abundantly clear: this was not the first time Gustav had been subjected to such treatment.
He wore their barbs like a second skin, accustomed to their cutting remarks.
Then, with a dramatic flourish that seemed entirely too much for the moment, Gustav announced, “My heart is burning with anticipation for new connections.”
He lifted his face, a radiant smile gracing his features, and raised his thick eyelashes.
His eyes, now bright and seemingly free of the morning’s haze, twinkled with a mischievous light.
When he winked, Leni flinched, startled by the sudden, intimate gesture, and instinctively pulled her hand away from where it rested idly by her side.
“Ah, my beautiful lady is so unfeeling,” Gustav lamented, his voice dripping with mock despair.
“In this forest, bathed in spring light, there’s ice in your eyes.”
Leni’s internal reaction was immediate and defensive.
What’s wrong with my eyes?
She was embarrassed and awkward, feeling a flush creep up her neck.
She tightened her already closed lips, a futile attempt to prevent any further revealing expressions.
As Gustav spread his arms wide in another flamboyant gesture, his long hair, unbound and flowing, fluttered dramatically in the gentle breeze.
The sight of his untamed locks, however, only served to deepen Leni’s melancholy.
It brought back a vivid, painful memory of her own hair, recently and forcibly cut short.
The image of her lost tresses, a symbol of her previous life and freedom, made her feel even more depressed.
She had even thrown away the ribbon that had once adorned it, a cherished birthday present, in a fit of despair.
Her resentful gaze instinctively turned towards Blayden, the source of her current predicament.
He, meanwhile, remained oblivious, a quiver slung over his shoulder, seemingly heading out to hunt for dinner.
His focus was entirely on the practicalities of survival, a sharp contrast to Leni’s emotional turmoil.
Blayden then gestured, a silent command, and Lentz, understanding, gathered his arrows and disappeared with him beyond the trees, their figures quickly fading into the dense foliage.
Gabriel, ever the resourceful one, announced his intention to search for edible mushrooms, carrying a large cloth bag for his finds.
William, always ready to assist, readily offered to help Gabriel, and the two set off in a different direction.
With the others dispersed, Leni turned her back on Gustav, seeking a moment of respite from his theatricality.
She walked to the tree where Blayden’s horse was tied, its flanks still warm from the journey.
Opening her pack, she pulled out a blanket, its rough wool a familiar comfort.
With deliberate movements, she tore a long strip from its edge, the tearing sound a small, rebellious act.
She wrapped the rough wool, about a finger’s width in width, around her forehead, then tied the ends at the nape of her neck.
Pushing the taut fabric up and fixing it to her crown, she managed to tidy her disheveled hair, giving herself a semblance of order amidst the chaos of her new reality.
She then smoothed the fabric behind her ears, adjusting the makeshift headband, and walked over to Sharino.
Sharino, who was diligently gathering branches for the campfire, turned her head at Leni’s approach.
Her eyes widened slightly, and she made an “Oho!” sound, pursing her lips in a playful manner.
“Cute. Should I try it too?”
Sharino asked, a hint of amusement in her voice.
Despite being grateful for the small comfort offered by Sharino’s genuine, albeit teasing, compliment, Leni could only manage a polite, strained smile.
While Leni helped Sharino pick up more branches, the mournful chirping of birds overhead seemed to echo her inner turmoil.
Dinner that evening was a simple but hearty meal of roast rabbit, freshly hunted, and baked potatoes, cooked directly in the embers of the campfire.
As the squad members sat in a circle around the crackling fire Sharino had built, the air filled with the aroma of roasted meat and earth.
Gustav, ever the performer, began to sing, his voice carrying through the quiet forest.
His song was a poignant ballad about a knight’s sorrow, forced to leave his beloved for the harsh realities of the battlefield.
The lyrics spoke of a final kiss and a bittersweet farewell, of a cruel night that was too short and a cold wind that bit deep.
It spoke of a heart so torn that it could be halved, one piece dedicated to the king’s banner and the other to the embrace of his love.
He invoked the “generous moon,” pleading for it to close its eyes for a moment, so that his “sun-like love” would not be ashamed.
It was a romantic, idealized depiction of wartime sacrifice, a stark contrast to the brutal reality of their lives.
Watching Gustav, deeply engrossed in the lyrics with a sorrowful, almost exaggerated expression, Leni found herself quietly smiling.
There was something undeniably comical about Gustav, so lost in his performance, among the other squad members who simply ate in stoic silence, their hunger clearly outweighing any appreciation for his artistry.
The moment Leni’s lips twitched in amusement, Gustav caught her eye, and his song abruptly stopped.
“Hmm, Leni. You must not know the sorrow of love,” he declared, his voice filled with feigned hurt.
“To mock my performance, my heart feels shattered.”
Gustav theatrically placed one hand on his chest, a gesture of profound anguish. William, who was sitting next to him, raised a thick, calloused hand and playfully patted Gustav’s shoulder.
“You’re tactless,” William chided good-naturedly.
“The war’s over, why not sing of the joy of love, Gustav!”
“Tsk, now that the war’s over, it’s even more bleak,” Gustav grumbled, his earlier theatricality replaced by a genuine note of melancholy.
“No battles, no place to return to.”
Gustav’s lamentations filled the space where his song had been, a sudden outpouring of his personal woes.
Leni learned that he was from Southern Treya, a member of a fallen noble family.
His background, however, didn’t seem to be a blessing or good fortune for Gustav.
He expressed his disdain for his noble lineage, stating, “What good is being a noble? The family fortune declines daily, and even the bony title that remains goes to the eldest son. Among eight siblings, the youngest is worse off than a dragon’s tail. Even if the eldest son dies on the battlefield, it won’t be my turn.”
His words painted a picture of a man trapped by birthright, yet denied its benefits.
Before Gustav could continue his tirade, there was a loud, abrupt thud.
Sharino roughly placed her stew bowl on the dirt floor, the sound echoing in the quiet.
She then dusted off her hands with a decisive flourish.
“Alright, we’ve eaten, so shall we prepare our sleeping arrangements?” she announced, her voice carrying a sense of urgency.
There was still quite a bit of stew left in the wooden bowl, which had a chipped corner, but Sharino was clearly done with the meal and the conversation.
As Sharino got up and moved away from the fire, William’s eyes subtly turned towards Lentz, a silent inquiry passing between them.
“It won’t rain tonight, will it? It poured so terribly last night I couldn’t sleep a wink!”
Sharino called out in a clear, loud voice, to no one in particular, seemingly struggling to change the sudden heavy atmosphere that Gustav’s lament had created.
Leni instinctively felt that Gustav’s words were somehow related to Lentz, a hidden connection she couldn’t quite decipher.
However, she wasn’t given the opportunity to satisfy her curiosity; the moment for private inquiry had passed.
Gabriel, finishing his meal, tossed a piece of golden-brown meat he was holding into his mouth. He then got up and began rummaging through his pack.
“I have a cold, so I’ll need to set up a tent to sleep in tonight,” he announced.
Leni found his claim perplexing.
He had a cold?
His voice was still soft, melodious even, and his complexion was bright and healthy.
“Master William, would you like to share a tent with me?”
Gabriel offered, his voice still gentle and inviting.
When Gabriel asked, William subtly glanced at Blayden, a silent communication passing between them.
Blayden looked up at the darkening sky, his eyes scanning the gathering clouds.
He then spoke, his voice low and firm.
“It might rain, so it would be good to set up the tents.”
His practical assessment was the final word on the matter.
Lentz, with a look on his face as if he’d found a convenient excuse to escape further social interaction, got up.
He retrieved a thick white cloth from his pack and spread it in the clearing behind the trees.
The rest of the squad members, without needing further instruction, also took out similar cloths from their respective packs and draped them over branches, each moving with practiced efficiency.
As the squad members moved in sync, like different parts of a single, well-oiled body, only Gustav and Leni remained by the dying embers of the campfire.
Leni slowly ate the last of her baked potato, watching the flames consume the dry branches, their light flickering in the twilight.
She was deliberately taking small, meticulous bites and chewing thoroughly, stretching out the simple pleasure of the meal.
It was then that Blayden, who had just finished tending to the horses, returned.
His voice was brusque, his tone dismissive.
“Isn’t the slave’s meal taking too long? Can’t you see everyone else moving?”
Leni mumbled in response, her face still partially obscured as she focused on her potato.
“I am not a slave.”
Her voice was muffled but firm.
“You’re not?”
Blayden’s tone was incredulous, bordering on mocking.
“No, I’m baggage,” Leni clarified, raising her head slightly.
“Baggage doesn’t work. It just stays where it’s put.”
Her defiance, though quiet, was palpable.
Without a word, Blayden snatched the remaining potato from her hand.
Leni snapped her head up, her eyes blazing with indignation as she glared at him.
Their gazes clashed, a silent battle of wills.
Unlike Leni’s eyes, which blazed with rebellious fire, Blayden’s eyes remained unreadable, revealing no emotion whatsoever.
His expression was a mask, his gaze unwavering.
“Baggage doesn’t eat,” he stated coldly, his voice devoid of any warmth.
Blayden then turned and walked away, leaving Leni fuming.
Gustav’s eyes, meanwhile, gleamed meaningfully as he watched the silent power struggle unfold, a hint of amusement playing on his lips.
Three makeshift shelters were quickly erected around an ancient oak tree.
The hastily constructed resting spaces looked flimsy, almost fragile, as if they might blow away with even a moderately strong gust of wind.
Leni wondered if they would truly be able to avoid the rain with such flimsy coverings.
She raised her hand, feeling the air, and noted that the wind against her fingers was damp, hinting at moisture in the coming night.
As the campfire died down, its once vibrant flames reduced to glowing embers, Gustav flopped back onto the ground.
He clasped his hands behind his head, a picture of leisurely abandon, and looked up at the vast expanse of the night sky.
Then, he let out a long, clear whistle.
To Leni’s utter astonishment, the dying flames on the ashes, which had been on the verge of extinction, suddenly flickered back to life, growing brighter and stronger.
“Oh!”
A startled Leni jumped up, her breath catching in her throat.
Hearing a rustling sound behind her, she turned.
The flimsy shelters, which had looked so crude moments before, had sprouted sturdy supports.
The cloth pieces, which had merely hung over the branches, offering little more than a partial covering from the sky, had instantly transformed.
They had extended down to the tree trunks like rapidly growing hair, enveloping the spaces beneath and converting them into proper, enclosed tents.
“Wow!”
Leni gasped, her mouth agape in wonder.
The small but remarkably sturdy-looking tents glowed, surrounded by thick, luminous poles.
These poles emitted a silvery-grey radiance, like crystal rods, and around their rounded tops, tiny firefly-like lights danced and hovered, casting a soft, ethereal glow.
Leni stood mesmerized by the mystical sight, then looked at Gustav.
His eyes were closed, a serene expression on his face, as he continued to whistle softly, seemingly oblivious to the wonder he had just conjured.
He was a magician, but to think he had such abilities!
The thought sent a jolt through her.
Should I report this to the prince too?
Or perhaps he already knows.
In any case, she concluded, I don’t think such a person can be called an ‘insect.’
Lentz, meanwhile, had been discussing the sentry shifts with Blayden. He then volunteered for the first one.
“Captain, please rest comfortably. Didn’t you have a hard time in that shabby place yesterday?” he asked, his voice respectful. Blayden gave a curt nod of acknowledgment and returned to the fire.
He reached out to Leni, and before she could react, his firm forearm wrapped around her waist, lifting her effortlessly into the air.
Leni squirmed, her legs dangling uselessly.
“Put me down!” she demanded, her voice tight with indignation.
Being treated like baggage in front of everyone made her face flush with humiliation, a deep sense of affront washing over her.
Blayden offered no reply, simply walking purposefully into his tent, his footsteps deliberate and unyielding.
No one paid any attention to his actions; it was a scene they were accustomed to, or perhaps, simply ignored out of necessity.
Leni was overcome with a dreadful, crushing feeling, as if she truly had become Blayden’s possession, his property to command.
Upon entering the tent, the cramped space seemed to be entirely filled by Blayden’s imposing body.
Leni found it hard to breathe, the air suddenly thick and suffocating.
A chilling thought, born of her current vulnerability, entered her mind: How many women had this man treated like this on the battlefield?
Was something terrible going to happen tonight?
Outside the tent, Gustav’s whistling grew a little louder, a seemingly innocent tune that now carried an unsettling note in the heavy silence.
In the distance, an owl began to hoot, its mournful cry echoing through the night.