The afternoon sun painted rolling farmlands in gold and amber as their caravan crested the final hill before Reldo Town. What had begun in familiar forests around Okorodu Village had transformed into open fields stretching to the horizon, dotted with prosperous homesteads and well-maintained roads.

  Atop Ragnar’s back, the children rode, their energy bubbling through every laugh and kick. The bear's steady gait provided the perfect platform for their excited chatter, and despite hours of travel, their enthusiasm for the approaching celebration showed no signs of diminishing. They pointed at various sights along the way, their voices mixing with laughter as they anticipated what awaited them in Reldo Town.

  Behind them, the adults moved in measured formation. Sagan rode at the front, his tall frame fluid and steady, his dark eyes sweeping the countryside in habitual vigilance. Boe rode beside the cart, his cheerful demeanor finding reasons for optimism in everything they passed.

  “The trip was peaceful this time,” Boe said, his voice lifted in relief. “Though I’ve been hearing talk about bandits around these parts.”

  “Don’t jinx us, Boe,” Sagan replied. “We still have to head back later.”

  “Hahaha, that’s true. Don’t worry—I’ll watch my mouth!” Boe grinned, drawing a zipper across his lips before tossing the ‘key’ away with a dramatic flourish.

  Sagan chuckled, his smile breaking wide as he called, “That’s more like it!” Then they burst out laughing together.

  From her position slightly apart, Hanni rolled her eyes at the men’s antics, then returned to her watchful supervision with the protective alertness that had become second nature to her. Her gaze shifted forward as a cluster of rooftops appeared on the horizon.

  “There it is,” Sagan announced. “Reldo Town.”

  As the caravan drew closer, Osaze’s eyes lit up. The settlement sprawled ahead—stone and timber buildings rising two stories high, busy roads converging from several directions, and the general bustle of a place where people from many communities came together for commerce.

  “Wow,” Osaze breathed, wonder filling his voice as he took it all in.

  Near the outskirts of the town, Sagan raised his hand. “Time for Ragnar to take a rest. He tends to draw too much attention in places like this.” The children slid down from Ragnar’s back with ease as he settled with a contented huff.

  "Thank you, old friend," Sagan said quietly.

  Reduced to a mere mount for children? My pride aches, Sagan. This is beneath my dignity, Ragnar’s voice echoed in Sagan’s mind.

  You can grumble all you want, but we both know you have a soft spot for them, Sagan replied telepathically.

  Perhaps... but only for the young lady. There’s something about her—I find myself drawn to her. But the other two test my patience considerably. Of course, Sagan responded with a mental chuckle.

  The recall process was smooth as breathing—Ragnar dissolved into streams of golden light that flowed back into Sagan's chest like water returning to its source.

  “That was beautiful,” Himeko murmured.

  “Yeah, I wonder what that feels like,” Zen said softly, both of them spellbound by the fading golden light. “I never get tired of seeing it,” Zen added, glancing at his father.

  "You two can even communicate without speaking, can't you?" Osaze asked with curiosity. Sagan nodded with a small smile. "Must be incredible having a bond like that," Osaze said wistfully.

  The gates of Reldo Town rose before them, a proud symbol of safety and order. Stone archways framed heavy wooden doors reinforced with iron bands, left wide to welcome travelers, while guard towers loomed at either side, their sentries sharp-eyed and disciplined—the kind only constant drills and reliable pay could produce.

  A steady stream flowed through the checkpoint—merchants urging on loaded carts, farmers hauling baskets of produce, travelers on horseback, and the occasional band of adventurers, their weapons worn and their stances loose but ready, the air of danger about them unmistakable.

  As the caravan drew near, a guard stepped forward, his movements crisp from long habit. He was middle-aged, gray streaking his temples, his uniform trim and gear kept in reliable order. Recognition lit his face, and a genuine smile broke through the professional mask.

  "Well, if it isn't Sir Stirling and Boe!" he called out with obvious pleasure. "You're late this season—what took you so long? Don't tell me the harvest was bad."

  Boe's round face split into a grin. “Regoo! Good to see you, my friend. The harvest was bountiful as always, but we had more boar incidents than usual. Those darn things don’t care about our business schedule!”

  Regoo laughed, the sound warm with camaraderie. “Boars, eh? Well, that explains the delay.”

  Sagan swung down smoothly, drawing the caravan manifest from his coat. “Here you go, Regoo. Do your thing so we can get inside—we’ve got a celebration to attend.”

  “A celebration? Well, don’t mind if I do!” Regoo beckoned two more guards. “Boys, let’s give this cargo the full inspection.”

  The inspection was thorough yet brisk, the guards moving with the certainty of men who knew exactly what to check.

  “Squeaky clean as always, Sir,” Regoo announced as the inspection concluded.

  Sagan pulled a small leather pouch from his coat, coins clinking softly inside. “The usual toll, plus a little something extra for the festive spirit.”

  Regoo accepted the payment, his composure steady and professional. “Oh, a little something for me?”

  “Of course. You know I’ve got you covered.”

  Sagan remounted and signaled for the caravan to proceed. “Come on, everyone—let’s go celebrate!”

  As they passed through the gates, Regoo called after them, his voice full of good cheer. “Well, it’ll be nice to have some fun too!” The Semlong Festival is just around the corner—oh, I can’t wait! he thought, chuckling to himself.

  ??The transformation from checkpoint to urban environment was immediate and striking. Streets broader than any in their village stretched out in every direction, alive with activity. Buildings climbed two and three stories, their glass windows catching the afternoon sun and casting it back in warm, diffused light.

  “This place sure is alive!” Zen said, nudging Osaze and grinning as they moved through the crowd.

  By the fountain in the nearest square, a street magician had gathered a crowd with sleight-of-hand tricks. Coins vanished and returned, scarves turned into doves, and flowers bloomed from empty hands.

  “Whoa, so that’s a magician!” Osaze said, eyes wide. “Think you could pull that off, mister analyst?”

  Zen shrugged. “I don’t waste time on petty tricks meant to fool the simple-minded.”

  Osaze leaned in, giving him a sly look. “Heh, just admit you can’t do it. No shame in it, right?”

  In a blur, Zen’s hand darted out, and before Osaze could blink, a coin gleamed between his fingers—freshly pulled from behind his ear.

  “Cool! Knew you could do it! Haha” Osaze shouted.

  “It sure doesn’t take much to get a rise out of you,” Himeko said mischievously.

  As Zen cut her a sharp look, she turned away quickly, chuckling. “Woooow, look at all the different people…”

  “Really?” Zen said dryly

  After they passed the fountain, Sagan led them through the busy streets to a large, well-kept building marked as the town’s public stables. “We’ll stable the riding horses here for now,” he said, swinging down from the cart’s lead horse. “The cart horses will keep pulling our goods, but these mounts can rest while we explore.”

  The stable master, sharp-eyed and clearly appreciative of fine animals, greeted them with a nod. The transaction was swift and courteous, and soon the adults’ horses were stabled. The children, who had walked beside the caravan, stayed close as the group prepared to head deeper into town.

  Osaze was already looking ahead with anticipation. “I can smell the food from here,” he said, grinning. “I can’t wait until we get to the marketplace!”

  “Patience, boy,” Hanni said with a stern edge. “It isn’t going anywhere.”

  Her words broke off at the sound of a crowd ahead—many voices mingling beneath the strong, clear tones of someone speaking from above.

  “What do you think that is?” Himeko asked, her eyes bright with interest.

  “Only one way to find out,” Sagan said, guiding the group toward the commotion.

  The crowd had gathered before one of the grandest buildings they'd yet seen—three stories of finely cut stone and brick rising from a broad foundation, adorned with flourishes that spoke of wealth and power. Most striking was the crest carved into the fa?ade: interlocking circles wrapped around a stylized flame, the unmistakable emblem of the Protectorate.

  On the wide steps stood a man who demanded attention by presence alone. He wore robes of pristine white—elaborate vestments. A golden sash hung from his shoulder, bearing the same crest that decorated the building behind him.

  “A Protectorate Zealot,” Sagan murmured. “Recruiting, by the look of it.”

  The Zealot’s voice rolled over the square, trained and commanding. “Citizens of Reldo Town! The mission of the Protectorate calls to all who would serve the highest purpose! We are guardians of the Eterna Orbs—the very source from which all eterna power flows!”

  His gestures were theatrical but controlled. “The balance of our world—the balance of all Arcanum—rests in our hands! Every day, we stand vigilant against forces that would corrupt or steal the power that rightfully serves all civilization!”

  Murmurs of approval rippled through the crowd, faces alight with reverence, some clutching pendants bearing the Protectorate’s flame. The children could feel the fervor, genuine in many faces.

  “But we do not ask you merely to support our cause,” the Zealot continued. “We seek those with courage and ability to join us directly!”

  “Those among you driven by righteousness and justice may serve as Called Ones, working alongside us to preserve the sacred balance! And for those blessed with the greatest gift—if there are Paragon Eternas among you—you may have the glorious honor of becoming a Protector within our ranks!”

  “The Paragon Eterna represents the pinnacle of human potential,” the Zealot proclaimed, his voice swelling with reverence. “They are pure Eternas in their most perfect form, unmarred by diminishing variations. To be a Paragon is to embody the very essence of true evolution!”

  A voice called out from the crowd. A middle-aged man, hands roughened by years of labor, shouted, “I want to be a protector! How do I join?”

  The Zealot’s expression shifted with predatory speed, his eyes fixing on the speaker with sharp attention. “Oh, and are you a Paragon?”

  The man’s face fell. “Well, no, I’m not an Eterna at all, but I’ve got strong arms, a willing heart—”

  “Well, seeing your age, I’m sure you’re not even a potential Eterna,” the Zealot pressed dismissively.

  “No, but surely there’s other ways to—”

  The man’s words died as silence fell over the square. The Zealot stood perfectly still, his smile frozen in place while something dark gathered behind his eyes. The crowd leaned forward, sensing the shift. Then his face contorted with disgust, veins standing out on his forehead as rage replaced controlled charisma.

  “Then how on earth do you think you can be a Protector?!” he bellowed. “The greatest duty, reserved for the pinnacle of existence, and you dare defile it with your preposterous dream! The best us normals can do is serve their glorious cause as those that are called!”

  Several voices from the crowd called out in agreement. “He’s right!” someone shouted. “Know your place!” The man who’d asked the question stood frozen, his face burning with shame and humiliation, shoulders sagging under the weight of public ridicule.

  At the crowd’s edge, Osunde muttered, his voice edged with disdain. “As extreme as ever.”

  The rage vanished from the Zealot’s face, replaced by the same warm, charismatic smile he’d worn initially.

  “Come, come!” he called out, his voice once again filled with inclusive enthusiasm. “Now if you want to join us as a Called One, you are more than welcome—I see a just & beautiful soul in you!”

  He turned to address the entire crowd. “Join us as we protect the Eterna Orbs! Help keep the balance of our world!” The Zealot raised his fist and began chanting in a powerful voice: “Pro Aeternum, Sine Favor!”

  The chant spread through the crowd like wildfire, voices joining in steady, hypnotic rhythm: “Pro Aeternum, Sine Favor! Pro Aeternum, Sine Favor!” The words pounded like a heartbeat, drowning out thought, swallowing shame, replacing individual will with collective fervor.

  The man who’d asked about joining stood frozen among the crowd, his mind racing. He sees my soul… my soul, it’s beautiful! Yes, this is my purpose, to serve our glorious cause! The chant washed over him, through him, its rhythm fusing with his heartbeat, promising glory. His face brightened into a grateful smile as his voice joined the chorus, loud and ecstatic: “Pro Aeternum, Sine Favor!”

  The children exchanged uncomfortable glances at what they’d just witnessed.

  “Let’s move along,” Sagan said quietly

  The marketplace sprawled across a network of connected squares, alive with merchants, craftsmen, and traders. The central hub bustled with energy, every inch claimed by commerce.

  The moment they stepped inside, the children’s attention locked onto the food stalls ringing the perimeter. Aromas swirled through the air—sharp spices, sizzling meats in unfamiliar styles, and baked goods sending sweet, yeasty tendrils into the crowd.

  “Can we?” Osaze asked, eyes fixed on a vendor’s colorful display promising exotic flavors.

  “Look at all that food!” Zen cut in, marveling at the variety.

  Himeko edged closer to the nearest stall, abundance tugging past her restraint. “I want to try everything,” she murmured, the words drifting out like a wish.

  Sagan watched their pull toward the vendors and let out a low chuckle. Business soon reclaimed his focus. “Boe and I need to handle caravan business at the Royal Commerce Guild,” he said, nodding toward the grandest building across the square. The structure dominated the far side, its upper stories crowned with banners bearing the royal crest.

  Iyabo stepped forward, steady but kind. “Take your time exploring,” she told the children. “Sample the food, enjoy yourselves—but stay together and don’t stray too far. We’ll regroup for a proper celebration once the business is done.”

  The children needed no more urging. They bolted toward the stalls, eyes shining. Iyabo followed at their heels, watchful yet smiling, while Sagan and Boe guided the cart toward the guildhall.

  The Royal Commerce Guild’s unloading yard ran like clockwork—carts rolling in, goods lifted and tallied without pause. Sagan steered their cart through an archway into a cobblestone courtyard where porters and clerks kept the flow unbroken.

  A clerk approached almost before the wheels had stopped, ledger already open. “Sir Stirling. Good to see you again. How was the journey?”

  “Smooth enough,” Sagan replied, dismounting. “No complications this time.”

  From the main offices emerged a familiar figure—Indu, the senior clerk who had handled Sagan’s dealings for years. Decades with ledgers and contracts showed in her ink-stained fingers and the fine lines at her temples.

  “Sagan!” Indu called, her smile brightening her features.

  “Brought you a little something.” Sagan grinned as he produced the caravan manifest with a flourish.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Indu accepted it, her hands steady as her eyes caught the seal that marked official authorization. The crest of the Miager House—the village chief’s family mark—served as both identification and guarantee of honest commerce.

  “Excellent as always,” Indu said, her tone professional yet warm.

  Porters began unloading, each item handled with care, checked against the manifest, and sorted according to protocol. The workers moved with the efficiency of long practice, their competence plain in the smooth transfer of goods from cart to warehouse.

  Boe oversaw the process, his easy charm keeping the workers at ease while his sharp eyes caught any slip before it became a problem.

  The inspection that followed was thorough but routine. Crates were opened at random, their contents verified against the manifest. The process carried little doubt—Sagan’s reputation and the Miager seal were proof enough—but regulations demanded it.

  “All in order,” Indu declared as the inspection concluded. She produced the guild’s official receipt and payment pouch, her fingers lingering briefly on the paper, double-checking the neatness of each stamp. “Here’s your payment, with a small bonus for quality goods.”

  Sagan accepted the payment, checking the weight with practiced ease.

  “Pleasure doing business with you, as always,” Indu said, extending her hand with a graceful tilt of her wrist. “See you again next season.”

  “Count on it,” Sagan replied

  The marketplace’s din barely reached the narrow alleyway that branched off the main square. Here, shadows cloaked dealings best hidden from guards and nosy merchants. The contrast between the sunlit plaza and this dim passage was stark.

  A man in black slipped from the doorway of a well-appointed shop, a canvas sack clutched tight in his hands. Dark cloth covered his mouth and nose, leaving only his eyes exposed. His stride carried the speed of practiced efficiency, tempered with urgency.

  He’d managed barely twenty paces before a hand shot from the shadows, seized his arm in an iron clutch, and wrenched him into concealment. The motion was so sudden and precise that to any passerby it looked like he had simply vanished between buildings.

  Instinctively, the man’s hand reached for his sword—only to find the scabbard empty.

  “Old habits die hard, don’t they, Shaw?” a familiar voice teased. “How have you been, my friend?”

  A figure stepped forward: average height, lean but well-muscled, his bearing unmistakably martial. His dark hair was cut short, his clothes neat and practical. In his right hand, he twirled Shaw’s missing sword, each spin effortless.

  Shaw’s eyes narrowed above his mask. Recognition sharpened his features. “Carlos. What the hell are you doing here?”

  Carlos smiled, sent the sword spinning upward, and snagged it again in a fluid motion before offering it back. “Still stealing? You’d think getting dishonorably discharged for continuous theft might’ve taught you something.”

  Shaw snatched the weapon, sheathing it without breaking his guarded stance. “I should never have told you that story. What do you want, Carlos?”

  “Straight to the point.” Carlos’s tone carried approval. “Good. I’ll be direct. I’m building something with a good friend—something big. I want you with us.”

  Shaw barked a mocking laugh, his chest puffing out. “Huhah! Join you? I’m leader of the Laden Sword—one of the top ten mercenary guilds in the Eon Province. I don’t bend knee to anyone.”

  “I know you don’t.” Carlos’s interruption was smooth, controlled, his eyes never leaving Shaw’s. “But I’m asking you to make an exception. I’m not asking for you alone, Shaw, I want the entire Laden Sword to stand with us.”

  That struck Shaw harder than a blow. His eyes widened. “So the rumors were true. Blood Vein’s been snatching up guilds left and right, and now here you are. Just because you’re number two in Eon, you think we’ll fall in line? Forget it.”

  Carlos shook his head slowly. “Those rumors are wrong. Blood Vein isn’t behind this. I’m not speaking as their leader—I’m speaking as Vice Leader of the Lost Cause.”

  The name hung between them like a challenge.

  Carlos pressed on, leaning forward slightly, his voice steady. “We’re not just recruiting mercenaries. We’ve drawn in bandit crews, veterans, the homeless—anyone who shares our grievance and wants to change the order of things. We’re done playing hired blades. We’re building something greater. Join us, Shaw.”

  Silence stretched. Shaw studied him with eyes sharp as drawn steel. The weight of larger forces stirring in the region pressed heavy in the air.

  The market square had become the children’s domain. From the moment they’d been given permission to explore the local cuisine, they wove from stall to stall, savoring each treat in turn.

  Osaze led the charge, his face bright with excitement as he pointed out various delicacies. "Look at that!" he called out, gesturing toward a vendor whose display featured strips of seasoned meat sizzling over an open flame. "That looks amazing!"

  Zen trailed after him, sampling a skewer of honey-glazed meat from another vendor. “Such incredible flavors,” he said. Osaze grinned, snatching a bite. “Yum!”

  “Get your own food freeloader,” Zen said.

  Himeko rolled her eyes, her voice dry. “You two are going to attract every pickpocket in the square.”

  Osaze struck a heroic pose, flexing his arm. “Let them come! Do you know what this is?!”

  Himeko gave him a long, unimpressed stare. “Enlighten me.”

  “It’s a bicep,” Osaze declared triumphantly. “And it’s going to blow them away—ka-boom!”

  Zen smacked him on the back of the head, Osaze’s coin pouch dangling in his hand. “If you don’t even notice when they rob you, how are you going to beat them?”

  Zen and Himeko broke into laughter as Osaze snatched the pouch back, his mock outrage swallowed by the market’s roar.

  Behind them, Hanni maintained watchful supervision with the vigilance of a protective hawk, her hand resting lightly on the hilt of a concealed dagger.

  Soon the stalls reclaimed the children, their laughter dissolving into eager mouths and busy hands. The food more than lived up to its promise—honey cakes with crystallized fruits melted on their tongues, spiced meats wrapped in flatbread left a pleasant burn, and exotic sweets drew gasps of surprise and delight.

  "Man this is awesome!" Osaze declared around a mouthful of fried dough filled with seasoned beef. "Why doesn't anyone in our village make food like this?"

  "They don't have access to these ingredients," Zen replied, his own enthusiasm evident as he reached for another sample.

  Himeko smirked mid-bite, swallowing before she said, “Excuses. They just need to get a little more creative.”

  The trio ate and argued playfully, chewing through piles of food as the marketplace clamor rose around them.

  By the time Sagan returned, the children had worked through a substantial portion of the market's culinary offerings. Their faces glowed with satisfaction, their pockets considerably lighter, and their bellies had taken on the characteristic rounded appearance of people who'd been feasting on everything in sight.

  "Well," Sagan said with paternal amusement as he took in their obviously stuffed condition, "I can see you've been making good use of your time. Still have room for more?"

  “Always!” Osaze declared, fully confident in his limitless appetite. “My stomach might be full, but my birthday isn’t over yet!”

  Iyabo stepped forward with renewed energy. “No, it’s not! Time to go to the local inn for a real celebration. No more street food—we’re going to do this PRO-PER-LY.”

  The children perked up at once—the chance for a real birthday feast in an inn was worth finding extra room for.

  As the group began organizing itself for the move to the inn, Iyabo approached her husband, eyes set and resolute. "Osunde, you need to make peace with Osaze. I won't have you two fighting during his birthday celebration."

  Osunde’s jaw tightened in familiar resistance. “Iyabo, you know how I feel about—”

  “I know exactly how you feel,” she cut in gently but firmly. “But he’s your son, and today is his birthday. We’re here to celebrate.”

  Osunde’s silence held, his conflict etched in the lines of his face. At last, he exhaled, the fight leaving him. “All right. Just because it’s his birthday.”

  Iyabo’s smile softened into teasing warmth. “There we go.”

  As the group moved toward the inn Iyabo had selected, Osunde called out to his son. "Osaze, come here for a moment."

  Osaze looked over, his cheerful energy faltering slightly at his father's tone, but he approached without hesitation.

  "Let the others go ahead," Osunde said, gesturing for the group to continue. "We'll catch up in a minute."

  "What's the problem, dad?" Osaze asked, wariness replacing his earlier excitement as he sensed what this might be about.

  "There’s no problem ," Osunde replied. "I just thought we should talk. It's been a while since we spoke, and we didn't exactly leave things on the best note."

  The afternoon sun was beginning its descent toward evening, painting the buildings around them in rich, orange hues.

  "Happy birthday, Osaze," Osunde said finally, the words carrying genuine affection despite the tension between them.

  Osaze's response was immediate but tinged with hurt. "Thank you. Took you long enough to say that."

  "Yes, I know," Osunde agreed quietly. "It did." He paused, gathering his thoughts. "You're fifteen years old today, Osaze. Fifteen."

  "I know that, dad."

  "And I'm sure you also know what that means."

  Osaze nodded, eyes bright with anticipation. “I’ll be able to take the Eterna test this year.”

  “Yes, this is the year you’re going to find out whether you have the potential to be an Eterna.” Osunde spoke with deliberate calm. “I bet you’re excited about that.”

  Osaze remained silent, the pause stretching longer than comfortable. Finally, Osunde continued. "You don't need to hold back—I know you are. That said, I have to ask you, Osaze—what if you fail the test? What if you can't become an Eterna?"

  The question unsettled Osaze, his stomach tightening. His response was immediate, defensive. "There's no need for me to think about such things. I know you and mother not being Eternas lowers my chances, but I will be an Eterna."

  "But what if you're not?" Osunde pressed gently.

  “Then it doesn’t matter,” Osaze replied, stubborn in his resolve. “I’ll just join one of the regular military academies and strive toward my dreams even as a non-Eterna.”

  Osunde felt his heart sink. “Your dream… hmm. Your dream is to rise to the very top of the army, to achieve great feats like the Champion of War,” he said heavily. “But do you know what that entails?”

  "The highest position in the army is General," Osunde continued carefully. "Leading tens of thousands of soldiers, responsible for their lives and deaths. It's not about glory seeking."

  "I know!" Osaze snapped, conviction ringing in his voice.

  "Well, what if I tell you that without being an Eterna, your dreams are hopeless?" Osunde's voice carried the weight of hard experience. "Ever since Eternas have existed, only one non-Eterna has ever made it to Commander."

  He paused, letting that sink in. "And none—not a single one—has ever gone beyond that. You need to be at least a Level Two Eterna to hold the Commander title. That's not my opinion, Osaze. That's army regulation."

  Osaze's face went pale as he processed this information. "What? How do I even know that's true? You were never even in the army! How do I know you aren't just lying?"

  The accusation struck Osunde, leaving him momentarily stunned. Before he could respond, however, a slurred voice called out from across the street.

  "Hey! Is that you? Is that really you?!" A middle-aged man in army officer's uniform stumbled out of a nearby tavern, his gait unsteady. "I can’t believe it! Osu—"

  Before the drunk soldier could finish, Sagan appeared as if from nowhere, stepping smoothly into the man's path and blocking his direct line to Osunde.The intervention was natural and casual, maybe too perfect.

  “Now, now,” Sagan chided, a hint of good humor in his authoritative tone. "There's no one like that here. You must be seeing double—happens to the best of us after a good session.You’d best be on your way and find your bed before you find the floor."

  The drunk soldier blinked in confusion, his alcohol-fogged mind struggling. After a moment of befuddled staring, he gave a nod of exaggerated dignity. "Right, right. My mistake entirely." He wandered off in the opposite direction.

  Osaze’s eyes sharpened. "What was that just now? Does he know you?"

  Osunde’s response remained even, though tension gathered in his shoulders. “The man is drunk—clearly confused. Don’t mind him. I won’t let you change the topic so easily.”

  But the interruption had shifted something in the conversation's dynamic. Osaze watched his father with sharper attention, questions forming behind his eyes.

  “If you think I'm lying about the army requirements,” Osunde continued, his voice carrying renewed authority, "you can confirm it with Sagan later. For now, let's assume it's true—what then, Osaze? What happens to your dreams?"

  Osaze's jaw set as he processed the implications, then his chin lifted, defiance in his posture. "Then, if I actually can't be an Eterna, I'll be the first to break that barrier. I'll prove that a non-Eterna can rise beyond Commander."

  "Childish nonsense,” Osunde said, shaking his head bitterly. "You think you can simply will yourself past limitations that have held for generations?"

  “This is what I’m concerned about,” Osunde said, his voice softening, gentle in a fatherly way, even as his words remained harsh.

  “You don’t seem to understand everything involved with that dream of yours. You glorify army life but don’t know the half of it.” His eyes searched Osaze’s face. “You look forward to the battlefield but don’t understand how bloody it is. Your eyes shine at the idea of warfare, yet you can’t even grasp its horrors.”

  He paused, letting the weight of his words settle between them.

  “To put it frankly, you are being naive, aiming for something with no concept of what it truly entails.”

  Osunde exhaled slowly, his expression mixing frustration with deep affection.

  “Understand where I’m coming from, Osaze.” His voice grew quieter, more intense. “My precious boy says he wants to run to the battlefield with blind idealism, where his life could easily be forfeit, and you want me to what? accept it?”

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I cannot. I will not stop you, but I will not be silent.”

  His eyes held both sorrow and fierce love. “You may want someone to raise you up, but I will bring you back to the ground—back to reality—never sugar-coating it because I love you, my boy.”

  Without warning, he reached out and pulled Osaze close, his strong arms encircling his son's head in a gesture both protective and desperate. For a moment, argument and tension dissolved into pure parental love.

  They stood there in silence, father and son, the weight of unspoken fears and love hanging between them. Osaze didn't pull away, despite his stubborn pride, feeling the tremor in his father's embrace that spoke of deeper worries than harsh words could convey.

  Finally, Osunde released him with a shaky breath. "Now enough of that," he said, forcing a smile. "Take in my words and let's have a good time. It's your birthday, after all."

  As they walked to catch up with the others, Osaze remained quiet, his father’s harsh lecture pressing oh so heavily on his mind.

  Mary's Place occupied the ground floor of a three-story building designed with hospitality in mind. Large windows allowed natural light to stream across polished wooden floors, while interior decoration struck a perfect balance between comfort and charm. The walls were adorned with local artwork and memorabilia from successful harvests and community festivals.

  From the kitchen drifted the crackle of roasting meat and the sharp sweetness of herbs, a promise that the cook knew exactly what they were doing.

  When their group entered, they drew respectful attention, seen clearly as visitors but welcomed all the same.

  "Table for eight,” Iyabo said brightly to the serving woman. “It’s my son’s birthday!”

  The woman’s face brightened. "A birthday! How wonderful! We'll make sure you get our best service tonight."

  They settled around a long table by the window, where the day’s fading light slanted across the wood in soft streaks. Serving hands moved briskly, setting down platters that filled the air with the crackle of roast meat and the tang of herbs. Bowls of vegetables, bread still steaming at the break, and dishes spiced in ways that marked the inn’s signature fare soon crowded the table’s surface.

  Despite the feast spread before him, Osaze remained unusually quiet. He ate mechanically, a sharp contrast to his usual enthusiastic engagement, his thoughts still tangled in the conversation with his father.

  Zen noticed his friend's subdued behavior almost immediately. "What's up, Osaze? A mountain of food in front of you, and you don't even seem interested. Come on, lighten up—whose birthday is this?"

  Osaze looked up, an expression caught between gratitude for the concern and the heaviness of inner conflict.

  But Zen's perceptive nature had caught the underlying tension. "Getting cold feet now that the Eterna test is around the corner?" Zen asked. "Just two months away."

  The question struck closer to home than Zen realized. Osaze glanced toward his father, who sat at the table's far end engaged in quiet conversation with Sagan.

  “Cold feet? No way.” This time Osaze straightened, his tone steady. “I’m ready for it.”

  The core convictions that had driven him to fight the boar and stand up to bullies remained unchanged, weathering his father's harsh truths like a flame that couldn't be extinguished by wind.

  Sorry, Dad, he thought, resolve deepening. I understand everything you’ve said—I really do. But I know I'll become an Eterna. And maybe I am naive... but if war is as horrific as you say, then that's exactly why I need to be there. Even if all I can do is save one life—just one—it'll be worth it. Yes, I want to be great, to be a hero, but I also want to protect Astralyn—to stand between the people I love and the wars that are sure to come, as they always have.

  Resolution eased into his frame, softening the set of his mouth. When he turned to Zen again, the smile he offered was the first genuine one since they’d entered the inn.

  "You know what? You’re right.” Energy returned to his voice as he added, “It’s my birthday—let’s enjoy it.”

  From across the table, Iyabo's face brightened with relief as she watched her son's spirits lift.

  His enthusiasm was contagious, spreading to Himeko and then to the rest of the table like ripples from a stone dropped in still water. "And you're right about something else too. Zen, you're fifteen. Himeko, you're turning fifteen in just two weeks before the test. This is our year!"

  Zen grinned widely, caught up in his friend's excitement, while Himeko leaned forward with anticipation.

  "We're all going to be Eternas!" Osaze declared with absolute confidence. "All three of us!"

  The declaration sparked an impromptu chant that began with the three friends and quickly spread to most of the table. "Eterna! Eterna! Eterna!" they called out, their voices mixing with laughter and the clatter of celebration.

  Osunde remained quiet, watching his son's renewed confidence with a mixture of concern and resignation. I see.

  The inn's staff, accustomed to birthday celebrations but charmed by the enthusiasm, joined in with professional grace. When the traditional birthday song echoed through the common room, other patrons added their voices, the common room swelling into a spontaneous, unforgettable moment.

  The previous night, before the town events

  Darkness had settled over the wilderness like a heavy blanket, broken only by scattered points of light revealing a carefully concealed encampment. The location had been chosen with professional precision—hidden in a depression between low hills, surrounded by trees that would break up the silhouette when viewed from a distance, and positioned near a stream that provided both water and sound cover for private conversations.

  The camp bore all the hallmarks of a military operation. Tents were arranged in precise rows with proper spacing for security and efficiency. Guards moved in overlapping patterns, their routes never quite predictable.

  An air of discipline hung over the camp. Hard-faced men and women moved as if danger were second nature, weapons clean but worn from use, their duties handled with a practiced, unspoken order.

  At the camp’s center stood a tent larger than the others, the command center. Light glowed softly from within, suggesting important business was being conducted despite the late hour.

  A figure approached in purposeful strides, his weathered leather clothing and travel-stained appearance betraying a long journey. The guards nodded respectfully rather than challenging him—he was expected.

  Landon paused at the tent’s entrance, taking a moment to collect himself after the journey. He pushed aside the tent flap and stepped in. The interior was functional rather than luxurious, dominated by a large table covered with maps and documents. Luminous lamps cast a steady glow over seven figures seated in a precise semicircle, the air thick with focus.

  At the head sat a broad-shouldered man, built for endurance, the kind who looked carved out of storms rather than worn down by them. When he spoke, his low voice cut through the room, quiet yet impossible to ignore.

  “Welcome back, Maiko.”

  Not Landon. Not the name he’d given in Okorodu.

  Outside, the camp kept its disciplined rhythm, every movement sharpened by the focus of an organization preparing for action, not merely waiting for orders.