Dream: The Sky is Burning
The sky in the dream was ablaze. The ancient castle walls that boasted long history, the spires that seemed to pierce the heavens, even the hunting grounds in front of the territory where he occasionally went out with his father—all of it was going up in flames.
Even burning, it looks majestic...
He wanted to enter that castle and wander freely. Without minding the whispering servants, without caring about the frightening suits of armor that always looked at him with displeasure, just freely, quietly. While avoiding the duchess who treated him as if he shouldn't exist in this world, not even sparing him a glance. And in the end, to say to his father, "I'm home."
The heat from the demonic flames reached even this annex where he was. It seemed the battle for the family's fate wasn't going well. He'd heard from the start that they were at a disadvantage. The knight families on their side either ignored the summons or sent only token forces that amounted to suicide. Meanwhile, the enemy had marched in fully prepared.
Those banners... betrayal... no, some families read the flow quickly.
Rumble! The ground tore open with a sound, and dust shrouded his vision. When the wind stirred up by the besieging mages pushed the dust toward the castle, he could see the cause. The forward camp they'd set up in front of the castle for a delaying action had collapsed almost entirely, leaving only fragments behind.
With no more obstacles, the trebuchets would now be positioned within range, and the merciless siege would begin. How much time was left? An hour? Two? Or surrender before that?
No way they'd surrender, and no way it'd be accepted.
If agreement could have been reached through words, they never would have reached this messy stage of territorial war. No, there had been an implicit consensus from the beginning. That one side had to fall. The enemy had simply acted first—and more decisively.
Boom! Boom! The still-functional barbicans spat cannonballs at the approaching trebuchets. Even with reinforcement magic bolstering their durability, several that took direct hits shattered without a trace.
When did they acquire those?
Mana stone cannons were supplied first to the kingdom capital's key defenses as soon as they were produced... As expected, there was nothing status and money couldn't buy. Of course, if they'd gotten them a bit earlier and used them better, they might have avoided this situation.
Clop clop! It seemed the enemy's cavalry was breaking through the moat to enter the castle. The furious gallop of warhorses reached even here... No. It wasn't cavalry.
A single set of hooves was heading not toward the castle, but straight for his annex.
So that's it. Word that I'm here has leaked out.
The enemy's resolve burned fiercely—no embers left behind, no matter how small. In the midst of a territorial war where every hand was needed, they'd deliberately pulled a knight to kill even him.
Shing. He drew the dagger, the only gift from his father years ago. It wouldn't do much against a fully armored knight, but he had no intention of going down easily. Lately, he'd even learned a bit of simple attack magic. At the very least, he'd make sure they remembered he was here.
Snort! The horse seemed to stop in front of the annex. Soon after, the rider dismounted... but no clank of armor.
Not a knight?
He quickly tucked the dagger back into his bosom and peeked slantwise through the window. Smoke blanketed the world, obscuring the figure's face.
Bang bang bang! Knocking?
His thoughts froze at the polite gesture so out of place. Bang bang! Bang bang bang! With no answer, the knocking grew more irritable. This was unexpected. Whoever came to kill him was... knocking? Did they not know he was here? Or did they mistake him for someone else?
Boom! In that moment, an enemy strike hit the barbican that had been firing shells. The cannon platform had crumpled into a jagged ruin.
This is really the end.
As that thought crossed his mind, the annex door burst open.
Damn... I let my guard down.
Judging by the build, it was a sturdy adult male. Drawing the dagger now would be pointless in a direct confrontation. Even if he distracted with crude magic and stabbed a joint in the armor, the chainmail underneath would block it. All he could do was play the frail boy the world knew, waiting for an opening...
"There you are! Don't ask questions—just grab your things and come out!"
"...Pardon?"
Clang! The dagger he'd hidden behind his back slipped from his grasp.
Acrid smoke poured through the open door, screams pierced the air as the walls crumbled, the sharp clash of weapons and armor rang out—but it all lost meaning. Only the man before him remained in the world.
A man from memories he couldn't place in time. A man who shouldn't be here now. But the one he'd vainly hoped would come.
One of the kingdom's three great dukes, the man who'd opposed further war expansion, the lord of this burning castle and territory.
His father stared at him with an urgent expression.
"Didn't you hear? Grab your things and get out!"
"Ah... I..."
The dream he'd only had became reality, and words failed him. Like wax clogging his throat, only meaningless noise escaped. Seeing this, his father deemed it hopeless and opened the bag himself, stuffing things in.
"You can see the situation outside— the territorial war is as good as lost. The enemy will swarm soon. My family and I will be hostages, but you're different. If they catch you, you'll die."
Still, no words came. Why now? Why not sooner... couldn't you come more often? The words welled up to the tip of his tongue but wouldn't spill out. If he said them, even the father who'd come now might leave again. Because his existence was that insignificant.
"Hurry up and move!"
He didn't know what was being shoved in, but the father thrust the bulging bag into his hands and pointed to the horse he'd ridden.
"Brought the tamest of the hunting horses. Ride it straight down the road. Don't stop until you reach a neutral city."
"Ah... right."
His mouth worked now, but his body wouldn't move. As if wishing this moment would stretch longer.
Frustrated by his stunned stance with the bag, his father picked him up bag and all, setting him atop the horse. One of his father's ears was half-torn off, crusted with blood.
"W-wait...! J-just a moment, Your Grace."
"What is it? We don't have time."
What had he wanted to say then? Or had he just wished the moment would last forever? He couldn't recall now. As the boy hesitated, his father spoke.
"Remember this. Ride straight to the free city. When you arrive, give this letter to the guards. The lord there will take you in." Hyah!
His father lightly slapped the horse's rear, and it bolted. He gripped desperately to stay on, yanking the reins with all his might, but the horse ignored him. It bucked wildly, as if saying be grateful it wasn't throwing him off just yet.
"Wait, Your Grace! Why are you here now! Your Grace!"
"Avenge us!"
"Pardon?"
Looking back, over half the castle was engulfed in flames. The enemy, with no intent to take prisoners, poured endless attacks on the crumbling walls. Against the backdrop of his collapsing territory, his father watched him.
He couldn't recall his father's expression then.
"Avenge what, Your Grace? Your family and children are in that castle—why me!"
Now, he might be able to call it out. Here, with no one else, just him and his father. No servants who disapproved of him, no knights who stiffened at his sight, no duchess who ignored him as if he didn't exist...
"F-Fa... th... Fa... ther..."
His mouth wouldn't move. His father seemed to say something, but it didn't reach him. Then, the sky lit up like dawn. A boulder enhanced with flame magic hurtled toward the annex.
"No! Get away, Your Grace! Dodge it! Fathe—!"
Boom!!!
* * *
"Father!!"
Cold sweat soaked him from the nape to his waist. His nails had dug into his palms like an invisible rein. Releasing brought a stinging pain—flesh torn.
The room had devices to retain warmth, but they couldn't fully fend off Manrmursk's winter. The sweat cooled, leaving a piercing chill.
How long since I last had this dream...?
He always tried to call his father at the end, but his mouth wouldn't obey. Even in the manifestation of his subconscious, unable to call as he wished—it stirred not sadness, but wretchedness.
"Father... Father..."
Easy to say now.
Once I finish all this, once I complete the revenge Father asked for...
Then he could call proudly. Father. His name. His mother.
"This world will know exactly who I am."
Tap tap!
Hm?
In the early dawn, toes barely touching the floor, a plump pigeon bobbed its head beyond the fogged window.
Coo coo! Its call was so loud it pierced the closed pane clearly. Curious, he opened the window to let it in—but it fluttered away.
Ha, what an insolent ball of feathers.
Recalling the annoyingly cheeky pigeon as he headed to work, he ran into Jepeto stretching lazily.
The long-lost dream had stirred his unconscious; Seolhwa's slightly blank face drew a jab from Jepeto.
"Why the long face, lad?"
"Good morning, sir. Ah, nothing—just a pigeon stuck to the window."
"Pigeon? In this frozen hell? Ah!"
Like a predator spotting prey at dawn, Jepeto's grin stretched ear to ear. The expression irked more than the pigeon; as Seolhwa turned away, Jepeto said,
"You've already caught her eye, lad."