Jeim'Dal

Chapter 8: The Knight and the Dying Sun

"Truth?.." The Lord Knight Commander repeated, his voice low and distant. "Truth is what a man believes it to be. Every soul fashions its own version of it. Some believe the whispers that the King is dead, or that the Fountain is naught but a tale." His tone grew grim, as though he carried a secret too heavy to speak yet could not forget.

Melbourne furrowed his brow. "Forgive me, my Lord, yet your words do more to stir confusion than grant clarity. I seek no riddle I seek only the truth."

The Commander's reply came slow and measured, as if carved by weariness.

"The truth you search for matters little in this moment," he said. "What matters is that you yet breathe... and those you hold dear remain safe."

As they approached the towering gates of Er'tor, the great wooden doors creaked open, and warm lamplight spilled into the dusk. The people gathered in the streets peered at the returning soldiers some with trembling hope, others with dread, as if unsure whether they looked upon the living... or the dead.

Some cheered.
Some wept.
Some fell silent with grief or relief.

Melbourne felt a dozen eyes upon him. Instinct lifted his hand to wave, yet halfway through the gesture something in him faltered. His hand curled instead into a fist, hanging heavy at his side.

"Look well at each face you pass," the Commander murmured from atop his horse, head held high and posture unwavering. Melbourne could not fathom how the man remained so composed after Riven North... after the long march filled with death and shadow.

"These faces," the Commander continued, voice cold with truth, "whether you know them or not they are the reason we draw steel, the reason we dance upon the edge of death."

He paused, breathing deeply.

"Yes, we are sworn to the Crown," he said, "yet the Crown is naught without its people. Do not mistake me I remain loyal. A lap dog, some would say." His attempt at humor bore no warmth, only exhaustion. "But loyalty without purpose is hollow."

They passed the square, then the wells, until at last they reached the Knight's Barracks near the inner castle walls. The Commander dismounted, removed his gauntlets, and motioned sharply.

"Sit with me."

Melbourne obeyed, lowering himself beside the man at one of the long oaken tables in the great hall. The hall was dim, lit by candles and torches whose flames wavered in the draft.

For a long moment, neither spoke.

At last, the Lord Knight Commander broke the silence.

"I was once called the Knight who fought beneath the dying sun," he said quietly. His voice trembled, not with fear, but memory. "In the western lands of Abira Aayad, at the Bridge of Joy, I stood amidst the slain friend and foe alike."

Melbourne listened, still as stone.

"I was proud then," the Commander whispered. "Proud of my skill. Proud of the songs sung of me. Blind to all but glory." He shook his head slowly. "But glory fades. And pride without honor is worth less than rusted steel."

His hands clenched, knuckles whitening.

"I carved through their ranks like wind through wheat... a storm of steel sweeping the plains." His gaze lifted, meeting Melbourne's eyes directly. "Yet all of it every death, every scream, was wrought from the foolish quarrel of two noblemen over a border stone."

The words hung heavy.

A moment passed. Then another.

When he spoke again, his voice carried sorrow deeper than any wound.

"All war is folly when begun by pride. We are pawns in their games, yet honor is not granted by the Crown, nor by the one who wears it." He placed a hand over his heart. "Honor is found in the one who gives his life for others, for this land, for these people."

His jaw tightened.

"But what choice have we?" he finished softly. "The Emperor sits the throne, and while he does, the people will follow him... and we must protect them, whatever the cost."

Melbourne bowed his head, not in submission, but in understanding.

Outside, the last ember of daylight flickered and faded beyond the mountains, and the sky swallowed it whole. Yet even as darkness claimed the world, the faintest line of gold clung stubbornly to the horizon fragile, wounded, but unbroken.

For even a dying sun still fights to shine.