Chapter 255: Lord Veynar
The voices were low, but they carried. They spread from group to group, slipping past the noise of armor and shifting feet, weaving into the air like smoke. Once heard, they couldn’t be unheard.
Sun heard them. His eyes flicked across the crowd, catching movement, catching mouths as they leaned close to speak. His fists curled tight until his knuckles turned white. His teeth pressed so hard together the muscle in his cheek twitched.
Still, he said nothing to the whispers. He only turned sharply to the cluster of nobles beside him. His tone cracked like a whip, the sound biting into the morning air. "Prepare your units. We march at dawn."
He didn’t look back at Jae. He didn’t have to. The fury in the set of his shoulders was plain as he strode away, each step heavy and deliberate. The nobles scrambled after him, their polished armor clinking and clattering, their expressions taut and unreadable.
The cadets, though, didn’t move right away. Their eyes stayed fixed on Jae. Not all of them, but enough. Some drifted a little closer, as if his calm steadiness drew them in without effort.
Others just stood straighter, as if their bodies made the choice their voices hadn’t yet dared. They didn’t cheer or shout, but their shoulders squared, their stances steadied.
It wasn’t discipline that held them together in that moment. It was something simpler. Something that felt like trust.
Byun exhaled softly beside him, the grin fading from his face at last. He leaned close enough that only Jae could hear. His voice carried a weight he rarely showed. "Congratulations, farmboy. You just painted a target on your back the size of the whole kingdom."
Jae smirked faintly, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. "Wouldn’t be the first." His voice was steady, but there was a tired note beneath it, the kind of tiredness that came from carrying more than one man’s share of weight.
Byun chuckled, but the sound didn’t carry the same lightness as before. The humor stayed thin, edged with something more serious, something closer to worry.
The coin slipped between his fingers again, spinning, catching light, falling, catching. He didn’t look at it this time. His eyes stayed on Sun’s retreating figure, his grin long gone.
Around them, the camp slowly began to move again, though the mood had changed. Men tightened straps, checked weapons, murmured to each other.
But the looks they cast toward Jae lingered. Respectful. Curious. Grateful. Some even bordered on loyal, though none dared speak it outright.
Byun gave another low whistle under his breath. "Yeah," he muttered, flipping the coin one last time, "definitely painted a target."
Jae didn’t answer. His eyes stayed forward, calm but unyielding, as the camp settled around him in a new rhythm.
xxxx
The enemy arrived at midmorning.
At first it was only sound. A low, steady beat of drums rolled across the hills, too even and too deliberate to be mistaken for anything but marching men.
Each thud seemed to press against the chest, matching heartbeats until the cadets couldn’t tell if it was inside them or beyond the ridge. The rhythm refused to fade. It carried on, as though daring anyone listening to forget what it meant.
The cadets shifted uneasily where they stood. Some clutched the grips of their weapons tighter, fingers sweaty inside leather gloves.
Others breathed faster without realizing, eyes flicking to the ridge as if staring hard enough might change what waited beyond. The sound went on and on, until it felt like it filled the very air they breathed.
Then came the sight.
Banners rose against the pale stretch of sky, snapping in the breeze. The cloths were a harsh red and black, stitched with foreign symbols that no one in the cadet ranks recognized.
Yet instinct rejected them, there was something about those shapes that felt sharp, unfriendly, almost mocking. The banners tilted and swayed in the wind, carried high by soldiers who marched with eerie steadiness, their steps falling in rhythm with the unbroken drums.
Behind the banners followed the glint of iron and steel, a jagged forest of weapons catching the light. Spears stood tall like an army of trees stripped bare, while shields overlapped in neat lines that gleamed whenever the sun caught them.
The polished surfaces reflected slivers of sunlight into the cadets’ eyes, blinding some, dazzling others. Each flash seemed like a signal, a cruel reminder of how disciplined their enemy truly was.
The cadets stiffened. A boy near the front licked his lips, though his mouth was too dry for it to help. Another muttered a prayer under his breath, the words too soft for anyone else to hear. Some shifted their grips on swords that had hardly tasted use.
Others clenched their jaws, hoping the act alone would steady their hands. Even the instructors, usually loud and unrelenting, grew silent.
Orders were no longer barked across the line; the veterans simply watched, eyes narrowed, bodies still. It was the silence of men who had seen battle before and knew the weight that was about to fall.
And then he appeared.
Lord Veynar.
He walked at the head of his army not like a soldier, but like a man entering his own banquet hall. His armor shone bright silver with golden trim, polished so cleanly that the sunlight flared off it in sharp bursts.
A thick mantle of fur draped across his shoulders, too fine and too heavy for the road. A crimson cape trailed behind him, brushing the dirt so that the ground itself seemed forced to carry his colors.
Every step he took was measured, yet careless at the same time, as though he couldn’t imagine the ground doing anything but holding him. Dust rose faintly under his boots, catching the light like mist.
In his hands he carried a long spear, but not the way a fighter should. He rested it across his shoulders as though it were no more than a yoke, his arms slung lazily over it. His stride was unhurried, casual even, yet behind him the soldiers marched in perfect step, adjusting without pause to keep the line tight.