The sun stood at its zenith.
The cart rolled forward at a slow, uneven pace, jolting over the loose stones of an old forgotten road. The axles groaned under the weight of oil barrels stacked in the back; the acrid smell rose, heated by the light. At the front, an Earth Dragon pulled the load with an unhurried gait.
Up on the driver's bench, a man held the reins with one absent hand, whistling a tune without a name. His face was a little dirty, sleeves rolled up, posture loose, eyes sharp. He seemed more interested in watching the clouds than the road. One of those travelers you might take for a merchant — or a madman.
Suddenly, the Dragon stopped.
Its claws scraped the ground, nostrils flaring. Something in the air had changed. The driver stopped whistling. He narrowed his eyes and leaned to the side.
Before him lay a scene of ruins.
Debris, streaks of blood, shattered carts. He hopped lightly from the bench, landing in the dust, and patted the beast's flank.
Otto : What is it you smell?
The Dragon snorted, ears pricked. The man pressed his palm briefly to the warm scale, murmuring a few low words with a strange rhythm. The creature's breathing steadied.
He stepped forward a few paces, hands on his hips, studying the carnage with a look half curious, half wary.
Otto : Back up or move forward, huh… same story as always.
He advanced carefully, eyes alert.
A vast plain stretched ahead. The grass, once high and green, had been trampled, fouled, scorched in places. Dark streaks scored the ground like the claws of a beast. A light wind stirred the few blades still standing, as if the earth had not finished trembling.
Bodies lay scattered across the field — some in heaps, others alone. Carts reduced to carcasses, lances splintered, banners torn.
His gaze caught on one, still raised, clinging to what remained of a makeshift pole: the crest of House Karsten.
The name was familiar. Rumors had spoken of a military operation launched by that family. A hunt, perhaps. Or a war. The words slipped from him, but the echoes stayed.
He kept walking, slow steps, the cart following behind as if offering him support.
One eye on the wreckage. The other, always on the shadows.
His boots touched ground stained with dried blood.
Around him, figures leaned against rocks or broken wheels. Soldiers without helmets, without weapons. Some without legs. Others stared with eyes open yet empty. None spoke.
He moved carefully between the debris, avoiding a split helmet, stepping over an arm no longer attached to anything. Eyes followed him. Wary. Spent.
His clothes were not those of a soldier — too clean, too light. His face, not that of a noble — too free. His accent, vague, unplaceable.
Survivor : A merchant?
The stranger didn't answer. He barely lifted his gaze, met a few eyes, then kept walking without slowing. As if the scene did not stop him. As if he were looking for something at the heart of the disaster.
In the middle of the field — a lone figure.
Still. Collapsed.
He approached slowly, heavy steps, eyes fixed on the human shape wedged between two ruined carts. A woman in armor. The metal was dented, split in places. Her left arm, broken, hung at her side. Her cape was in tatters. Dust and dried blood coated her skin.
He crouched. Two fingers to her neck.
She was still breathing.
Her features were strained, worn, but there was no doubt. He knew her face. He had seen it on posters, in newspapers, plastered on city walls.
Crusch Karsten. Candidate for the throne.
He froze for a moment, as if the name rang strangely in this silence.
Then he breathed, low, almost to himself:
Otto : It's really her…
He slid his arms under her, tried to lift.
Too heavy. The armor weighed her down; straps still fastened pulled at her shoulder. Even in unconsciousness, her fingers clung to the hilt of her sword — as if searching for certainty.
He hesitated, then carefully pried her grip loose. The steel came free with a soft pull. He held the weapon a moment, thoughtful, before tucking it between two barrels, close enough to reach but out of the way.
Otto : Not the time to be stubborn.
With a wave of his hand, he beckoned to a wounded soldier still on his feet. The man eyed him warily, then stepped forward without a word. Together, they freed a strap, unfastened the cape, and hauled her into the cart.
She rested between two barrels; the wood hoops gave off the warm smell of oil. Pale-faced, her head leaned against a folded canvas. From time to time, her fingers moved faintly near her ring finger, as if searching for a missing weight.
The stranger watched her for a moment.
Then raised his eyes to the blazing sky above that sea of mud and blood.
He exhaled, almost resigned:
Otto : Once again, not my choice.
He walked slowly among the bodies, the wreckage, the weapons rusted with blood.
One by one, he found those still breathing. Faces dazed, eyes lost.
He stopped before a small group crouched near a dead fire.
Otto : You from Karsten?
They nodded. No words.
Otto : Gather those who can still be carried. Use the carts that can still move. We're heading back.
A silence. Then, without a word, they rose. Slow, broken, obedient.
They followed because he spoke, because he walked, because they no longer knew where to go.
He took the lead.
They followed. Wordless.
The convoy moved slowly. Wheels groaned; the Earth Dragon's steps beat against the cracked road.
At the front, the stranger stayed upright. Silent.
A rustle of cloth, a ragged breath, from the back of the cart. He turned his head slightly without stopping.
Otto : You're awake, Lady Karsten?
A silence. Then, lower:
Otto : If I'm not mistaken… you faced the White Whale. And after that… the Witch's Cult?
A long silence.
Crusch : …Thank you. How do you call yourself?
Otto : Otto Suwen.
Otto : Today, I suppose I'm your savior. It's not every day you rescue a candidate for the throne.
Another silence settled between them.
After a few minutes, a faint movement at the back of the cart — Crusch, still pale, managed to lean forward, her troubled gaze seeking her rescuer's.
Crusch : You called me… Lady Karsten?
Otto smiled, without mockery.
Otto : That's right. You're Crusch Karsten, candidate for the throne of Lugnica. Your face is everywhere in the kingdom. Hard to mistake you.
She lowered her eyes. Her voice dropped to a whisper:
Crusch : Crusch… Karsten…
Crusch : I don't remember that name…
The wind lifted the dust from the ruined field. Otto felt a faint sting in his chest — as if something in the order of the world had just shifted from its path.