Corvin stayed back after the crowd had thinned, lingering near the recruitment desk as a few others trickled away with questions of their own. He wasn't signing up—not yet—but he needed to know. He approached the man behind the table, whose cloak barely concealed the exhaustion in his eyes.
"Excuse me," Corvin said quietly. "What kind of… compensation is given?"
The man didn't even glance up.
"Five silver coins a month." He looked at Corvin for a moment then continued "And if you miss the national selection while serving, they'll give you a recommendation letter. That's it."
Corvin frowned.
"Just five?"
"That's generous. You'll get fed and clothed. Count yourself lucky," the man muttered, scribbling something down.
Lucky… Corvin turned away without replying. Five silver a month wasn't even half of what his father made working the docks—and barely enough to feed two people, let alone four. The two loaves of bread in his bag had cost four copper. It all felt hollow.
By the time he walked home, the sun had shifted toward noon, casting short, bright shadows over the cobbled road. His house stood in its usual spot near the edge of the quarter—sturdy, made of aging stone and sea-worn wood. One floor. Three rooms. A kitchen just big enough for the four of them to eat shoulder-to-shoulder.
He stepped inside to the warmth. His mother and Jelena were sitting by the table.
"There you are," his mother said with a small smile.
"We were getting worried."
Jelena leaned over to peek into the bag in his hands.
"You remembered the bread!"
"I always do," Corvin said with a tired smile, handing the loaves over. "You didn't go to school today?"
She shook her head.
"Day off. Remember?"
His sister was going to the public school which was only open for half of the week from Tuesday to Friday. And today was already Saturday.
"Looks like my memory is failing me already." Corvin giggled.
His mother was still smiling, but Corvin saw it—the worry in her eyes. She'd always been good at hiding things.
"We were at the square," she added. "Heard the mayor yelling like a madman."
Her smile vanished. "Did you…"
"No. I didn't volunteer," Corvin said quickly. "I just asked what they were offering."
"And?" Jelena asked.
He hesitated. "Five silver tallies. A letter for the national exam if you miss it."
His mother looked down at the bread in her hands.
"Five silver… that's barely enough for our meals, let alone anything else."
"I know."
They were quiet for a moment.
"We'll talk more when your father gets back," his mother said at last. "Best not decide anything until then."
Corvin nodded and slipped into his room.
It was a small space tucked into the corner of the house, the walls lined with books and old parchment. Most of them were worn from rereading—logic, rhetoric, histories, cases, and speeches from lawyers long dead. His desk was cluttered but in an organized way. Every note had its place.
He sat at the edge of his bed and stared at the shelves. For years now, his future had been planned out and set in stone—take the national exam, get into the university, and become a lawyer. Not because it was easy, but because it mattered. His father had broken his back so Corvin wouldn't have to.
He reached for one of his older books, The Military Geniuses of Emperor Attalia. The cover was fraying at the corners. He flipped through the first few pages, though he didn't really feel like reading.
Attalia, they said, had been a scourge in human form. Conqueror, tactician, emperor. The man conquered half of the world when he was only thirty and established an empire that almost united the whole of humankind. But even he had died eventually—cut down on a battlefield whose name no one remembered about five hundred years ago. But his empire still remained, standing as one of the world's greatest empires, wearing his name as a crown and symbol of honor.
Corvin closed the book and leaned back against the wall.
'Is this what I'm going to war against? Such legacy?'
Dinner was quiet.
The table was filled with steam and the smell of boiled fish and potatoes. Jelena poked at hers. Their mother hummed softly, pretending to be calm. Corvin waited, tense.
Their father, stoic and weathered, finally spoke.
They sat together at the table—Corvin, Jelena, their mother stirring the pot, and their father quiet as a stone.
"I heard," he said after a while. "About the call."
Everyone looked up.
"I'll go."
Everyone looked up.
"I'll volunteer," he said, voice firm, staring at no one. "You're not going, Corvin."
Corvin blinked. "But—"
"You're not fit for this. And you've got a future. I won't let that get buried in some trench."
His mother set her spoon down, her lips drawn tight.
"Love, you're not twenty anymore. And we need your income to sustain ourselves."
"She's right," Corvin added. "We need your income. And the army only pays five silver a month... It's not even half of what you bring home."
"I'm not letting my son go die in some nobleman's mess!" his father snapped.
Jelena flinched.
"No one's dying!" their mother said, her voice rising. "It's a support mission. He won't see the battle. We have to think this through."
His father leaned back, jaw clenched. "I lived like a beast so my kids wouldn't have to. And now I'm supposed to send my son to war while I stay home and what? Watch?"
"But I know if you go, we'll have nothing. I'll have to drop everything anyway just to keep us afloat. At least this way, I might be able to help—and still have a future. Do you think it's easy for me?" Corvin said suddenly, fists clenched. "Do you think I want to go?"
The room turned silent for a moment.
"I hate it. I hate all of it. But if someone has to go, and you're the only one working... Then it has to be me."
His father looked away. His shoulders sagged slightly.
"You'll get a letter of recommendation," their mother added softly. "It might help your future... not ruin it."
They sat in stillness for a long while. The fish had gone cold.
Finally, Corvin's father nodded, slow and grudging.
"Alright. But you come back. You hear me?"
Corvin swallowed hard.
"I'll try."
The meal ended with little talk. The oil lamp flickered on the wall, casting long shadows across the room. Shadows of people doing what they had to. Of choices made with no good answer.
Outside, in a castle somewhere beyond the town's edge, a young man was calmly observing the army outside the castle. He clasped his hand together, closed his eyes and muttered.
"Pray for the Blessing of Order to be with us."
His figure glowed faintly like a firefly in the night bringing a sense of comfort and security to the surrounding area.