The horn's echo still clung to the air, a deep and ancient sound rolling through the forest like the growl of some vast beast. Macon paused at the edge of the treeline, breath caught in his throat.
The scar beneath his ribs pulsed once—sharp, burning—and then quieted. He pressed a palm over it. No blood this time, but the ache was enough to remind him: he was bound to this place whether he wanted it or not.
He stepped forward.
The camp that had ignored him before now moved with sudden order. Soldiers poured from tents, armor glinting in firelight, weapons buckled to their sides. Torches flared as though the horn itself had breathed life into the embers. Banners rose, swaying in the night wind.
And then—eyes. Dozens of them turned his way at once.
For a moment, Macon felt pinned beneath their gazes. A frozen heartbeat passed.
Then a soldier cried out, voice breaking like a prayer:
"General Macon!"
The name rippled through the camp. Another voice took it up, and another, until the clearing rang with it.
"General Macon!"
"General Macon!"
The sound rolled like thunder, louder than the horn had ever been. Men and women saluted with fists over their chests, some bowing low, some kneeling outright. Relief and awe glowed in their faces.
Macon stood very still. Just hours ago, he had walked among them unseen, untouchable. Now they called him General, with devotion so sharp it ached.
His scar throbbed once more. This was no trick. This was the world pulling him into its rhythm.
He drew a slow breath. "…I've returned."
The words slipped free before he knew he was speaking. Yet they felt right, as though they had always belonged to him.
The camp straightened as if a weight had been lifted. Orders rang out, weapons checked, formations snapped into place. Life surged around him with sudden discipline, a machine with him as its heart.
But one question stalked him with every step he took through the ranks:
Why do they follow me so blindly?
---
He slowed near a cluster of young soldiers restringing their bows. Their hands trembled—not from fear, but from the raw energy of belief. When Macon stopped before them, one boy lifted his head. Wide-eyed, he blurted before his courage could die:
"General—we thought we had lost you."
Macon tilted his head, voice low. "Why do you respect me so much?"
The boy froze. The other soldiers glanced at him nervously, but the boy forced himself to answer.
"Because you've never lost a war. Because at dawn, when the sun breaks, we know you'll be there. Because you are the Merciless Dawn."
The words struck Macon like a blade to the chest.
"Merciless… Dawn?" he repeated.
The boy nodded fiercely, almost reverently. "That is your name. The one the enemy fears and we… we carry like a shield."
Macon's jaw tightened. Something stirred in the back of his mind, unbidden—an image, half-formed. The sky burning red, the clash of steel ringing in his ears, the ground soaked with blood. And there—his own hand raising a sword against the sun.
The memory was gone before he could hold it.
"Merciless Dawn," Macon murmured, more to himself than to the boy.
But before he could ask more, a captain barked orders, scattering the young soldiers. Macon was left staring into the dark, the title echoing in his skull.
---
At the command tent, a familiar figure waited. Broad-shouldered, scar down his jaw, eyes calm as steel. His second-in-command.
"General," the man said, bowing his head.
Macon studied him carefully. Unlike the others, this man didn't shake with awe or kneel as if before a god. His respect was deep, steady—but it was the respect of a man who had fought too many battles at his side to pretend blind devotion.
"You've changed," the second murmured when they were alone, voice even. "I don't know what storm weighs on you, but I hope you pass through it."
The words landed heavier than any salute.
For a heartbeat, Macon wanted to confess everything—the scar, the two worlds, the truth that gnawed at him. But his throat locked tight, as though the world itself forbid it.
So he gave a faint nod. "I'll manage."
The second's gaze lingered on him, steady and unreadable. Then he pressed his fist to his chest. "As you always do, General."
No suspicion. No accusation. Just loyalty—and an understanding too deep to name.
---
The night thickened. The camp gathered around the firepits, their low war-songs threading into the smoke. The voices rose and fell like the tide, ancient chants that tasted of blood and memory.
Macon sat apart at the fire's edge, watching. Soldiers glanced his way often—some with devotion, some with awe, some with relief. Always the same unshakable faith.
Faith he didn't understand.
The scar beneath his ribs pulsed faintly, like a second heartbeat. He pressed a hand to it, closing his eyes.
And again, the whisper came.
Come. Find the truth.
His fists tightened.
They called him the Merciless Dawn. They believed in a man who had never lost. But Macon didn't remember that man. He only knew the weight of their trust and the echo of a name that bound him tighter wit
h every breath.
he wasn't running.
He was their General. And he would uncover why.