The bell rang before sunrise. Its echo rolled through the camp like a low growl, dragging everyone from sleep.
William was already awake.
He sat on the edge of his bunk, eyes fixed on the dim light creeping through the cracks in the wooden walls. The world outside was still wrapped in mist, and the air smelled faintly of steel and rain.
The others stirred, groaning and cursing under their breath. Some glared at him as they dressed. The resentment had grown heavier since the captain's defeat.
Every look they threw at him carried the same silent question:
Who are you?
By the time they reached the training grounds, the sun was bleeding through the horizon—orange, cold, and distant. The commander stood waiting, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
"Today," he said, "you fight in pairs."
The soldiers muttered, glancing at each other. William stood still, silent as always.
The commander's eyes flicked toward him.
"You. You'll face three at once."
A ripple of shock moved through the group.
"Three? That's not fair!" someone shouted.
The commander ignored them. "He'll manage."
William nodded once. He didn't argue.
The three opponents stepped forward—men he had trained beside, eaten beside. Now, their faces twisted with something else: envy, maybe hatred.
The moment the command dropped, they rushed him.
The first swung high. William ducked. The second aimed for his ribs; he turned with the blow, letting it graze past, then countered with a strike to the jaw—measured, not lethal. The third came from behind. William pivoted, kicked his knee out, sent him sprawling into the dust.
It was over in seconds.
The silence that followed was sharper than any shout. Even the commander's expression flickered, just for a moment.
William lowered his blade, breathing steady. He hadn't broken a sweat.
After the drill, while others returned to the barracks, William stayed behind to clean the training field. It was quiet now—just him and the echo of his movements.
He gathered broken sticks, wiped blood from the dirt, and listened to the wind brushing against the wooden posts.
That's when he felt it again—that strange ache behind his eyes, as if his body remembered something his mind refused to. Images flashed like lightning.
A burning fortress.
Men kneeling in blood.
A crown shattering on stone.
He grabbed the edge of a post to steady himself. His breath came sharp, shallow.
"Not now," he whispered. "Not again."
When the vision faded, he opened his eyes—and found the commander watching from afar.
Their gazes met.
Neither spoke, but something passed between them. A silent understanding. Or perhaps a warning.
That night, the campfire burned low. The soldiers' laughter was brittle, forced. No one spoke to William. He sat at the far edge of the circle, staring into the flames.
For a moment, he let the heat wash over him. He felt alive—and hollow.
Then, from the darkness, a familiar voice broke the silence.
"You don't belong here, do you?"
It was the commander.
He stood with his hands behind his back, gaze fixed on the fire. His tone was calm, but there was steel beneath it.
"I've seen men fight all my life," he said. "But what I saw today… wasn't training. It was survival."
William's jaw tightened.
"Maybe survival is all I know."
The commander studied him quietly, then nodded as if confirming something.
"Then you and I are not so different."
He turned to leave, his silhouette vanishing into the shadows. But before he disappeared completely, he said one last thing:
"Be careful, William. The crownless are the ones fate never forgets."
William stared into the fire long after the commander was gone.
The words echoed in his chest, heavy and haunting.
The crownless are the ones fate never forgets.
And for the first time since he arrived, William wondered if fate was already watching him—waiting for him to remember what he once was.
The wind shifted, carrying embers into the dark.
And in that brief flicker of light, his shadow looked like a man wearing a crown.