Caelus woke with his mouth full of earth. Damp, mixed with a bitter taste that might have been blood – his or another's, it was impossible to tell. When he opened his eyes, the darkness was absolute, but he felt the bodies. They were everywhere. Arms stiff as dead branches, legs tangled like roots in a forgotten field. The stench was unbearable – a mix of excrement, death, and old gunpowder. A crow cawed in the distance, perhaps disturbed that he had dared to breathe again.
Caelus moved with effort. Every bone ached as if it had been ripped out and hastily shoved back into place. He pushed aside a corpse – a young lad, eyes still open, skin as cold as stone – and crawled out of the trench. The moonlight hid behind thick clouds, and the wind howled as if mourning the dead. The walls of Pisum loomed ahead, black against the starless sky, and the gates were shut tight, like iron teeth sunk into the flesh of the earth.
He stood, trembling, blood dripping from his temple. The silence was thick, expectant. No screams, no bells. Only the night.
Isabela, he thought. The name echoed in his skull like a prayer or a curse. Isabela can still be saved, if it's not too late.
Caelus clenched his teeth, ignoring the pain, and began to walk, limping through the corpses. He knew only one thing for certain: as long as his heart beat, however faint, however stained with mud and despair, he would find her.
And he would drag her out of that nightmare. Or die trying.
He staggered like a drunkard, but with no wine in his veins – only the weight of death and the night's chill. The world around him was a blur of shadows and pain, and Caelus barely registered the mounted figure that appeared in his path, silhouetted against the night mist like an armoured spectre.
– By all that's holy…! – the rider exclaimed, yanking the reins. The horse whinnied, uneasy, scenting blood and ruin. – Who goes there?
Caelus did not answer. Words were lodged deep in his throat, hardened by mud and horror. He simply fell to his knees, like a penitent before a defiled altar.
Moments later, more figures emerged from the darkness. A patrol. Men of Edouard Lefevre, their emblems faded, their gazes wary.
– Is he alive? – one asked.
– Barely. Take him. The commander will want to see him.
They did not argue. They hauled Caelus up like a poorly tied sack of grain and carried him across the moor, past trenches and boulders, to the flickering fires of a makeshift camp. The tents were mud-spattered, and the air reeked of sweat, leather, and undercooked roast meat. A dog barked in the distance, but no one paid it any mind.
In the largest tent, seated before a crumpled map, was Edouard Lefevre. When Caelus entered, propped up by two soldiers, Edouard looked up and frowned.
– Great Ignisia… Caelus? You're alive? What happened?
Caelus' voice came out hoarse, almost unrecognisable.
– We were betrayed. Ambushed… at the gates of Pisum.
With effort, he straightened himself.
– The Cavalry of the Rising Sun. They were waiting. The Pisodorato guard… all dead. And Isabela… – his voice shook. – They took her. Alive.
Edouard was silent for a long moment. His fingers drummed on the hilt of a dagger, and his eyes remained fixed on the map, as if he could force the paper to yield an answer.
– Isabela Pisodorato… – he murmured at last, almost reverently. – She is the key. The daughter of Pisum. If we lose her, the revolution loses its face, its name… loses the people.
He rose with a decisive motion.
– We'll get her back. But not tonight.
He approached Caelus and placed a hand on his shoulder – firm, warm.
– Rest. There are ghosts haunting your eyes. Tomorrow, at dawn, I'll rally every man. And then… then we'll march into death's shadow if we must.
Caelus wanted to reply, but his eyes closed before his tongue could loosen. For the first time in many days, he surrendered to a heavy sleep, knowing that, at least for now, someone else shared the weight of hope.
Caelus awoke to the muffled thud of drums – not yet war drums, but those of reveille. They were slow, measured, like the beat of an ancient heart rousing from slumber. The sky above the tent canvas was slate-grey, and a damp wind blew from the east, carrying the scent of turned earth, burnt oil, and iron. The embers of the campfires were dying, but hope – or fury – was rekindling in the men's eyes.
Outside, the camp seethed.
Two thousand soldiers, or thereabouts, stood arrayed in columns, in squadrons, in groups for training and prayer. Men with heavy gazes and women with firm fists, soldiers of all ages, from all the lands and valleys where the name of Pisodorato still meant something. They wore uniforms of deep green, with scarlet trimmings on the sleeves and collars – the colours of the people of Pisum, some said, green like the fertile earth and red like the blood that watered it. On their shakos, each bore an insignia they wore with pride: an open pea pod, revealing three seeds, crossed by a golden sickle and a torch with a flickering flame. The mark of the revolutionaries, of those who reap and fight.
They marched in silence, among banners that fluttered like serpents in the wind. Those who had stood watch through the night rubbed their eyes and handed their muskets to those now taking their positions. The artillerymen cleaned cannon barrels with rags soaked in vinegar. And the sappers – filthy up to their knees, their hands calloused from hoes – were already surveying the terrain towards the distant walls of Pisum, where ancient towers stared at the morning like wary old queens.
Caelus stepped out of the tent with heavy steps, his body still protesting, but his mind alight.
The city rose in the distance, grey and haughty, as if nothing from the day before had happened. The gates remained shut, the banners of King Rafael Calentiflor still fluttered on the bastions.
Caelus moved through the ranks of those preparing to march. He was looking for Edouard Lefevre, who stood by an improvised table, maps and reports pinned down by stones and daggers. He was speaking with two captains and drinking from a steaming mug, but as soon as he saw Caelus, he dismissed the men with a gesture and grinned broadly, like a man reunited with a lost love he thought he'd never see again.
– Ah, finally you drag yourself out of the grave – he said, taking a swig of his drink. – What do you want, Caelus? To crawl back into your tent? I can fetch you a warmer blanket and a flask of brandy to lull you to sleep.
– No – Caelus replied firmly, the dawn light etching his hardened profile. – I want to join you. I want to fight. For Isabela. For Pisum.
Edouard let out a laugh, short but sincere.
– I always knew you had the right blood in your veins. Never doubted it. But if you're to march with us, you'll need to be armed like a man, not like a runaway corpse. Go to our master-at-arms. He'll see to you.
Caelus nodded, but Edouard added, almost like dropping a stone into a well:
– You two should get along. You're alike… more than you think.
Caelus frowned. He wanted to ask what that meant, but Edouard had already turned his attention to his horse's harness, as if nothing had been said.
Young Caelus headed in the direction he'd been given, passing through squadrons rehearsing battle cries and novices vomiting from nerves. The master-at-arms' pavilion was a low structure of thick canvas held up by iron stakes. At the entrance, open cases revealed sabres, pistols, muskets, and worn cuirasses, like relics of past wars waiting for new hands.
Inside, his back to the entrance, a broad-shouldered man was honing the blade of a long sabre with a whetstone. He moved with precise, ceremonial slowness, as if the entire world were contained in that edge of steel. His hair, already streaked with grey, fell to his nape, tied with a leather strip. His hands – the same hands that had once lifted him from the ground, somewhere in childhood – were unmistakable.
– Father? – he murmured.
The name sounded like an ancient blessing, like the opening of a gate sealed for years.
There were no speeches, no explanations. Just one step forward, then another. And the embrace. Tight, rough, full of love and unspoken words. The hanging cuirasses clinked as their bodies met, as if the gods of war were bearing witness to the reunion.
For a moment, Caelus was no longer a soldier, no longer the son of the siege. He was just a son, returned to his father.
– You're alive… by the gods, you really are alive – Fausto's voice was hoarse, as if each word tore open an old wound.
Caelus gave a brief nod, but his eyes, fixed on his father's face, asked for more than mere emotion.
– What happened, Father? How did you come to be here? Why weren't you with me that night?
Fausto sighed deeply, setting the sabre down gently on the rough wooden table. He straightened his back like an old wolf weary from the hunt.
– After the attack… when the bells of Pisum rang in despair, I went to the walls. But it was too late. The houses were burning, the city was weeping, and you were gone.
He ran a hand over his face, his calloused fingers brushing the scars that time and war had left there.
– That was when I found Bia. She was alive, bloodied, and furious not knowing where you were. She searched for you like a she-wolf hunting for her cub. She told me she had found you… and that she would save you, no matter the cost.
He paused, looking at Caelus as if to confirm that the promise had been kept.
– I trusted her. And with that, I turned to what I could do. I stayed in the city, helping those who remained. Pisum was no longer a city… it was a lament made of stone. Someone had to stay. Someone had to rebuild.
His voice faltered for a moment, but then he steadied it.
– When I heard of the ambush… when I ran to the gates and saw only corpses and trampled blood, I searched for you. Like a madman. But no trace of you. Not your body. Not Isabela. Only your red scarf.
He turned his back to his son and picked up the scarf, which he draped around Caelus's neck in a slow, almost ceremonial gesture.
– After that, I learned Edouard Lefevre was gathering forces. Men of courage, the disinherited, peasants with rusted swords… and ideals in their hearts. I followed him. Not for the revolution, may the gods forgive me, but for you. I knew that if you were alive, you'd turn up here sooner or later… And here you are.
Caelus tried to suppress the weight rising in his chest, but his body betrayed his resolve. He felt tears burning his eyes like salt in a poorly healed wound. He took a step forward and embraced his father again – more tightly this time, as if within the arms of that man hardened by years, he might still find a fragment of his childhood.
– Father… – he murmured through clenched teeth, – I can't stay here. Not now. She… she needs me.
Faustus did not pull away. He merely nodded slowly, his chin trembling slightly beneath his grizzled beard.
– I know, son. Go. Save her.
Caelus stepped back just enough to look his father in the eyes.
– But when I return with her, and I will return, I want you to tell me everything. Who my mother was. How you met her. How she won that stubborn heart of yours.
A faint smile crossed Faustus' lips, like a ray of sunlight on a stormy morning.
Then he turned to the wooden chest in the corner of the tent. He opened it with a dry click and, with deliberate movements, withdrew each piece as if performing an ancient ritual.
– Take these. They no longer serve me as they once did. But you… they fit you like fate.
First, he handed him a uniform that seemed freshly made: deep green with red trimmings. Next came the cavalry cuirass, polished yet marked by the scars of war. Faustus ran his fingers over it as though caressing a memory.
– I took the liberty of engraving an open pod, crossed by a torch and a sickle. I thought it fitting for someone with a rebellious spirit like yours.
Caelus' eyes shone with happiness, and he felt tears welling up once more.
Finally, Faustus drew a sabre from the chest – slender, perfectly balanced, its guard of hand-worked brass. He presented it to Caelus with a ceremonial gesture.
– It was mine. Now it is yours. I hope you never need to use it, but if you must, may you wield it less than I did.
Now ready for what lay ahead, Caelus bid farewell with one last embrace and stepped out of the tent.
Outside, the drums thundered with renewed vigour. A saddled horse, dark-coated and bright-eyed, was led by a young stablehand to the front of the tent. The animal snorted softly, as if sensing the blood that would soon be spilled.
Caelus mounted with the steadiness of a man no longer lost, but one with a mission to fulfil. Edouard Lefevre waited in the distance. Caelus rode to his side and halted beside him.
– Will you ride with us, Intendant Caelus? – asked Edouard, with a half-smile.
– To the end – replied Caelus, his voice as firm as the steel of the sabre at his waist.
And together, beneath the banner of revolution, they marched toward the city, toward war… and toward Isabela.