Chapter 18 - The Calm Before The Storm
The Arghaban Kingdom was not the kind of kingdom that inspired songs. It was not vast enough to be feared, nor weak enough to be pitied — it existed somewhere in the uncomfortable middle, holding its borders through stubbornness more than strength, its name known but rarely spoken with reverence. At its northern edge, where the land flattened into open terrain and the wind came without warning, stood the border fortress — a squat, serious structure of dark stone that had been repaired so many times it had forgotten what it originally looked like.
The discussion chamber inside sat heavy with silence, the kind that follows death and refuses to leave. Morning light crept through the narrow stone windows, casting pale lines across the war table where the Northern State Count and the Army Commander sat facing each other — neither speaking, both waiting.
The door opened.
Sai Luxro entered with the quiet precision of someone who had long learned to carry bad news without flinching. Commander of the Silver Wing Regiment, he walked to the table, clasped his hands behind his back, and met the Count's eyes without hesitation.
"We found nothing, sir," he said. "No tracks. No trail. No evidence of any kind in the outskirts — not last night, not from the nights before."
The Count stared at him for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was dangerously quiet.
"How." It wasn't a question. It was a wound. "How is that possible, Commander Luxro? Twenty-nine soldiers. Twenty-nine of my men are dead."
Sai didn't flinch. "We are working to determine that, sir."
"They didn't simply fall over." The Count rose from his chair, the legs scraping against stone. "Something killed them. Something was out there."
The Army Commander leaned forward, fingers laced together on the table. His voice carried the measured calm of a man who had seen enough wars to know that panic solves nothing. "You examined the bodies yourself, Sai?"
"Every one of them, Commander."
"And the wounds?"
A brief pause. Something shifted behind Sai's eyes — not fear exactly, but the shadow of something he hadn't yet found words for. "Yes," he said carefully. "The wounds were consistent across all twenty-nine. Clean. Deliberate." He paused. "Whoever did this wasn't hiding what they are."
The Army Commander slowly sat back. The Count turned from the window. All three men looked at each other — the weight of it passing between them like a current, each one arriving at the same place at the same moment.
Then, quietly, with the grim certainty of men who had hoped they were wrong —
"Hunter Squad."
The words left all three mouths at once. Not a question. Not a theory.
A verdict.
The chamber held the silence that followed like a held breath. The Count pressed his knuckles against the war table, jaw tight. The Army Commander closed his eyes for just a second — the way a man does when the worst possibility turns out to be the real one.
Then the Army Commander straightened. His voice shifted — no longer measured, now sharp with purpose.
"Luxro."
Sai stopped at the door and turned.
"Find their hideout. Find their objectives. Whatever they're planning, I want to know about it before they make their move." He paused, letting the weight of it settle. "The Hunter Squad doesn't go anywhere without a reason. They don't kill twenty-nine soldiers just to make noise." His eyes were hard. "They are cooking something. Find out what."
Sai held his gaze for a moment, then gave a firm nod.
"Yes, Commander."
His footsteps disappeared down the corridor — faster this time. Purposeful. The door swung shut behind him, and the two men left in the chamber exchanged a long, heavy look.
Whatever was coming, they were already behind it.
The outskirts hospital was the kind of place that did its best with what it had. The bulbs overhead gave off a warm but slightly unsteady glow, the walls were clean but faded, the equipment functional but dated — a building that had been serving the village for decades and showed every year of it. It wasn't much. But it was enough.
Ron opened his eyes slowly, blinking against the amber light of the bedside lamp. For a moment he simply lay there, listening — to the distant sound of the village settling into evening, to the faint hum of the old electrical fixtures above him, to the quiet familiar rhythm of someone moving around him with careful hands.
"You're awake," Maria said softly.
She was sitting beside the bed, a small tray balanced on her lap — steaming boiled rice, two eggs, a folded cloth napkin tucked at the side like she was serving him at their kitchen table and not a worn hospital room. She looked tired. The kind of tired that sleep doesn't fix.
"How long was I out?" Ron asked, his voice rough at the edges.
"Long enough," she said simply, and reached over to help him sit up, adjusting the pillow behind his back with the efficiency of someone who had done it a hundred times and the tenderness of someone who hoped they'd never have to again.
She began to feed him without asking if he needed help. Ron almost protested — he was old enough, surely, he was fine — but something stopped him. Maybe it was the look on her face. The quiet concentration of it. Like feeding him was the one thing in the world she could control right now, and she needed that.
So he let her.
"You went through a lot," she said quietly, guiding a spoonful toward him. "More than you should have. More than anyone your age should." She didn't look at him when she said it. "So you're going to rest. Properly. No sneaking out, no training in the hallway when you think I'm not watching —" she gave him a look that said she always watched — "nothing. Not until the doctor clears you. Understood?"
"Okay, mom," Ron said.
"Good boy."
He almost smiled. Almost.
Maria set the spoon down for a moment and looked at him — really looked at him — and Ron noticed something flicker across her face. Something she was trying to smooth over before he could catch it.
He caught it anyway.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"Nothing's wrong."
"Maria."
She picked the spoon back up. "Eat."
He ate. But he watched her the way she'd always watched him — quietly, carefully, from the corner of his eye. And he saw what she was carrying. He didn't know the shape of it yet, didn't have the words for it. But it was there, sitting behind her eyes like a storm that hadn't decided whether to break.
What she couldn't stop thinking about was what Fark had told her.
When my energy made contact with Ron's energy, do you know what I felt?
She had asked what.
Fear.
Maria had stood very still when Fark said it. She was still standing still now, in some internal way, even as her hands moved and she smiled at her son and told him to rest. Because Fark didn't frighten easily. Fark, who had seen things that would hollow most people out, who had walked through battles and come out the other side with steady hands — Fark had felt fear touching whatever had awakened inside Ron.
Something that shouldn't have awakened. Not yet. Not at this age.
If that thing takes control of Ron, Fark had said, we won't be able to stop it. Not with the power we have now.
Maria watched her son finish his rice. He was so young. Sitting there in his hospital gown, hair flattened from sleep, eyes still soft with the remnants of whatever dream had held him — he was so impossibly young.
"Mom?" Ron said.
She blinked. "Hmm?"
"You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"Thinking too loud."
She laughed — a real one, small and sudden and warm — and it broke something loose in her chest in the best possible way. She reached out and ruffled his hair, and he groaned and ducked away from her hand the way he always did, and for just a moment everything was ordinary and safe and fine.
"Rest," she said, standing and collecting the tray. "I'm going to wash up. And you are going to sleep. Deal?"
"Deal," said Ron, already sinking back into the pillow.
She paused at the doorway and looked back at him one more time. His eyes were already half-closed, chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of the almost-asleep. She memorized it — the way she always memorized the peaceful moments, knowing they were precious exactly because they didn't last.
Then she turned and walked quietly down the hall, the old fluorescent light above her humming softly as she went.
Somewhere at the outskirts of the Arghaban Kingdom, in a place that appeared on no official map, torchlight flickered across the rough walls of a hidden encampment.
The hunters were restless — talking in low voices, checking their weapons, moving with the coiled energy of people who had been waiting too long for something they'd been promised.
Then came the sound of wings.
A guard dropped from above, hitting the ground at a near sprint, and crossed the room directly toward the figure at the far end — urgent, breathless, wasting no time.
And there he was.
Sherlock Brias — 3rd Hunter Group, 2nd Root Captain — was not what most people expected when they imagined danger. He wasn't brooding. He wasn't towering. He was simply there, leaning back in his chair like a man without a single concern in the world, one leg crossed over the other, fingers drumming a lazy rhythm against the table. His eyes were bright. Too bright. The kind of bright that made you wonder what exactly was going on behind them.
"Captain." The guard straightened, still catching his breath. "All preparations are complete. We are ready to move on your order."
Sherlock didn't respond immediately.
He laughed.
Not a villain's laugh — not slow and theatrical. It came out fast, genuine, like someone had just told him the funniest joke he'd heard all week. He sat forward, slapping a hand on the table, shaking his head with a wide grin spreading across his face.
"They're still looking for us," he said, like it delighted him. "They're out there right now — torches, patrols, the whole performance —" he gestured broadly at nothing, still grinning — "and they have absolutely no idea."
He stood up.
The laughter didn't stop, but something behind his eyes did — clicked off, like a light. What replaced it was sharp and cold and completely focused.
He spread the map flat across the table. A mercenary village. Small. Quiet. Unsuspecting.
The place where Ron lived.
Sherlock stared at it for a moment, head tilted slightly, the way a cat watches something before it decides to move.
Then the grin came back. Wider this time.
"This," he said softly, almost tenderly, tracing the outline of the village with one finger, "is going to be so much fun."
Nobody in the room laughed with him.
Nobody dared.
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End of Chapter 18
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