The barracks were quieter than the streets outside — thick walls, muted footsteps, and the low murmur of clerks sorting through reports. At the end of a narrow corridor, Sergeant Dalen stopped before a heavy wooden door, knocked once, and entered without waiting for a reply.
The office smelled of ink, steel polish, and the faint tang of old smoke. Behind a desk stacked with parchment sat a man built like he'd forgotten how to relax. His uniform was simple but clean, his dark hair streaked with gray.
He didn't glance up right away. "If this is another report about missing supplies, Dalen, tell them I'll—" He stopped mid-sentence, eyes landing on Eric. "Who's the boy?"
"Found him near the troll territory," Dalen said. "He was caught in a fight with a troll."
The Commander frowned. "A troll? In that stretch of forest?"
"Yes, sir. Dead now. But there's more." Dalen's tone hardened. "His village was attacked by what he says were imperial envoys. Turned out they weren't."
That drew the Commander's full attention. He leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking. "Fake envoys?"
"Yes," Eric answered. "As you know, the Empire sends its envoys every three years—but this time, they killed everyone. Men, women, the elderly… even children." His voice wavered, almost breaking.
"I'm sorry for your loss, kid," the Commander said quietly. "But what happened to the impostors?"
Eric's tone shifted — colder, steadier. The air in the room seemed to tighten.
"I killed them. All of them."
The Commander studied him for a long moment — not unkindly, but with the weight of a man used to reading people faster than they could speak.
"You killed them?"
Eric didn't hesitate. "Yes, sir. I did."
The room fell silent. The soldiers nearby — including Robert and Rook — exchanged uneasy looks. None of them had guessed the quiet boy traveling with them was capable of killing anyone.
The corner of the Commander's mouth twitched — not quite a smile, more a flicker of thought. "And you're certain they weren't imperial?"
Eric nodded once. "Because they killed the real ones."
That earned a few more nervous glances.
The Commander's eyes narrowed. He leaned forward, clasping his hands on the desk.
"That's a dangerous claim, boy. If you're right, someone's using the Empire's name for a massacre. If you're wrong—"
Rook muttered under his breath, "Then the kid's got worse luck than I thought."
The Commander ignored him. "For now," he said evenly, "you'll stay here under Dalen's watch. I'll send word to the capital to confirm your story. Until then, you don't leave the town walls. Understood?"
Eric nodded quietly.
The Commander gave Dalen a slow nod. "Good work bringing him in. I'll want your written report by sundown."
Dalen saluted and turned to leave. Eric followed, his head buzzing — from exhaustion, from fear, and from the look in the Commander's eyes.
It wasn't suspicion.
It was worry.
The kind that meant trouble was coming from farther than the forest.
When Eric and the others were leaving, the Commander stayed silent, the only sounds in the room the faint crackle of the oil lamp and the soft rustle of parchment beneath his hand.
"Dalen," he said finally, his voice low. "Stay a moment."
The sergeant paused mid-step, then turned back as the rest of the soldiers filed out — Rook and Robert muttering under their breath. When the latch clicked shut, the Commander exhaled slowly and leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled.
"What do you make of the boy?"
Dalen hesitated, shifting his weight. "He's… strange, sir. Normally, people would be terrified in a fight like that. He wasn't. Not even close. If anything, he… stands apart."
The Commander's eyes narrowed slightly, fixed somewhere past the room. "You think he's lying?"
"I don't," Dalen said after a pause. "The way he spoke about killing those men… it wasn't pride. Not anger. More like someone reporting a task that had to be done. Matter-of-fact. Cold, almost."
"Cold," the Commander murmured, rubbing at his chin. "How old is he? Eighteen? Nineteen?"
"Younger," Dalen said softly. "Seventeen, I think."
The Commander leaned back, letting the chair creak beneath him. "If his story is true, he's carrying more than he knows. And if it's not…" His voice trailed off, the weight of the possibility hanging in the air. "Either way, keep him close. Don't let the others push him. Not yet."
"Yes, sir," Dalen replied, his tone careful.
"Good." The Commander turned toward the window, where dusk spilled amber light across the barracks yard. He didn't look at Dalen again. "I've seen that look before," he said quietly, almost to himself — the look people carry after losing everything, but still moving forward. "That kind… it doesn't break easily."
Dalen gave a short nod. "Understood."
"Go," the Commander said, voice even softer. "Let the boy rest. Tomorrow, we'll see what the truth really is."
Dalen saluted and left. The room felt suddenly larger, emptier. The Commander stayed seated, eyes on the flickering lamplight, thinking of the calm in the boy's gaze — and the storm that usually followed such calm.