The morning over Aquilara was strangely quiet.
No wind, no birdsong, only the distant hum of the city—muted, as if someone had turned the world down to low volume.
The streets of Solara lay beneath a dull veil of fog.
People moved more slowly than usual, spoke in hushed voices, as if afraid the fragile peace might shatter if they breathed too loudly. On the screens in shop windows, the same footage played on an endless loop ahead of the official press conference: fluttering flags, a blindingly white hall, and a banner reading "A New Age of Unity."
A child stood in front of one of the screens, their nose almost pressed to the glass.
"Mom, did they make peace?"
The mother nodded, hesitantly.
"Yes, sweetheart… the war is finally over."
≋⟡≋
The war ended in a single night.
No ceasefire, no treaty—just a strike of steel and fire.
The Aquilara air unit had struck: fast, precise, merciless, though not without losses. For the first time in years, peace spread between the nations. A peace that tasted more like exhaustion than agreement.
Peace. A word for what remains when both sides are too tired to keep fighting.
But exhaustion is no guarantee of calm.
Silence lay over the corridors of the Ministry of the Interior. Harsh light streamed through the tall windows, gliding across marble and glass. Murmuring voices, flashing lights, clicking cameras—all of it surged toward the podium like iron drawn to a magnet.
I hate press conferences. I could really use a cigarette right now…
Then they stepped into the light.
An image few would have thought possible.
Marcus Aquilara, officially Chairman of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs—known to his opponents only as the Ruler of the Mountains. His short gray hair was neatly trimmed, a sharp, pointed goatee framing a face of angular calm. Chiseled features, eyes that measured more than they saw, and a perfectly tailored suit made him seem like a blend of diplomat and warlord. For a brief moment, however, a mocking smile flickered across his lips—a rare crack in his otherwise controlled façade.
Beside him stood Leander Sonnenhain, the King of the Savanna.
His hair, which in battle had resembled a wild lion's mane, was now slicked straight back. The emerald-green suit made his golden eyes glow even more intensely. It was hard to believe this was the same man who, only hours ago, had ridden barefoot into battle atop a lion, covered in dust. Now he appeared restrained, but not broken, and with a grim expression he hesitantly extended his hand to Marcus.
To the cameras, it looked like sober diplomacy.
But as the flashes ignited, Leander's gaze remained fixed on the lens—so no one would notice his lips moving ever so slightly.
"I never thought," he murmured softly, meant only for Marcus, "that I'd be impressed again at my age…"
Marcus's smile deepened almost imperceptibly—the kind rivals share when they know the other is just as dangerous as themselves.
"We may have peace now, Marcus," Leander said quietly, his hand still clasped in Marcus's. "But you know how short silence lasts when the mountain winds rise."
Marcus's gaze remained calm.
"Then let us hope your savanna stays still."
Leander inclined his head slightly, his smile cool.
"The Anima Resonance shook us all. Perhaps this time we truly sit in the same boat—but the sea, Marcus… the sea is anything but calm."
While the world outside spoke of war and peace, it was still searching for its wounded.
One of them lay in the north of the capital—silent, connected, breathing.
≋⟡≋
The hum of medical equipment filled the sterile hospital room.
David lay on the bed, bandages wrapped across his torso, his left arm in a cast. The ceiling above him was so white it was almost blinding. He tried to remember how he had even made it back—only fragments remained: smoke, heat, the roar of engines, the fight.
I should be glad I can still feel anything at all, he thought.
The door opened with a soft creak.
A man with angular glasses and a clipboard entered, his expression stern but not unkind.
"Good morning. You're finally awake," he said calmly.
"My name is Dr. Petroski, chief physician of this hospital. By order of Marcus Aquilara—or rather, at the personal request of the Chairman himself—I am responsible for your care."
David's eyes followed his every movement. Looks like the sergeant is worrying too much about the unit again. As they say—tough shell, soft core…
His eyes glinted as if they were scanning David, analyzing him, missing nothing. Then he flipped through the documents on his clipboard once more.
"The operation went smoothly. If all goes well, you can return to base in five days. Still, take it slow—it's a miracle you came back in one piece."
As the doctor spoke, an image forced itself into David's mind—the roaring beasts, a sky full of fire, the last thought before everything went black.
For you—all the way to the end.
Two nurses peeked into the room through the window. When David caught their gaze, they giggled shyly and disappeared. Petroski smiled faintly.
"Oh, and in case you haven't heard—outside, they're already singing songs of praise about you. A young soldier, freshly trained, who stood up to Leander, the King of the Savanna… that's something people like to cling to."
He chuckled softly, almost incredulously.
"Songs of praise, indeed… they're already calling you the Admiral of the Skies. And honestly—it wouldn't surprise me if that became your official title soon."
David blinked. Admiral of the Skies… I never wanted to be a hero.
He felt a pull in his chest—not from the bandages, but from the weight of those words. David pulled the pendant out from beneath his shirt and clenched it tightly in his hand.
I know who I'm doing all this for.
≋⟡≋
A little later, he started a FaceTime call.
The screen flickered, then the familiar living room appeared. His mother looked tired but relieved, his father leaned back comfortably in his chair. In the background, Diana bounced around excitedly.
"David! You're finally back!" she nearly shrieked. "How was it? Did you see Leander?"
David laughed softly, ignoring the pain in his arm.
"See him? More than that—and it was… intense. But I'm okay."
At that moment, Darek came running down the stairs—his pillow tucked tightly under his arm.
"Mom, Dad? Are you downstairs? I have to tell you about my dream—"
He was about to continue, but when he reached the bottom of the stairs and looked at the screen, he froze. Then a wide grin spread across his face.
"David?! You… it's really you!"
His father leaned back, his voice calm as ever.
"David, my boy, you're a hero now. Don't worry about Darek—he'll explain his dream."
David laughed, and for a moment everything felt normal again. In the background, Darek began wildly reenacting his dream—lions, explosions, planes—until he suddenly stopped. His smile faded.
Strange, he thought. Even in the dream, I could smell smoke and iron. What if it wasn't a dream?
A shiver ran down his spine. What was that?
But his sister's laughter pulled him back to the present.
"Brother, brother! Take me with you next time! Were there zombies too?" Diana giggled. The father smiled. For a brief moment, the chaos was family again.
Darek, however, remained lost in thought, clutching the pillow tightly. When his eyes fell on the clock, he jumped up.
"Oh crap! I'm going to be late again!"
He rushed up the stairs, ignoring Diana calling after him and his father's relaxed smile.
"I'm heading to training too now, bye David—and get well fast! When we spar again, I don't want to hear any excuses!" Diana said energetically, cheerful and fierce at the same time.
David watched her through the screen and shook his head slightly. A soft, tired smile crossed his lips.
"Alright, I should hang up too. I'll visit you soon. Looks like I'm getting promoted to Admiral, and after recovery I'll have a lot on my plate. I always think of you… and I can't wait to eat Mom's ruby quail again."
The image faded, the screen went black.
Outside, the morning drifted on over the city—indifferent, as if the war had never happened. And somewhere, between school desks and street noise, everyday life was already beginning again.
≋⟡≋
Even the sun shone through the school windows as if nothing had happened.
Ben sat at his desk, elbows on the table, staring into space. Some students chatted, chalk squeaked, the clock ticked. Ben let the words drift past like clouds.
Even if the whole world changes… some things probably never do, he thought, sighing.
He leaned back, crossed his arms, and let his thoughts wander as the last students entered the classroom.
The door opened.
Just before class began, Mr. Markes stepped inside—once again not alone. At his side stood Lieutenant Carris.
Ben blinked and straightened up.
Great, he thought. The only thing that changes is the trouble—and now it's wearing a uniform.