"Trail," Zord said, his voice measured but his eyes sharp. There was a bold, steady presence about him — the kind that came from years of standing in difficult rooms and never flinching. "What exactly are you planning to do?"
Trail didn't answer immediately.
"Even if you are king now," Zord continued, "there are very few who will follow you as a ruler. The city is hollow. The people are gone."
"So what?" Trail turned to face him. "Does that mean I cannot undo the cruelty that has been carved into this city since long before the first ruler ever sat on that throne?" He stood, moving to the window, looking out over the abandoned streets below. "We have all done things — wrong things, right things — over these past years. I know that." He turned back, meeting Zord's gaze. "But the world is changing. And we have to change with it."
He let a moment pass, then spoke more directly. "I want you to lead the army from the front. Can you do that, Zord? Just for a while."
Zord was quiet. He felt the trust folded into those words — and the hope beneath them. After everything, Trail still believed in him. That meant something.
*All right,* Zord thought. *I'll do it.*
---
The two of them looked toward the castle gates at the same moment.
A figure leaned against the stone archway, a cigarette burning between his fingers, a thin curl of smoke rising into the still air. His eyes were sharp — amused, but sharp — and when he saw Trail, a slow grin spread across his face.
"Well, well," the man said. "Isn't it Commander Trail?"
He moved to kneel, but Trail shook his head. "You don't have to do that, Scars."
Scars laughed and straightened instead. "I just heard the news from Barok himself — nearly had to watch the old man cry about it. You're the king now." He shook his head with open delight. "You should have seen his face. I'll tell you this much — I can already sense he's planning something."
"He may try," Trail said calmly. "But he'll be the one swinging the axe into his own foot."
Scars laughed again — genuine, unhurried. "You know, Trail, I always knew this moment would come. I just didn't know when." He glanced at Zord, then back. "And of course, here you are with the two strongest people in the region standing at your left and right. Who in their right mind would lay a finger on you?" He took a long drag of his cigarette. "The elites are furious, naturally. You've called yourself king, you've taken the throne, and it burns them. But power leads to authority. That's just the way of things."
Trail descended the stairs slowly and placed a hand on Scars's shoulder. "What do you want to see?" he asked. "Honestly."
Scars considered it. "I want to see the future. A new one." He tilted his head toward the empty city beyond the gates. "You've got a hollow city, years of corruption rotting in the walls, and barely enough people to fill a small hall. Let's see what you do with it." He grinned. "I'm counting on you."
He turned to leave, pausing once at the door. "And Trail — thank you. For getting me out of that prison."
Then he was gone.
---
The soldiers assembled in the courtyard. They were not many — but there were enough. Enough to know who held the throne now. Enough to listen.
Trail stood before them and spoke.
"Dear soldiers — the king is dead, and with him, much of the hope this city once carried. Wingman City has been left hollow, stripped of its people, its dignity, and its future. But that is exactly why I am standing here today." He looked across their faces, unhurried. "My purpose is to breathe life back into this place. A city built on freedom. A city built on peace. Follow me, and I will show you the future you once dreamed of — the one that was taken from you. That dream is not dead. It has only been buried. And we are going to dig it out."
The soldiers knelt.
And then, one by one, they roared.
---
The cart rolled steadily through the dark. Rain had finally come after a long dry spell, drumming softly against the wood and pooling in the ruts of the road. Thunder rolled somewhere ahead of them, low and distant, as if the sky itself was announcing something.
"Is Aron a changed person now?" Lilith asked.
Balrad was quiet for a moment, watching the rain fall through the lantern light.
"I would say so," he began. "When I first came across him, he was eating scraps from the muddy floor of a barn. I thought he was just another beggar passing through. But I offered him food and a place to sleep, and slowly — slowly — something began to change in him." Balrad's voice softened. "He used to cry out in his sleep, terrible things, like a man being chased by something he couldn't name. But he loved quiet. There's a spot on the mountain, not far from my home — a flat rock with a good view of the valley. He'd sit up there for hours, just feeling the wind."
He shook his head gently, something close to pride in his expression. "He's a respectable warrior now. Whatever he was when I found him — he's left most of it behind."
Balrad turned to look at Lilith. "And you? How did you come to know Aron?"
"We met at an orphanage," Lilith said. "It was run by our master — a man who was close to my father. Yade Thoms."
Balrad went still.
"Yade... Thoms?" he repeated slowly. "The eighteenth king of the Kingdom of Thoms." He stared at Lilith with new eyes. "You are his son?"
"I am," Lilith said. "But more importantly — Aron is something rare in this world. He may be the last norm remaining in the entire north."
Balrad absorbed that in silence. Then something shifted in his face — a different kind of weight settling in.
"I had a son once," he said quietly. "I don't know where he is now. He left for the city of training — wanted to learn swordsmanship. Just packed up one day and went."
Lilith looked at him. "What was his name?"
Balrad almost smiled. "I always called that idiot by his nickname. Sago. His real name was Sai, but he hated the sound of it — said it was embarrassing — so Sago it was."
Lilith paused. "Sago." He turned the name over. "I knew someone by that name once. He joined our group for a time, but he was never built for the fighting. He used to say he wanted to go home — back to his homeland."
Balrad nodded slowly, unsurprised. "That sounds exactly like him. He was always a frightened boy. A scared cat from the day he was born." A quiet laugh — then it faded. "But you can't hold them beside you forever. They come into the world for their own reasons. They walk their own paths." He looked out at the rain. "Even so. It hurts, when your blood walks away from you, and you're left standing there alone — wondering if that's just how it ends."
Lilith looked at the old man's face in the dim light of the cart, and he saw it clearly: behind the steady voice and the weathered calm, Balrad was afraid. Not of the road, not of the rain.
Afraid of the silence that came with being left behind.