Chapter 7 v3
Letter
A uniformed young man descended the wheat-covered hill. The slope forced him to lean forward slightly, and each step sank his boots among stalks that swayed with a dry rustle. He stretched his arms out to his sides, letting the ears of wheat brush against his open palms, and smiled at the feel of the golden roughness against his skin.
He took a deep breath. The clean air filled his lungs, fresh and light, and for a moment he closed his eyes to imprint the sensation. Raising his forehead, he contemplated the intense blue sky, so clear it seemed to shine.
He stopped mid-slope, motionless, enjoying the silence.
—"Haha…"
The sound hit him like a physical blow. His eyes snapped open, heart racing, and he jerked his head backward.
—"Uncle?"— he asked, trying to sound casual, as if he hadn't just been playing with the wheat seconds before—. "Are you coming too?"
A few steps away, at the top of the hill, an older man watched him. Taller than him, with a firm yet relaxed posture. He looked him up and down with studied calm, and finally let out a mocking smile that did nothing to hide the tranquility of his demeanor.
—"Didn't think I'd see something like this,"— the man said, taking a couple of steps down the hill. His voice was a mix of serious and teasing, and he raised a finger to point at him—. "I interrupted your moment… your scene… or was it your philosophical act?"
The young man exhaled through his nose and lowered his arms, feigning annoyance.
—"Yes, you did. I was just getting to the best part,"— he retorted, crossing his arms as if to end the discussion right there.
The adult tilted his head, and a contained laugh escaped his lips. It wasn't loud, but it was enough to make it clear he enjoyed teasing him.
—"Besides, of course I'm coming,"— he added lightly—. "A trip like this is basically a paid vacation."
The young man arched an eyebrow, not responding.
—"By the way, since when do you like this?"— the man continued, jerking his chin toward the still-swaying wheat field—. "I think it's the first time I've seen you do it."
The young man's silence was clearer than any answer. He pretended not to hear the question, turned his face forward, and squinted. He'd caught another sound, different from the rustle of the wheat: something further ahead.
The young man sharpened his hearing. Voices. Firm steps crushing the loose earth. The metallic creak of buckles and straps adjusting with each movement.
He looked down the slope and saw them: a group marching a few meters ahead, perfectly aligned in two rows.
—"Ignoring me, huh?…"— his uncle murmured behind him, a tone somewhere between irritated and amused.
—"Let's go too,"— the boy said, not taking his eyes off the group.
The man clicked his tongue with feigned annoyance.
—"Tch…"— he accompanied the sound with a shrug, resigned to keeping pace.
The group maintained an impeccable cadence, advancing with the solidity of a single machine. Their boots hit the ground in unison, raising small clouds of golden dust that dissolved instantly.
Most wore the same uniform: a two-piece suit, black, fitted to the body like a second skin. Subtle metallic details gleamed at the edges, catching the sun in brief flashes whenever an arm moved or a leg marked the beat.
Some in the group carried swords, no two alike. There were short, straight blades, ready to be drawn in an instant; others longer, protruding over a shoulder, with worn hilts. The gleam of metal filtered through the movements, just a fleeting glint as angles changed.
Those not carrying weapons held briefcases. Large, medium, small. Some held them with both hands, as if safeguarding something fragile; others carried them in one hand, with the ease of someone used to the weight. There were even those who wore them on their backs, secured with straps, like improvised backpacks.
The young man sharpened his gaze. Distinct figures began to stand out from the uniform mass: a few wore long, light coats that broke the monotony of black. The colors varied, discreet but clear—a smoky gray, a deep blue, a sandy hue.
The wind played with these loose fabrics. They fluttered with every step, snaking around their owners' legs, as if they moved enveloped in a perpetual halo of motion.
The young man resumed his pace. He looked down and found his boots, covered in dust up past the instep. The group's rhythm forced him to mark each footfall with precision, and for a moment he was caught observing the rigidity of the uniforms ahead, the calculated sway of the briefcases swinging side to side in time with the march.
He then felt a presence at his side. He turned his head slightly and started: there was his uncle, as if he'd appeared suddenly.
—"Didn't you notice me?"— the man asked, arching an eyebrow with feigned offense.
—"Sorry… I was concentrating too hard,"— the boy replied, twisting a nervous smile.
The uncle watched him for another second and tilted his head.
—"Excited?"
—"Yes."— The reply was brief, without hesitation.
With a fluid movement, the adult fell into step beside him. He walked at the same pace as the rest, but without their marked tension: shoulders relaxed, steps loose, as if the discipline of the line couldn't touch him.
Around them, the air changed. The bustle of the harbor began to filter into the scene, first as a distant murmur and then as a rising tide: voices raised in farewells, shouts from merchants offering wares to the new arrivals, the clatter of crates and timbers being moved about. The group advanced toward that noise as if walking straight into a wave of life and movement.
The terrain changed under their feet. The golden sea of wheat was left behind, replaced by more defined tracks: ruts from wheels that had hardened the earth, repeated footprints forming irregular paths. Each step raised less dust and more fragments of loose gravel.
Lifting his gaze, the young man noticed the horizon was no longer clean. Two kinds of structures began to rise, distinct from each other as if belonging to different worlds.
Nearby, over the cobbled streets, stood buildings of wood and worked stone, with a sober but cared-for design. There were no unnecessary adornments, just straight lines, well-measured balconies, an elegant functionality that conveyed order.
Further away, in contrast, stood constructions of hurried woodwork: half-finished towers, warehouses without doors, platforms held together with ropes and still-visible nails. Everything had the look of something assembled against the clock, raised in urgency to meet an immediate need.
The harbor was still being born. You could tell by the air. The smell of freshly cut wood mixed with that of wet rope and worked, unpolished metal. This mixture was faint in the finished area, but grew stronger as the group approached the docks.
The din grew denser as they neared the docks. The air was thick with voices, with disordered footsteps, with a constant coming and going that overflowed the narrow streets.
In one sector, entire families clustered around those departing. Mothers hugged their children tightly, with tears that never quite became open sobs. Others spoke too loudly, as if the volume of their voices could disguise the trembling in their hands. They were saying goodbye to sons, brothers, partners, in a chaotic mix of whispers and choked shouts.
A few meters away, the atmosphere changed. Among the soldiers, the tone was different: there, no one wanted to show too much. At most, you heard contained laughter, backslaps, the occasional mocking comment about the weight of packs or the stifling heat. There was tension, but it was disguised under an air of routine.
The young man and his uncle advanced between the two worlds. With every step they had to dodge bodies and obstacles: men carrying heavy crates, animals being forcibly herded onto auxiliary vessels that creaked with every extra pound, local merchants raising their voices offering dried fruits, rough blankets, fermented drinks in clay jars. Everything was rough, raw, like the city itself, which still seemed more an expanding encampment than a consolidated port.
Finally, the group emerged into a cleared sector at the far left of the second half. The bustle faded behind them like a distant murmur, replaced by a silence heavy with expectation.
Before them stretched the river. Immense. So wide the opposite shore was lost in a distant haze, impossible to distinguish clearly. The water extended as far as the eye could see, moving in a slow sway that reflected the light like broken mirrors.
—"The sea…"— the young man let out, almost without thinking, in a thread of a voice.
The uncle turned his head toward him but didn't interrupt.
On the horizon, the water and sky merged into a single luminous strip. There were no clear boundaries: just blue, radiance, and the sensation of a world too vast to take in with a single glance.
—"Nice view, isn't it?"— the uncle commented after a few seconds, his hands shoved in his pockets.
The young man nodded slowly, not taking his eyes off the horizon.
—"Yes… it is."
He stayed quiet another moment, until his curiosity pushed him to speak.
—"By the way… how long will the journey take?"
The uncle took a moment to react, as if the question had caught him in his own reverie. Then, with a calm smile and a casual tone, he answered.
—"Four days,"— the uncle said with satisfaction, raising his hand in front of the young man and extending four fingers as if it were a small triumph.
—"Only four?!"— the young man exclaimed, eyes widening.
—"Yes. Ten days' difference, thanks to the magic of technology."
The boy let out an incredulous laugh.
—"So it'll be a short trip."
—"Without a doubt."— The adult inclined his head, sure of his statement.
—"Kaep!"
The female voice cut through the conversation like lightning. Both turned at the same time toward its source: a narrow alley between the warehouses, where a figure approached with determined steps.
The uncle squinted, then nodded with his chin.
—"Look, there they are. Your parents. Looks like they made it in time to say goodbye."
Kaep recognized them immediately. His mother and father stood waiting, not yet advancing toward him. There were no tears on their faces, but the tension showed in their bodies: rigid shoulders, clenched fists, the slight sway of a foot seeking anchor against the ground. It was as if something inside them resisted with all its might accepting this moment.
They both approached. The uncle took the lead, as always. He greeted Kaep's father with a relaxed, almost careless gesture, and they shook hands firmly.
At first, they spoke of trivial things: the journey, the food on board, some family memory mentioned quietly, accompanied by a short smile.
Then the words lowered in tone. They leaned slightly toward each other, exchanging more serious murmurs about the details of the boarding and the destination.
Neither seemed to have firm certainties. They only mentioned suggested routes, possibilities, names of places that sounded distant.
Kaep's mother stepped forward then. Her steps were firm, but as soon as she was in front of her son, the rigidity broke into a gesture of contained tenderness. She took his shoulders with both hands and made him look her in the eye.
She spoke to him directly, but her voice held a warm tremor. She asked him to take care of his uniform, to eat enough, not to let himself be dragged down by fatigue or his habit of sleeping little. To avoid over-exerting himself as soon as he arrived.
—"When you get there, try to make peace with her, okay?"— his mother said, not looking away.
Kaep lowered his face slightly.
—"I'll try."
—"And remember to visit your grandfather's place."
The young man nodded more energetically.
—"I'll pay him a visit. And I'll ask if he'll train m—"
He didn't finish the sentence. His mother's hand descended gently to rest on his head. It was a simple gesture, but it stopped him instantly, as if anchoring him in place.
The boy fell silent, feeling the warmth of those fingers sinking into his hair, firmer than they seemed at first. It was a caress, yes, but also a reminder that she knew him too well: she could read between his words and cut short any attempt to divert the topic with a joke or an escape.
The woman's eyes shone for an instant, though no tear fell.
—"Remember to send letters,"— she insisted, lowering her hand from his head but not moving away.
—"Of course. I won't forget,"— Kaep replied with an attempt at a smile that came out nervous.
Then, without waiting for anything else, his mother wrapped her arms around him. She held him tightly against her chest, and for a moment the noise of the harbor disappeared for him.
She was only a few centimeters shorter, and yet she held him as if he were still a child.
—"My little giant,"— she whispered, squeezing a little tighter.
Kaep let out a short laugh, almost awkward, but full of affection.
—"Haha…"
They stayed like that a few seconds more, in silence, as if time had stretched just for them.
Finally, he stood before his father.
The harbor's roar still thundered around them: voices, animals, dragged crates, orders shouted over the crowd. But for the young man, it all suddenly went quiet. The world narrowed to this instant, to those hard, serene eyes watching him without blinking.
The young man faced him. For a moment, neither spoke.
—"Kaep."
—"Yes."
—"Are you ready?"— his father asked, without preamble, in that firm voice.
Kaep swallowed.
—"I think so."
His father gave a slight, dry nod.
—"Thinking it and being it aren't the same. But you'll understand soon enough."
The boy smiled, lowered his gaze, and nodded again, silently.
His father studied him for a few more seconds, with an intense attention, as if he wanted to imprint every feature into his memory. Then he slid a hand behind his back. When he showed it again, he held an object wrapped in dark cloth.
—"Don't get distracted by what doesn't matter,"— his father continued, voice firm—. "You're going to see things you won't understand at first. Some you'll never understand. Don't try to give them shape. Just keep moving forward."
Kaep held his gaze. It was the same voice as always, the same severe look that had guided him, saved him more than once, and watched him grow.
—"Take it…"— his father said, extending the wrapped object—. "He would have wanted you to have it."
The young man stretched out both hands and received the weight. He expected the cold of a hilt, the edge of a blade, but what fell into his palms left him bewildered.
The cloth slid away, and in place of a common weapon, there were chains. They weren't thick, but fine and light, though they felt strangely firm to the touch, as if nothing could break them. Each link shone with a dull luster, different from freshly polished metal, closer to something ancient and tested.
Kaep stood motionless, the chains resting in his hands. The harbor's murmur rushed back into his ears, but he didn't look away from his father, seeking an explanation in his expression.
His father watched him in silence and, suddenly, his lips curved slightly. A faint smile escaped him, a mix of satisfaction and mockery at Kaep's confused expression. For a moment, the severe mask he wore cracked.
—"Ask your uncle later how to use them,"— he said, pointing at the chains with a finger of his left hand—. "He saw them being used. He might teach you."
Kaep blinked, still incredulous, and tightened his fingers around the links.
—"Any other advice?"— he asked, straightening his posture, which he'd lost in his bewilderment.
His father took a moment to answer. He looked to the side for an instant. Finally, he lowered his voice, loading each syllable with a different weight.
—"Don't try to stand out. Try to last."
Silence.
Kaep blinked, swallowing with difficulty. His father broke the stillness by placing a hand on his shoulder. It wasn't an affectionate gesture: the pressure was firm, measured.
—"And if something happens… keep a cool head."— His voice was grave, leaving no room for doubt—. "It's the only thing you have out there."
—"I know,"— Kaep replied.
His father shook his head with a short movement.
—"No. You don't. But you'll learn it."
The phrase hung in the air. There was another pause, heavier than the last.
Then, slowly, the man slid his hand inside his coat. Kaep watched, expectant, as the harbor noise seemed to fade again. From within the dark fabric, his father drew out a small envelope, folded in half. The edge was worn.
He held it for a second between his fingers, saying nothing, as if the object itself weighed more than it appeared. Then, he extended it to Kaep.
—"This is your name out there."
Kaep took it without a word, feeling the rough edge of the envelope against his fingers.
—"Open it when you're on the ship."— His father's voice didn't tremble, but lowered a tone. —. "Use it well."
The young man nodded silently and tucked it into the inner pocket of his uniform, not daring to look inside.
It was then that a siren tore through the air. Three sharp, repeated blasts that cut through the harbor's murmur. The signal. Boarding had begun.
Movement erupted around them. Kaep's mother hugged him once more, quick, tight, not giving him time to respond. His father did the same.
His uncle fell into step beside him, carrying his briefcase with a casual air that didn't hide the urgency. The group of soldiers began to regroup, ordering themselves into scattered ranks as they advanced toward the dock.
Kaep turned his head one last time. His father was still there, standing, firm, without an extra gesture, as if the entire act of farewell had already concluded. His silhouette receded into the crowd, implacable, until the young man had to take the next step.
---
Walking among the soldiers toward the ship
Kaep slipped his hand back into his pocket and pulled out the envelope once more, pressing it against his chest like an invisible shield.
He walked only a few meters before separating it from himself. He held it in front of his face, observing the worn paper, trying to imagine what could be inside. He blinked.
A thunderclap tore through the silence of his mind. The clean air of the harbor vanished in an instant.
Wet metal. A continuous roar of rain lashing hard surfaces. A penetrating cold that seeped into his bones. His whole body reacted to the change, as if he'd been thrown into an alien world without warning.
'Where… am I?'