I sighed. Some news you want to tell, others you must.
— The kingdom may fall. The king killed. Need to go to Marshal's camp. Tell no one.
Words fell into tent's silence like stones into pool. Urben recovered first:
— Beren de Silvan, go.
— Only commanders should... —I began, but old man interrupted:
— Beren de Silvan, my son. You're commander now.
Words hung in air, heavy as chains. Beren paled—not from fear, but understanding what burden fell on shoulders.
— Father... I can't.
But Urben looked at son with stern tenderness old soldiers send young to war.
— To live means to protect. Better sooner than later. Responsibility—not choice, but duty.
Something changed in Beren's eyes. Maybe acceptance, maybe realization road back cut off. He straightened—not physically, but inwardly.
— Yes sir! I'm going. Let's go, Sholn de Lorens.
— I need to Esten de Stalvart still.
— He's your enemy... You always quarreled.