There are names that burn the tongue like coals of forgotten fire. Esten de Stalvart. Knight of high birth, with conscience sharper than blade and pain deeper than any wound.
We were same age—fate's irony brought two boys from different worlds under common sky of war. Shoulder to shoulder through first campaigns, shared rations and starry nights in freezing swamps where breath turned ice, sky looked indifferently.
He called me brother, I him. Then those words meant more than oaths to kings. Youth was sweet illusion, we believed war's fire purifies souls. How naive we were! War doesn't purify—it exposes essence. And human essence rarely beautiful.
One story tore us. Crack thin as hair spread into bottomless abyss.
That day began like dream where every rustle portends trouble. Marshal ordered attack at dawn—enemy supposedly retreated, not mining pass through Black Hills.
I knew it was lie. Not with mind—with skin, bones. Sky unnaturally quiet, wind dared not stir leaves. Birds circled hills wide—little prophets of death. Earth breathed foreign magic, heavy and nervous, as if swallowed poison.
Elemental mines. Spells from water's fury, blind fire, greedy earth, icy wind. Nature turned weapon.
I refused to go. Got three days guardhouse and cowardice charge. Interesting logic—soldier sensing death coward. General sending men to die hero.
Esten went. To end, as befits knight. He believed order like prayer, honor like gospel. Rare breed of faith unbending under doubts.
I begged wait, strike other flank, swore to go first. He didn't listen.
— Stay, Vain. Men go to fight.