He arrived in the Kingdom of Balmat.
but before he could take a step, a voice cut through the silence behind him.
"Hey... wait!"
It was a girl's voice. Not Lindsay's.
He turned. A woman was jogging toward him, slightly out of breath, her hands on her hips, chest heaving from the effort. She looked familiar. Or rather, she looked at him like she knew him.
"Thanks for the other day," she managed between gasps.
He tilted his head slightly. Said nothing.
She straightened up and smiled, brushing hair behind her ear. "It's me, Julie. You... probably don't remember. But I remember you. You saved me and that patrol girl when things got bad."
Still, he didn't answer. Not because he was being rude—but because he didn't remember. And if he did, it didn't matter.
Julie filled the silence. "Everyone from the task force has been called to the training grounds. Officers, patrolmen. Even the new ones. You included, apparently."
He looked around, not sure where that even was.
Julie noticed. "Want me to show you the way?"
He nodded once.
They walked.
The tension between them wasn't hostile—just awkward. She tried filling it with chatter. Personal questions. Soft ones. Where he was from. If he had friends here. Why he never talked.
He answered none.
Eventually, she sighed, defeated. Walked ahead. Stopped. Looked him up and down, and then let out a small laugh.
"You're a weird one," she muttered. "Come on. Pick up the pace."
He blinked. Still didn't understand what had just happened. Not really. Emotions were like distant shapes to him—recognizable but without meaning.
The training grounds came into view—an open courtyard hemmed by old stone walls. Dozens of soldiers and officers milled about, some sparring, others watching. In the center stood a broad-shouldered man with a shaved head and a scar over one eye. Chief Ivers.
Julie raised a hand and shouted. "Ivers! You better come greet me!"
Ivers turned at the sound of her voice. When he saw who was with her, his stern face relaxed—not into a smile, but into something less rigid. He approached, slowly, exhaling deeply, like some heavy thought had been shaken loose.
"Julie. And you," he said. His voice low, grounded.
Julie grinned. "You look like hell."
"I run a military force. I'm not supposed to look pretty."
They exchanged a few words—about assignments, about nothing. Then Julie turned to him.
"Well, I'm off. Don't let him scare you too much."
She gave a wave and walked away. Ivers watched her go. Then he turned back—not to look at him, but somewhere above, somewhere distant.
"Come with me."
He followed. No hesitation. Not out of trust—out of instinct.
They walked through corridors thick with silence. The kind of halls built by old kings who thought stone could outlive time. And maybe it could.
Finally, they reached the tall, ornate doors of the throne room. Ivers stopped.
"You'll go in alone."
He pushed the doors open and left.
The throne room was cold. Not in temperature—in atmosphere. Empty, wide, ancient. Banners hung like memories no one wanted to let go of.
At the far end, on a seat carved too grand for any living man, sat the King.
He entered. Stood a few paces from the throne. Still. Silent.
The King observed him.
The silence between them stretched—dense, weighty, deliberate.
Then the King spoke.
"I need your help."
No throne voice. No command. Just a man's voice, tired and plain.
He didn't respond.
The King tried again. "There are signs. Whispers of war. We're not ready. We don't have time."
Still nothing. Just eyes watching. Listening. Calculating.
The King explained further—what he could. Carefully chosen words, sanded down edges. But it was clear even he didn't believe the story he was spinning.
Then came the question.
"Why."
A single word. Heavy. Pressed from somewhere far deeper than the King expected.
The King faltered.
He had no answer. Not one that could stand.
"You can leave," the King said. His voice was steady.
He didn't move.
The King stayed seated, eyes watching. Waiting.
But the boy didn't turn.
And so the King rose. Stepped down from the throne.
Stood before him. Then slowly — like it hurt his pride but not his will — knelt.
Not low. Not as a beggar. Just enough.
"I'm asking again. Not as a king. As a man."
There was no threat. No performance. Just a man kneeling in a silent room, with no one watching.
He looked down at him. Something stirred. Not emotion — not yet — but something close.
He turned. Walked toward the door.
His hand touched the handle.
"I'll think about it," he said.
And left.