It had been a week since they saw the man nailing the notice to the village square.

  Seven days where silence weighed heavier than any words. Each morning rose under restless eyes, and each night fell in sighs that never turned into conversation.

  The village seemed to have folded in on itself. The air smelled of dust and worn leather, and whispers drifted like prayers — unsure whether they asked for hope or braced for the worst.

  Gunnar, Johan, and Brann were among the first to reach the square. Brann stood with his head bowed, calloused hands clenched into trembling fists.

  On the other side, Brígia watched quietly, eyes red from more than just exhaustion — something deeper lingered there. Fear, perhaps.

  Ada gripped Gunnar’s arm tightly, as if her touch alone might hold him in place.

  “I… I don’t know if I can watch this,” she whispered, voice fragile. “What if it’s you? Or Johan…”

  Gunnar turned to her, gently cupping her face.

  “Hey… it’s going to be all right.” He forced a smile, even as his stomach twisted. “No matter what happens, we’ll both come back. I promise.”

  She tried to believe him, but her trembling lips betrayed her. She rested her forehead against his chest, breathing deeply, trying to hold back the tears.

  On the makeshift platform, a man in simple, but well-kept clothing raised his hand for silence. Two soldiers stood flanking him, still as statues.

  “We’ve had a few volunteers,” he announced, voice steady but without conviction. “But we still need three names. If there are any more willing to step forward… now is the time.”

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  No one moved.

  Nervous glances. Silent prayers. Fingers crossed in pockets. But not a single step.

  The man sighed and unrolled the scroll.

  “Then I’ll begin the draw.”

  The first name. A murmur spread through the crowd.

  The second. A woman cried out, grabbing her husband as he resigned himself to fate.

  And then:

  “Johan.”

  The name dropped like an axe.

  Brann let out a strangled noise — almost a sob. Brígia covered her mouth.

  Johan paled, trying to stand tall, but his eyes betrayed him. Before he could move, Gunnar grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

  “No. He’s not going.” His voice rang out, firm and unshakable. “I’ll take his place.”

  Johan’s eyes widened.

  “Gunnar, no! I can—”

  “Can you?” Gunnar turned to face him. “You barely survive a hard week in the fields. You think you’re ready for marching, cold, hunger, and steel?”

  Johan clenched his fists, unable to answer.

  “But it’s not fair. It’s not your turn…”

  “I decide when it’s my turn.” Gunnar stepped forward, arms raised. “Look at me. Now look at him. Who would you send to war?”

  The official rolled his eyes, annoyed.

  “If you wanted to volunteer, you should’ve done it earlier.”

  “I’m doing it now. And with that, you have your three.”

  The man looked between Johan and Gunnar, then sighed.

  “Very well. Gunnar Steiner, registered. Johan stays.”

  The square began to unravel. Some faces showed relief. Others, sorrow. Fear.

  Gunnar turned to his cousin, trying to sound light.

  “You can thank me later.”

  “You’re impossible,” Johan muttered, his voice thick with emotion.

  But the peace was short-lived.

  Ada strode toward him, her eyes blazing. She grabbed his arm.

  “Are you insane?!” Her voice cracked with pain. “You can’t just throw yourself into war like that!”

  “Ada, I—”

  “Don’t you dare tell me it’ll be okay! Don’t make that face like you’ve got everything under control! You’re going, Gunnar! You’re going off to war — to disappear into nowhere and fight for a throne that was never yours!”

  “I had to. For Johan. For Uncle Brann…”

  She stepped back, tears spilling.

  “And for me?! Did you think of me?”

  He reached out, but she stepped farther away.

  “No. No more empty promises. You always choose for everyone else. You think you’re protecting us — but you never look back to see who’s left behind.”

  Johan tried to interject:

  “Ada, he just wanted—”

  “Be quiet, Johan!” Her voice struck like a slap.

  She turned her gaze back to Gunnar one last time. Her eyes were red, burning with heartbreak.

  “I’m not strong enough to wait for you to come back in a coffin.”

  She pulled the ring from her finger. Her hand trembled.

  “Here. What we had… is over.”

  Gunnar didn’t move as she placed the ring in his palm. The simple metal felt like molten iron.

  She turned and walked away into the crowd — never once looking back.

  Brígia cried silently. Brann stared at the ground as if already at a funeral.

  Gunnar closed his fist around the ring. His chest felt hollow.

  “Let’s go, Johan,” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper.