Requiem of the Forgotten

I didn't move.

I couldn't. Not because I was afraid—not exactly. Not because I was weak—though, let's be real, I was—but because everything inside me had just… stopped. Like someone had pulled a wire in my chest and disconnected whatever was keeping me together. I stood there, frozen, sword still raised, lungs barely working, mouth dry as sand.

Antoine's blade hovered inches from mine.

He could've ended it.

He didn't.

He just looked at me. Not with pity. Not with fear. Not even with anger anymore.

Just disgust.

His sword lowered slowly. His shoulders rolled back like he was bored. Then he sheathed the blade with a smooth, almost lazy motion.

"You're not worth the edge."

That was all he said. No shouting. No threats. Just that flat dismissal.

He turned around and walked away like it didn't matter.

Because to him—it didn't.

Velana lingered. Her eyes flicked to me, sharp and unreadable. I thought maybe she'd say something. Maybe a warning. Maybe nothing at all.

She said nothing.

Grimnir gave me a glance that felt heavier than steel. Then he grunted, turned his back, and followed.

Gorvak didn't even look.

The sound of their boots faded into the dirt. I stayed where I was, my sword still raised like a fucking idiot, shaking from the inside out.

The moment they were gone, everything cracked.

My knees hit the ground before I realized I was falling. The sword dropped beside me with a dull clang, my hands trembling, breath catching in my throat like I was choking on air.

I didn't cry.

I wanted to.

God, I wanted to.

But there was nothing left.

No tears. No rage. No strength.

Only silence.

My hands dug into the dirt. The ground felt warm, dry, gritty. Real. Too real.

And yet… everything else was spinning.

I forced myself to breathe. Slow. Shaky. Just to get my heart to stop punching its way out of my chest.

Somewhere in the distance, someone called my name.

I didn't answer.

I just stared at the ground and wished I was anywhere else.

We rode back in silence.

No one spoke. Not even Antoine.

That was the worst part.

Nobody looked at me. Not one of them. I was there, riding in the back, a bruised, broken mess clinging to my saddle while my body screamed at me to just fall off and be done with it. But no one cared. Not Grimnir. Not Velana. Not Gorvak.

Especially not Antoine.

When we reached the outer gates of the fortress, I saw the crowd.

Dozens—no, hundreds—of people were waiting. Soldiers. Recruits. Workers. Officers. They lined the courtyard like they were expecting a victory march. Some had torches. Some just stood there, arms crossed, faces tight with anticipation.

And then they saw us.

The gate guards opened the doors without a word. We passed through in a slow, steady formation.

But the crowd—something shifted.

You could feel it, like a drop in temperature. A shudder running through them as their eyes scanned the group and realized what wasn't there.

Basha.

Iron Ghost.

Gone.

It didn't take long for the whispers to start.

"Where are the others?"

"Wait, wasn't Iron Ghost—?"

"They're not all back."

"Where's Basha?"

"Where is she?"

And then the panic hit.

It didn't explode. It spread. Like smoke. Like poison in the air.

Some people backed away. Others started talking over each other, voices rising, overlapping. I saw a young recruit turn pale, like he was about to be sick. Someone dropped a canteen.

The realization was setting in: two of the strongest people in the entire army were dead.

And not in some grand war. Not during a major battle.

In a fucking skirmish.

A small group. A routine mission.

They were gone.

And we were back.

Barely.

The commanding officer stepped forward. A tall man with sharp cheekbones and eyes like frost. He looked straight at Antoine.

"What happened?"

Antoine didn't answer at first. He dismounted slowly, brushing dust from his armor like the question didn't even matter.

Then his eyes drifted—briefly—to me.

My gut clenched.

I thought he'd say it.

Thought he'd point a finger and tell them the truth.

That it was my fault.

That I froze. That I didn't fight. That someone had to die because I wasn't strong enough.

But he didn't.

He just said, flatly, "We were ambushed. It was coordinated. They knew we were coming."

The officer's jaw tightened.

"Two of our best. Gone."

Antoine nodded once. "They didn't go quietly."

And that was it.

He walked past the man like the conversation was over. Velana followed. Grimnir too. Gorvak stayed back a second, his eyes scanning the crowd before landing on me for the first time.

Just for a second.

Then he turned and left.

No more questions.

No more answers.

Only silence.

And fear.

So much fear.

Because if they could die—if the Legends weren't invincible—what chance did the rest of us have?

I didn't stay in the courtyard.

The moment the horses were taken and the crowd started thinning out, I slipped away, still aching from the inside out. Nobody stopped me. No one said a word. Not even a glance. I wasn't important enough for that.

My legs felt like rubber. Every step through the stone halls burned—ribs, knees, back, everything screaming at me to just lie down and disappear. I passed soldiers I didn't know, voices buzzing in my ears without meaning. The fortress walls closed in like they were too big, too cold, too full of people who didn't give a shit.

My room was dark when I opened the door. Hot air clung to the walls. Dust floated through a sliver of moonlight from the high window. Same broken mirror. Same crooked table. Same bucket of stale water I hadn't replaced in a week.

I stepped in, shut the door, and locked it behind me.

Then I puked.

It came out fast, violent, and bitter. I didn't even make it to the bucket. Just dropped to my knees and emptied whatever was left in my stomach onto the stone floor. The acid burned my throat, left my hands shaking against the floorboards.

I stayed there a while. Kneeling. Breathing through my teeth. One hand braced against the wall like I'd fall apart without it.

The worst part was that I didn't feel better.

My chest still hurt. My skin itched. My head throbbed with every heartbeat. My thoughts wouldn't shut the fuck up.

Why did they die?

Why was I alive?

What the hell am I even doing here?

I pressed my palms to my eyes, hard. Tried to breathe, but it kept catching in my throat. There were no tears, no screams, just that sickening, gnawing pressure like everything inside me was about to split open.

I wasn't ready for this. I wasn't ready for any of it.

But there was no way out.

Just forward.

Just pain.

I got up, stumbled to the mirror. Stared at the wreck standing in front of me.

Bruised cheek. Split lip. Blood on my collar. My eyes looked like they didn't belong to me.

"You look like shit," I muttered.

No answer. Just that same dead stare looking back.

I didn't sleep.

I laid down for maybe an hour, but my thoughts kept circling. So I got back up before sunrise, tied my boots, and walked out into the yard.

The sky was still dark. The torches hadn't even gone out yet.

Only a few others were there—grunts like me. No one talked. Just the sound of leather boots on dirt and steel brushing steel.

I grabbed a wooden sword from the rack. Heavy. Off-balanced. Didn't matter.

I started moving.

Slow at first. My body hated me. My legs wobbled, my wrists burned with every swing, but I kept going. Over and over again. Basic drills. Stances. Slashes. Guard. Repeat. Nothing fancy. Nothing impressive.

But it was something.

I wasn't good. I was clumsy. I missed my mark more than I hit it. The sword felt like it weighed a hundred fucking kilos by the end of the hour.

Lukas watched from the side, arms crossed. Didn't say shit. Just stood there while I fucked up every third swing.

Eventually, he walked over. Said nothing. Just grabbed my hand, adjusted my grip.

"Don't hold it like a broom," he muttered.

Then he walked off.

That was the closest thing to praise I'd heard in weeks.

It kept me going.

The next morning felt the same. Same cold dirt under my boots, same burning muscles, same awkward grip on the wooden sword. I was slower than the others. Less precise. Everything about me still screamed amateur. Even when I tried to hide it, it leaked out in every motion.

Lukas was there again. Always early. Always quiet. He moved like he was scared to take up space—shoulders hunched, eyes low, like he was waiting for someone to yell at him just for existing. But he still showed up. Every day. Carrying crates. Cleaning weapons. Swinging a sword that looked too heavy for his frame.

We didn't talk much at first. Just grunts. Nods. Shared sweat and silence.

But on the third day, after I dropped my blade mid-swing and cursed under my breath, Lukas actually muttered something.

"You're supposed to keep your elbow tighter."

I turned, wiping sweat from my brow. "What?"

He hesitated. "Your elbow. You open up too much when you swing. Leaves your ribs exposed."

I blinked.

He flushed red, like he regretted saying anything.

"Thanks," I muttered, picking up the sword again.

He nodded quickly, then went back to his own drills without another word.

That was Lukas.

Not a fighter.

Not a leader.

Just… trying.

Like me.

But then, on the fifth morning, everything changed.

I was in the middle of drills when I heard a voice behind me.

"Your stance is shit."

I turned sharply—too sharply, almost lost my balance.

Nikita stood a few meters away, arms folded, his face unreadable. He wasn't in armor. Just a training shirt, loose pants, bare forearms covered in old scars.

"I—I didn't see you there," I managed.

"Obviously."

He walked closer, slow and deliberate, eyes scanning me like I was a puzzle with half the pieces missing.

"Feet too wide. Right hand too tense. And you keep leaning forward when you strike."

I lowered the sword slightly. "I've been practicing."

"I can tell," he said. "You're not completely hopeless anymore."

My lips twitched. That was the most encouraging thing anyone had said to me in weeks.

Nikita stepped beside me, motioned for the sword.

I handed it over.

He turned it in his hand once, then took a stance so fluid, so perfectly controlled, it looked effortless.

"This," he said, "is balance. Every step, every breath, every movement—it starts here." He shifted into a swing, the blade slicing through the air with a clean whoosh. "No wasted motion. No hesitation."

I watched every move like my life depended on it.

Then he handed the sword back.

"Again," he said.

So I did.

I copied the stance. Slower, clumsier. My feet slipped once. My wrist turned too far.

"Stop. Do it again."

And again.

And again.

For the next hour, Nikita drilled me—correcting, adjusting, demonstrating. He didn't raise his voice. Didn't mock. Just... instructed. Calm. Focused. Deadly.

At one point, I glanced at Lukas. He stood off to the side, eyes wide, jaw slightly open. Watching.

He'd never seen Nikita train anyone before.

No one had.

By the time we finished, my arms were dead, my legs felt like stone, and I was dripping sweat.

But I could breathe.

And for the first time in weeks, I didn't feel like I was drowning.

Nikita gave me a final nod before turning away.

"Keep showing up."

That was all he said.

But it meant more than anything else in this godsdamned place.

And I kept going. Every morning before the sun touched the walls. Every afternoon after the others stopped. Lukas still trained nearby, always quiet, always watching. We didn't talk much, but sometimes he'd nod when I got something right. That was enough. I think he respected the grind. Or maybe he just needed someone else to prove that it was okay to keep going.

A week passed. Then another. The fortress felt heavier every day. The air was thicker. People whispered more. The higher-ups met in closed rooms with dark faces and hushed voices. Word spread, even if no one said it outright. The Invasion wasn't months away anymore.

It was close.

Real close.

And then the announcement came.

Arena matches.

A monthly event. Everyone knew the rules. One-on-one duels between soldiers. Win, and your ranking went up. Lose, and you got dropped—or stayed where you were. It was how people clawed their way out of the lower divisions. How names became known. And for some poor bastards, how they got crushed in front of a crowd that didn't give a shit unless blood hit the dirt.

I signed up.

I didn't know why.

Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was anger. Maybe I just wanted to prove to myself that I wasn't the same piece of shit who froze in the middle of a battle and let others die.

When I saw Miguel's name on the pairing list, my stomach twisted.

He'd beaten me before.

Easily.

A cocky bastard with fast hands, a sharper blade, and enough raw confidence to fill a hall. He'd laughed the last time. Called me a waste of time before dropping me in less than a minute.

This time, I wasn't the same kid.

The crowd packed the edges of the stone arena. Soldiers stood on crates. Recruits clung to the railing. Voices rose in short bursts—bets, jeers, commentary. It smelled like sweat, dirt, and metal.

And blood.

There was always blood.

I stood in the center, sword in hand, breathing slow.

Miguel strutted in like he was already celebrating. His armor gleamed. His smirk was razor-sharp. His confidence practically oozed from his boots.

"Well, look who got brave," he said, spinning his sword once. "Didn't think you'd crawl back here after last time."

I didn't answer.

I didn't need to.

I just gripped the sword tighter and locked my eyes on him.

Out of the corner of my vision, I saw him.

Antoine.

Standing on the upper balcony. Leaning against the railing. Watching.

No expression.

Just watching.

My heart kicked faster, but I shoved it down.

The horn blew.

Miguel moved fast. Quicker than I remembered. He came in low, blade darting for my side. I turned with it, felt the steel graze my ribs, and countered. My swing missed by a hair. He grinned.

"Too slow."

He struck again—high, low, fake, then real. I blocked, barely. My arms rattled from the impact. Pain shot down my forearms, but I held the stance.

He came again. I ducked. Swung up.

This time, I clipped his arm.

Just a scratch—but it was enough to wipe the grin off his face.

He snarled. "Lucky."

"No," I muttered. "Trained."

I pushed harder. Pressed the offense. I wasn't better than him—not in strength, not in finesse. But I was more focused. I knew what I wanted.

He swung wild.

I ducked.

Came up under his guard.

Steel slammed into his thigh. He staggered, one leg buckling.

The crowd made noise—gasps, shouts, curses.

I didn't hear them.

I was already moving.

My boot hit the dirt. My blade snapped forward. He blocked, but sloppy.

And then—

My sword slammed into his shoulder, full force.

He dropped.

Not out cold.

But done.

The horn blew again.

I stood there, chest heaving, blade trembling in my hands.

It was over.

Someone shouted my name.

Someone else cursed.

And then the voice echoed through the arena, clear and loud:

"Aleksander. Promotion—Standard Division."

The crowd didn't cheer.

They didn't have to.

That one sentence meant everything.

I left the arena with my knuckles raw and my shirt sticking to my back. Sweat clung to my spine, blood soaked through my side where Miguel had landed the first hit. Every step felt like it dragged a hundred kilos behind it, but I didn't care. Not this time. For once, I wasn't walking back as the loser.

Soldiers nodded at me as I passed—barely, but they did. Just small, sharp acknowledgments, like they couldn't ignore me anymore. I didn't smile. Didn't bask in it. Just kept walking. The adrenaline still hadn't worn off. I could feel it buzzing in my fingertips, like I was ready to fight again. Like part of me didn't want to stop.

By the time I got back to the barracks, the sun had dipped behind the walls. A warm breeze pushed dust down the alleyways. Voices echoed faintly from the canteen. Orders barked in the distance. The fortress never slept. Not anymore.

Lukas sat on the edge of a crate near the armory, picking at a loose thread in his sleeve. He looked up when he saw me, eyes wide. "You won?"

I gave a small nod.

His face lit up—like someone had just handed him fire in a world of snow. "Holy shit. Against Miguel?"

I sat down beside him with a grunt, letting my back rest against the wall.

He laughed softly, then quickly covered his mouth like he'd said something wrong. "Sorry. I just… I didn't think he'd lose."

"Me neither," I muttered, wiping blood from my lip. "Guess we were both wrong."

He paused. "Nikita watched."

That made me freeze.

I looked at him, and Lukas nodded.

"Was up on the other side. With the officers. Looked like he was actually paying attention."

I didn't know what to say to that. My throat felt tight all of a sudden. I just leaned my head back and stared at the sky through the open rafters.

For the first time in weeks, the stars were out.

Not many. Just a few.

But they were there.

A couple hours later, a runner came through the barracks with the updated ranks posted on a scroll. I didn't go read it. Didn't need to.

Someone else did.

And they talked.

Cealith had been moved to the Expanded Division. People were already whispering about how fast he was rising. How the higher-ups had plans for him.

But it wasn't that that made the air go still.

It was what came after.

Nikita—now officially a Legend.

The youngest ever.

People said it like it was prophecy. Like it had been inevitable from the start. They called him a ghost with a sword, the shadow of the coming war. Nobody dared say his name without lowering their voice.

I sat on my bunk, bandaging my ribs in the dark, and let the words sink in.

He deserved it.

He earned it.

But still… there was a part of me—deep, buried, stupid—that hurt. Like I was watching a comet pass overhead, knowing it would never fall back down where I could reach it.

The barracks quieted down quick that night.

Nobody joked anymore. No loud card games. No drunk arguments.

The invasion was close. Everyone felt it.

Orders changed. Schedules shifted. Patrols doubled. New trenches dug outside the southern wall. New scouts sent into the dry valleys.

And me?

My first post as a Standard Division soldier came the next morning.

Wall duty.

Four hours standing on stone, staring at sand and sky and the distant hills that looked like teeth under the sun. The heat pressed against my armor. The wind kicked grit into my eyes. But I stayed there, silent, steady, watching for movement.

The officer beside me said nothing. Just leaned on his spear, half asleep.

Then I saw the riders.

Three of them.

Dust trailing behind like smoke. Hooves pounding the ground. Fast.

I straightened.

The officer beside me frowned, raised a spyglass.

"Messengers?"

"No," I said.

As they got closer, I saw her.

A white headband flapping behind her like a war banner.

Hair darker than coal. Sharp posture. Determined shoulders.

Lydia.

I barely recognized her at first.

She looked older. Harder. Like the past few months had carved something into her bones.

They rode straight past the gates, directly to the central keep.

The guards didn't stop them.

No one did.

Because she didn't come with requests.

She came with orders.

Word spread fast—through hallways, mess halls, weapon racks.

Lydia was speaking with the commander.

I didn't hear the whole conversation. Wasn't allowed in the room, obviously. But I lingered nearby, long enough to catch the end of it. Her voice—cool, steady, dangerous—cut through the heavy stone walls like a blade.

"There's been a sighting," she said.

A pause.

A breath.

Then—

"One of the Six-Winged."

And that was the moment I realized…

Everything was about to change.