THE KING OF NOTHING

  Chapter V: The Taste of Mud and Bronze

  Vael was the first to open his eyes in the dusty gloom of the barn.

  The false dawn was nothing more than a sickly pallor filtering through the rotten boards, a dirty grey that seemed to soak the world rather than illuminate it. Captain Yoel was no longer there. Only the hollow in the straw where his armor had rested, and the ghostly echo of his presence. From outside, through the cracks, came the low murmur of voices: Yoel's, grave and unperturbed, and a villager's, high and trembling, interspersed with the cold, metallic clink of silver coins. The sound of "Imperial Suns" clinking against other coins or a calloused palm was a raw reminder: even on the brink of the abyss, the economy of survival ran its course. The morning air smelled of frost, old dung, and stale fear.

  Vael sat up without a sound, like a shadow detaching from the ground. His eyes swept the interior. Irina lay in the same place, unmoving, but the stillness wasn't that of restorative sleep. It was the rigid quiet of contained pain. Her face, under the crust of dirt and dried sweat, had a translucent, almost greenish pallor. One hand, pale with white knuckles, clutched her bandaged side as if pure willpower could hold broken ribs together. Each breath was a shallow sigh, a careful motion that avoided expanding her ribcage. Elara slept on her back, slightly apart, her brow furrowed even in sleep, her good hand resting on her sword's pommel.

  With a yawn that was a theatrical act so perfect it bordered on obscenity—a noisy exaggeration of unhinged jaw and watery eyes—Vael stood up and shuffled outside.

  He returned a quarter of an hour later, bringing two things: a chipped wooden bucket full of well water, cold as the mountain's heart, and a small fired-clay bowl that steamed gently, releasing an aroma that clashed brutally with the barn's stench of rot.

  He approached Irina and knelt. She opened her eyes immediately, without transition, as if she hadn't been asleep at all, only waiting with lowered lids. The expression of pain was so deeply etched into her features that her face seemed a mask carved from taut wood.

  —Good morning, Irina —Vael greeted, with his lazy, weary smile, the one he always wore like a cheap shield.

  Irina blinked, focusing on him. Her dry, cracked lips moved.

  —My pulse is weak, Vael —she said, her voice coming out as a rough whisper, followed by a dry cough that made her flinch and clench her teeth—. Have you come to laugh? To take the pulse of my misfortune?

  Vael offered her the steaming bowl.

  —I've come to give you the best—and only—useful invention of the Empire —he said, in a peddler's tone—. It's strong. Strong enough to make you forget, for a while, that your insides are in shreds.

  The bowl held a liquid almost black, thick as tar, its surface reflecting the weak light with an oily sheen. The aroma was complex and aggressive: of burnt wood, roasted earth, of bitter spices brought from distant deserts, all amalgamated into a vapor that promised a kick to the senses. Coffee. The drink of soldiers, sailors, and the damned. Bitter, brutal, and irreplaceable.

  Irina stared at it, as if the bowl were a miniature of the abyss. Then, with an effort that brought sweat to her brow, she raised a trembling hand. She took the bowl between her fingers, feeling the almost painful heat of the clay. She brought it to her lips and took a small, prudent sip.

  The liquid was a controlled fire. It burned on the way down, a line of rough fire that traced her throat and settled in her empty stomach. But a moment later, the effect rose like a wave. A heat that wasn't physical, but chemical, expanded from her core. She felt, could almost see, the thick, slow blood in her veins accelerate, beating with a new vigor against her temples. The fog of pain and exhaustion clouding her mind retreated a few inches, like a torn curtain. It wasn't well-being. It was clarity. A rough, painfully alert clarity.

  —It's delicious —she admitted, her voice a bit firmer. It wasn't a compliment; it was a status report. Like a soldier reporting his weapon still functioned.

  —That means it's working —Vael nodded, satisfied, and proceeded to take a nonchalant bite from a piece of dry bread he'd produced from somewhere. The crunch sounded obscenely loud in the silence.

  Elara woke to the aroma. It wasn't a gentle awakening; it was a jolt, as if the smell itself had torn her from her stupor. She sat up, frowning, and touched her injured shoulder cautiously.

  —What… what is that smell? —she asked, her voice laden with sleep and distrust—. It smells like… like something that isn't mud, or blood, or fear.

  —Your coffee, Elara —Vael announced, as if introducing a dignitary—. It will wake your body and then remind you how tired you are. Drink your coffee and eat your bread; the Bronze Captain won't wait for us to philosophize about flavors. Strategic retreat waits for no one.

  The Confession in the Hay

  Half an hour later, the trio was sitting on a less dusty heap of hay, forming an awkward circle. The false sun had already washed the barn with its flat, heatless light. Irina held her bowl with both hands, absorbing the residual warmth. The physical pain was a palpable presence beside her, a wild animal chained with willpower, but her mind, fueled by black coffee, was awake and sharp as a dagger's edge.

  —We need to talk about this —she said suddenly, without preamble. Her blue eyes, now more lucid, fixed on Elara, giving her no option to look away—. Not about fear. Not about luck. About what happened in the cellar. The lightning.

  Elara shuddered, not from cold, but from memory. The taste of ozone and charred flesh came to her mouth.

  —I froze —she repeated, like a mantra of self-contempt—. I already said it. I was paralyzed.

  —I'm not talking about your fear, girl —Irina cut in, and her tone wasn't of reproach, but of tactical impatience—. Fear is a tool; it rusts or it sharpens. I'm talking about the power. The… outburst. Never, in all my years on this damned piece of frontier, have I seen anything like it. It wasn't battle magic, those will-o'-wisps tower mages throw. It was something more… primordial. —She paused, weighing her words—. Sergeant Kaelen, before the fortress fell, muttered something under his breath. He said you came from the Academy of Veils, in the capital. That you were a minor mage before they sent you here as punishment or a joke.

  Elara bowed her head. The weight of the name, of the expectation, was more tangible than ever.

  —Yes —she admitted, her voice so low it was almost a whisper—. The Vanes have… had… an ancient connection to light. A pact, the family legends say. But in me, it was always weak. A trickle. I learned the basics at the Academy: channeling for luminous shields, blinding flashes to disorient, light-stealth… parlor tricks, useful for parades, not for war. I never… never did that. Never felt anything like it. It wasn't like pushing water through a channel. It was as if the channel exploded and swept everything away.

  —What you did wasn't fine magic —Irina concluded, with an evaluative look that scrutinized Elara as if she were an unknown weapon—. It was a broken dam. A brute force unleashed. I don't know how you channeled it without bursting from the inside, but…

  —It was a force, Elara —Vael interjected, who had been finishing his bread with meticulous attention—. Nothing more. A force that came out when you needed it. Like a sneeze, but with more… dramatic flair. That's all that matters now. The rest are questions for boring philosophers.

  Elara looked at him, and for the first time, the simplicity of his comment didn't seem just naive, but insulting. It sparked a flare of irritation in her chest, a fire warmer than shame.

  —What is fear to you, Vael? —she snapped, her voice rising—. You're always there, smiling, tripping, as if everything were a boring farce. Don't you ever feel the knot in your stomach? The ice down your spine? Or are you so simple that fear can't even find you?

  Vael shrugged, a slow, deliberate gesture. He closed his eyes, as if searching for the answer in inner darkness.

  —Most people break from fear, Irina —he said, addressing the lieutenant but answering Elara—. They wear out, they shatter, they crumble. I don't have time to break. It's too much effort. Too much drama. —He opened his eyes and fixed them on Elara. For a fleeting instant, in their green depths, there was no trace of the fool's haze—. I just decide not to get tired. It's more efficient.

  Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

  Irina arched an eyebrow, a fine notch in her mask of pain. A spark of something like amusement, or at least perverse interest, shone in her blue eyes.

  —Are you saying your entire existence, here, at the end of the world, is an exercise in… energy efficiency? In conserving strength? —she asked, and there was a hint of respectful disbelief in her voice.

  —It's a good goal —Vael replied, with absolute seriousness—. It doesn't waste gunpowder, doesn't break swords, doesn't leave scars. It only requires… selective indifference.

  Elara looked at them both, her gaze shifting from the broken yet ironic veteran to the absurd, philosophical recruit. She frowned, confused and exasperated.

  —You two are… strange. Both of you. In different ways, but strange.

  —I know —Irina said, and a slight smile, the first since the Executioner's axe shattered her shield and her ribs, touched her lips. It was a tired, pained smile, but genuine—. But we saved ourselves. All three of us. A terrified noble, a broken lieutenant, and a lazy philosopher. And now —she added, the smile fading— we have to move. The capital awaits. And with it, explanations.

  ---

  The March to Oskara

  Yoel returned before the false sun reached its zenith, bringing with him not an entourage, but four equine specters. They were horses in name only: skinny animals with ribcages showing and dull, matted coats, with eyes that had seen too many winters and too much misery. But they had legs, and that, at that moment, was an almost obscene luxury.

  The Captain paid with a handful of silver Suns, the sound of metal against earth being the only eulogy for the fallen fortress. The journey, he said, would last barely two days if the weather and what prowled among the trees allowed it.

  Getting Irina onto her mount was an exercise in mutual pain. Vael took charge, moving with surprising caution, his normally clumsy hands finding the right points of support without hesitation. He lifted her—she stifling a groan between clenched teeth—and settled her into the saddle, holding her firmly by the waist to keep her from collapsing. The closeness was an intimacy forced by emergency: Vael could feel the constant tremor running through Irina's body, the sour smell of pain-sweat mixed with the penetrating sweetness of the wound, the abnormal heat of her skin against his arm. It was a proximity that left no room for decorum, only pure need.

  —You have surprisingly steady hands, for a man who trips over his own shadow —Irina murmured, leaning against him for a moment, defeated by the agony of movement.

  —You have surprisingly delicate ribs for someone who plants herself in front of iron giants —Vael retorted, helping her find a precarious balance—. They seem like blown glass. Very decorative, but not very practical.

  Captain Yoel rode ahead, an immutable silhouette of bronze and determination against the grey landscape. He didn't speak, only indicated directions with a nod of his head, his grey eyes constantly scanning the road's flanks, the dead woods, the leaden sky. He was the vanguard and rearguard at once, a mobile fortress of few words and much weight.

  On the third day, when the dying light of the red sun began to bleed on the western horizon, they finally hit something that wasn't black stone, mud, or skeletal trees: the walls of Oskara, the capital of the North.

  It wasn't a pretty city. It was a beast of white stone and grey slate, a jumble of towers, walls, and huddled rooftops rising like the last tooth of a dying giant. The smoke of a thousand chimneys rose in straight columns to the sky, forming a grey canopy that smelled of coal, forge, dense and sweaty humanity. At the enormous oak gates reinforced with iron, the guard sergeant, a man with a face that looked weaned on vinegar, upon seeing Yoel's weathered, soot-covered bronze armor and his gaze—a gaze that didn't ask permission, but announced passage—opened the secondary gates immediately, without another word.

  Yoel guided them through a maze of narrow, filthy cobblestone streets, where the citizens' gazes—pale, hurried, burdened with bundles or misery—settled on them with a mix of curiosity and fear. Finally, they emerged into a broad plaza dominated by the massive, somber building of the main military barracks. It was a structure of black stone, windowless on the ground floor, with iron bars on the upper ones and the Empire's emblem—a stylized sun pierced by a sword—carved over the main door with a solemnity that seemed like mockery.

  Once there, in the crowded inner courtyard full of soldiers, carts, and the organized chaos of logistical defeat, Yoel dismounted. He smoothed his worn tunic over his armor, an automatic gesture of dignity, and turned to the battered trio that had followed him.

  —Here —he said, his voice cutting through the bustle— is where we part.

  He looked at Irina, who held herself on the mount by pure stubbornness.

  —You, Lieutenant Irina, go directly to the infirmary. Don't argue. Rest. Let the surgeons see that rib before a sneeze punctures your lung. That's an order.

  His gaze, grey and implacable, then turned to Elara.

  —And you, Vane. Listen well. What happened in the cellar, the flash, the force… keep that story. Don't offer it. Don't discuss it in taverns. In this place, there are eyes that see only threats where they should see miracles, and mouths that turn miracles into heresies for a crust of power. Your name is already trouble enough. Don't add mystery to it.

  Finally, his eyes found Vael, who had dismounted and was watching the comings and goings of the soldiers with the distant curiosity of a tourist.

  —Vael. You are discharged. You survived the fall of a fortress. That, on paper, makes you a veteran. But this city is a different battlefield. Don't get into trouble. Troubles here aren't solved with lucky trips.

  Without waiting for a reply, without a gesture of farewell, Yoel turned on his heel. His broad back, wrapped in the dusty cloak, made its way through the uniformed crowd and disappeared behind the heavy doors of the main offices, swallowed by the Empire's bureaucratic machinery.

  The trio was left alone, standing amidst the chaos, suddenly feeling the weight of the silence between them, more overwhelming than the din.

  ---

  The Silver Swan Inn

  It was Irina, with her firm command voice and the bruised prestige of her rank, who managed to rent three separate rooms at an inn called "The Silver Swan." It wasn't a dive from the slums, but nor was it the refinement Elara remembered from noble lodgings. It was a solid stone building, with small windows and a tavern on the ground floor that smelled of stale beer, woodsmoke, and stewed meat. It was anonymous, discreet, and that was all that mattered.

  The next hour was a ritual of silent rebirth. Water—hot water, an almost inconceivable luxury—replaced dried mud and blood. Rough soap, smelling of ash and herbs, scrubbed skin until it was red but clean, carrying away the last layers of Grey Cleft. The filth went down the drain, along with some of the horror. Clean clothes, though simple and worn, were a new second skin.

  Vael, after his turn in the small wooden-bath privy, emerged wearing a simple, loose grey linen shirt and trousers of coarse cloth. He looked like a craftsman, a farmer on market day. The mask of clumsiness had relaxed, but not vanished; now it was a natural languor, as if the simple fact of being clean had plunged him into a state of bovine peace.

  When they gathered for dinner in a secluded corner of the tavern, the tension that had held them together like a single wounded organism had broken, dissolved by the hot water and the temporary safety of four walls. They allowed themselves to breathe. Irina was served a thick soup and a piece of black bread; she ate it slowly, savoring each bite as if it were a treasure. Elara ordered wine, a harsh northern red, and drank it eagerly, feeling the alcohol soothe the last tremors of her nerves.

  They talked. Not about the book, not about the Undead, not about the uncertain future. They talked about the dead sergeant, the one who always forgot the passwords; about the mud of the training camp, which had the consistency of glue and the smell of an open grave; about Instructor Rolk and his scar that seemed to smile when he shouted. They allowed themselves to laugh. Short, surprised laughs, as if discovering an atrophied muscle. Vael, for his part, didn't lead the conversation. He merely ate his stew—a grey mush of indeterminate meat and tubers—with meticulous attention, looking up occasionally to drop a comment. His observations were so simple, so devoid of malice or deep intention, that, in contrast to the horror they came from, they turned out to be the funniest remarks. It was the first time, since they'd met in the recruit camp mud, that they behaved not as comrades in misfortune, but as something vaguely resembling friends.

  Dinner ended late, when the tallow candles began to sputter and drown in their own liquid. Irina stood up with a gesture of deep weariness, but a clean one, without the urgency of death at her heels.

  —Tomorrow —she said, in a tone that was almost a promise—, tomorrow we'll see what's left of the world.

  She climbed the creaking wooden stairs, each step a small triumph over pain.

  Vael lingered a moment longer in the common room, now almost empty. The innkeeper, a pot-bellied, bald man, wiped glasses with a dirty cloth. The air smelled of dampness, old wood, and the remains of the meal. Vael poured himself another glass of water from the clay jug and brought it to his lips, drinking in small sips, watching the closed door.

  He was like that, with the glass half-finished, when Elara reappeared. She didn't come down the stairs; she peered from the corner of the first-floor hallway, like an apparition. Her dark hair, washed, fell loose over her shoulders, still damp at the ends. Her face, clean of mud and blood, seemed younger, more vulnerable. She was flushed, but not from the wine.

  —Vael —she called, her voice low, barely a whisper that slipped between the creaking wood and clinking glasses.

  He lowered the glass and turned his head toward her. His green eyes looked at her, without surprise, without emotion.

  —Yes, Elara?

  She descended the last steps and approached him, looking at the worn wooden floor. She felt deeply ashamed, but it was a shame that burned, that demanded to be expelled. She stopped a step away.

  —In the cellar… —she began, swallowing—. I saw you. I saw when you grabbed that shattered shield. I saw how you put yourself in the way. I saw… the blow you took for me. You smashed against the wall. You spat blood. I thought you were dead.

  Vael said nothing. He just watched her, waiting, like a lake waits for a stone to break its surface.

  Elara took a deep breath, a tremulous sound. Then, with a sudden decision, she rose onto her tiptoes. She leaned close to his face, which was at her level, and with the instinctive delicacy of one raised in salons where every gesture is a message, she gave him a kiss. It was quick, soft, barely the brush of her lips against his cheek, just below the arch of his right eye. A kiss of gratitude, of guilt, of something more confused she couldn't name.

  —Thank you —she whispered, and the word was warm against his skin—. Truly. I owe you my life.

  Before he could react, or before she could regret it, she sprang back, turned on her heel, and hurried up the stairs, disappearing into the gloom of the upper hallway, the door to her room closing with a soft but definitive click.

  Vael remained motionless for another moment. Then, he finished the water in his glass in one gulp. He set the glass down on the table with a dry tap. He bid the innkeeper goodnight with a nod of his head and climbed the stairs, not to the first floor, but to the third, where his room was, the smallest and cheapest, under the roof.

  He entered his room. He closed the door behind him with a soft click that completely isolated the murmur of the outside world. The room was tiny: a narrow bed with a thin mattress, a nightstand with an empty candlestick, a small window with wooden shutters. It smelled of dust, weak bleach, and ancient solitude.

  He walked slowly to the window. His steps now didn't drag. They were precise, silent. With a fluid motion, he opened the shutters and then the window itself, a sash window, letting in the night.

  The air of Oskara was cold and clean, cut by chimney smoke but free of the stench of death and rot from the north. Above, in a sky clear of clouds for the first time in what felt like an eternity, the moon, pale and cold, shone with a distant silver light, bathing the slate rooftops in a ghostly gleam.

  Vael sat on the windowsill, his back leaning against the cold stone frame. He stayed like that, looking outward, for a long minute.

  Slowly, as if shedding a heavy, damp disguise, his shoulders relaxed. They abandoned the slight hunched curve, the posture of perpetual discomfort he had maintained all day, all the previous days. His back straightened, not with the military rigidity of Yoel, but with the fluid verticality of an ancient tree. His face, illuminated by the cold moonlight, became smooth, empty. All the micro-expressions, the blinks of confusion, the foolish smile, were erased. What remained was an immovable coldness, carved in marble under a glacier.

  His eyelids, which were usually half-closed in a perpetual expression of perplexity or sleepiness, opened completely.

  And his eyes… his eyes fixed on the night. In their fully exposed green depth, there was no trace of weariness, nor panic, nor gratitude, nor confusion. There was nothing human. There was an absolute attention, a cold, distant analysis. He observed the city spread before him: the points of light from windows, like fallen, captive stars; the movements of patrols on the walls, small insects following predictable patterns; the rhythm of life continuing, ignorant of the abyss opening a few days' journey away. He listened: the distant shout of a drunk, the bark of a dog, the creak of a cart on a far street, the very heartbeat of the city, slow and arrogant.

  Vael looked at the lights of Oskara, the impersonal shine of the moon, and sighed. It wasn't the sigh of the recruit's weariness, nor the survivor's relief. It was a deep sound, that seemed drawn from the bowels of the earth. A sigh of cosmic boredom.

  His lips, thin and pale, moved, pronouncing words for the night, for the moon, for no one.

  —Let's see how long this lasts.

  And then, as if an invisible curtain fell, the intensity in his gaze went out. His shoulders regained their slight hunch. The mask of languor slid back over his features, smooth as silk. He climbed down from the windowsill, closed the window and the shutters, plunging the room into absolute darkness.