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Chapter 34: Reunion with Marden
The glares from the cavalry were merely a minor concern for Brandon. He trusted that the White Mane Legion wouldn’t act so tactlessly.
As planned, Brandon had no intention of entering Eruin’s decaying system directly. The refugee situation couldn’t be concealed, and he’d anticipated this outcome. Thus, by shifting the spotlight onto seasoned mercenaries—freedom-seeking, money-driven fighters—the narrative became easier to manage.
When people imagined a group of battle-hardened mercenaries leading thousands of refugees through undead hordes, it felt natural. To the average person, the feat seemed less extraordinary when attributed to a collective rather than an individual.
But Ridenburg’s fall was like an unexploded bomb. No matter what, the knightly order of the White Mane Legion would face post-war scrutiny. In such a scenario, a minor heroics display only highlighted their incompetence. If Brandon had taken the role of sole protagonist, his vanity might’ve been satisfied, but the local nobles would’ve laughed behind closed doors.
Brandon had no desire to align himself with any faction. Through careful arrangements, the story evolved: the more players involved, the easier it became to reshape its telling. Brandon knew the cunning nobles understood this too. Their next move—finding a scapegoat and rewriting history—would determine how they salvaged their reputations.
Still, none of this truly concerned him. He didn’t want to deal with these schemers, yet circumstances left him little choice.
One silver lining, however, was that Amber Sword’s reputation grew.
Crowds dispersed quickly once the novelty wore off, leaving only Phineas and his friends lingering outside the Silver Wing Cavalry headquarters.
Soon after, Brandon met old Marden. The aging Guard Unit captain looked even more haggard, his face etched with new lines of worry. Brandon guessed why—he was struggling to navigate the power struggles among nobles.
In Braggs, tensions between the local nobility represented by Earl Nakin and the military aristocracy had reached a boiling point. Only carefree youths like Phineas could focus on town gossip while such stakes loomed. Approaching Marden, Brandon greeted him warmly. The veteran who’d survived November’s war recognized the fearless youth. Hearing that Brandon and Freya were safe brought a wave of relief; Marsha’s blessings, indeed.
Marden’s gaze fell on Freya. The long-tailed girl placed her hand over her heart and bowed slightly. “Captain Marden, I’ve returned.”
Marden nodded, smiling faintly. “Good, good. It’s good to see you back.”
But his words trailed off as memories surfaced—Buchi villagers still displaced while nobles squabbled over power. Though not from Buchi, Marden found himself momentarily choked with emotion.
Seeing Marden age ten years in an instant, Freya recalled Aunt Syl’s family lost to Madara. Her eyes reddened.
Brandon noticed Roma subtly glancing at him. He sighed inwardly. For all her feigned innocence, she was sharp and perceptive. Yet when attention turned to her, she reverted to playing coy.
Stepping forward, Brandon patted Freya’s back gently before addressing Marden. “Captain Marden, forgive my boldness, but you needn’t dwell too much on noble politics. We smallfolk can only wait for their final decisions.”
Marden blinked, surprised Brandon had seen through his worries. As a veteran of November’s war, he despised political maneuvering. These days, exhaustion weighed heavily on him. Sometimes, he envied Phineas’s carefree ignorance.
What seemed complex to Marden appeared simple to Brandon, a historian of sorts. In this situation, Marden’s choices mattered little. Better to let others decide for them—a bitter truth, perhaps, but undeniable.
This was Brandon’s message. When clarified, the elderly Guard Unit captain stared at him in astonishment. “Young man, who exactly are you? Few see matters so clearly—not even me.”
His words confirmed Freya’s suspicions. She stepped forward, revealing Brandon’s identity as a Highland Knight—an edited version, naturally.
Marden’s eyes widened. “So you're a nobility, a Highland Knight.” He paused, reflecting. “In my youth, I fought alongside Highland Knights. Though often called unruly, they were undeniably heroes.”
He glanced at Brandon again. “It seems their descendants are no different. You’ve proven as much.”
“You flatter me, Captain Marden.”
“No. When you volunteered to deliver messages via Xavier Mountain Pass, I thought you were simply reckless. And if Roma hadn’t insisted on joining you, I wouldn’t have supported your mission. Later, sending Freya after you… well, that was another matter.”
“Regardless, your actions were commendable. True bravery isn’t recklessness—it’s understanding what you’re doing. Your deeds embody that.”
The old captain clapped Brandon and Freya’s shoulders. “You both are exemplary young souls of Eruin.”
Freya remained silent, glancing at Brandon. She knew much of the credit belonged to him, though others didn’t realize it.
Of course, Brandon wasn’t foolish enough to say so. They soon reunited with the rest of Buchi’s militia—Ekko, Ethan, Markumi, Neiberto, and Vlad. Markumi procured a small barrel of ale, proposing a toast to survival. The quieter Neiberto and Vlad exchanged wordless gestures, their camaraderie evident in every action.
Unexpectedly, they encountered Breyson midway. Accompanied by his father, the young man unusually avoided confrontation, merely nodding as they passed.
Markumi later explained that Breyson had been despondent for weeks, only recently recovering. Brandon fell silent upon hearing this. Someone willing to blame themselves for fallen comrades wasn’t entirely bad—it validated his earlier thoughts.
As celebrations wound down, some young Silver Wing Cavalry members joined in. Brandon exchanged a glance with Barthom. His strategy to divert envy had succeeded—jealousy was inevitable, but humility fostered friendships.
Afterward, Marden sought Brandon’s counsel on noble affairs. This time, Brandon invited Freya to stay. “Captain Marden, the situation is clear. The White Mane Legion will soon contact us—they’ve made their decision. But rest assured, it doesn’t concern us. All we need do is accept our accolades gracefully.”
“How so?” Marden asked.
“It’s simple,” Brandon began. “They need heroes—people like you and Freya, who represent the Guard Unit and militia systems. Your leadership saved Buchi villagers and delivered critical information to Vimiel Fortress. That’s straightforward since your accomplishments reflect well on the Guard Unit.”
“But a band of mercenaries leading thousands of refugees through undead armies complicates things. If mishandled, it makes the White Mane Legion look foolish. Yet, these tales have spread across Braggs, Anzek, and Dragos—they can’t deny them now. Managing this requires finesse.”
“So we’re just pawns?” Barthom interjected, realization dawning.
Brandon nodded. “Which brings us to Freya.”
“Me?” Freya snapped out of her reverie, startled. “Brandon, I—”
At this moment, Marden fell silent. Brandon’s words were straightforward, but they were hard for the old man to accept. Although he knew a few things about the affairs among the nobles, he never expected that a war would seem so simple in the eyes of these nobles. If it was really that simple, what was the purpose of their struggle here? What were they really fighting for?
“Freya, don’t speak yet,” Brandon said gently. “Hear me out.”
Freya hesitated, then nodded.
“The knightly order pride themselves on their dignity and look down on dealings with mercenaries. In their eyes, mercenaries are greedy, fighting only for money, and thus unworthy of being called true soldiers. Associating with such people would be beneath their station, a stain on their honor.”
Barthom spat, visibly scornful.
Brandon chuckled. “Still, necessity forces them to negotiate privately.”
“Hypocrites,” Barthom muttered, stroking his red beard.
“Call it hypocrisy or vanity—same difference,” Brandon replied dryly.
“Are the nobles truly so shortsighted?” Marden struggled to believe it. Military discipline ran deep in him; he couldn’t fathom such shallowness.
“Shortsighted? No.” Brandon shook his head. He understood these nobles better than the soldiers themselves. They weren’t blind or stupid—they were calculating, selfish, and greedy. With power and armies, they prioritized independence over loyalty to kings or commoners. Even if Madara invaded their lands, they cared little. Should predictions fail, their amassed wealth ensured comfortable lives elsewhere in Vonder.
Ultimately, the suffering fell on the lower classes.
Thus, the nobles reveled in power struggles. Why not?
Brandon surveyed those present. “Freya, you’ll become the White Mane Legion’s ideal figurehead. As a militia member, you’ll remind civilians of the military’s role.”
“But Uriel could serve instead, couldn’t he? He’s Ridenburg’s peacekeeping cavalry captain—more fitting than me,” Freya countered, refraining from mentioning Voltaron per Brandon’s strict orders.
“That’s the opposite,” Brandon corrected. “Ridenburg’s peacekeeping cavalry belongs to the local nobility—a private force created to counterbalance the White Mane Legion’s swordsmen. Do you think they’d elevate their rivals?”
Realization dawned. Freya herself fell silent, contemplating her newfound role.
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