After saying his goodbyes, Gunnar went straight to the tavern. He found Brann hunched over, drowning old memories in beer. Beside him, Johan was — with little success — trying to impress Lene.

  “Uncle, time to head home,” Gunnar said, placing a hand on the older man’s shoulder.

  Brann sighed and rose with effort, leaning on his nephew for support.

  “You don’t know what it’s like to lose two sons, Gunnar... and I hope you never do.”

  As they left, Gunnar shot Johan a wink, making the boy turn red all the way to his ears.

  “You were doing well, kid. Almost convinced her you knew how to talk.”

  Outside, the village square lay quiet, wrapped in the dusky glow of sunset.

  That’s when Gunnar saw him — a man alone, nailing a parchment to the central post. Dark coat, deliberate movements, and an odd silence around him — like the world itself was holding its breath.

  Gunnar approached, wary.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  “Hey. What’s that?”

  The man turned slowly.

  “Summons from the lord of Trowell. The war… has arrived.”

  Gunnar read the notice carefully. The words struck like stones:

  “By order of the Lord of Trowell, all able men are to present themselves…”

  Before he could respond, Brann lunged forward, grabbing the man by the collar, eyes overflowing with grief.

  “Don’t take my nephew… please… don’t take anyone else from me!”

  The man pulled away, startled.

  “I just post the notices, sir... I don’t make the decisions.”

  Gunnar and Johan held Brann back.

  “Uncle…” Gunnar said softly but firmly. “This isn’t how we handle things.”

  Brann collapsed to his knees, sobbing. Gunnar turned to the messenger, face hard but controlled.

  “He’s already lost everything.”

  “I’m sorry,” the man said, adjusting his hat with a short nod. “But Ortrus attacked. And now… we need everyone.”

  He left without another word, fading into the twilight, leaving three men behind in the dark — with an uncertain future hanging over them.

  The sky had begun to bleed orange by the time Gunnar, Johan, and Brann rode the cart back home. The silence between them was thick. Brann stared at the horizon, lost in thoughts he didn’t share. Johan fidgeted with his fingers, eyes fixed on the cart floor, wrestling with doubts he didn’t yet know how to name.

  It was Johan who finally broke the silence, hesitant:

  “Gunnar… what if they draw my name?”

  Gunnar glanced at his cousin and tried to smile, though the knot in his throat tightened.

  “Don’t torture yourself before it’s time, kid. They only draw names if no one volunteers. And let’s be honest… you know our village. There are enough fools here who’d line up thinking they’re heading out to sing songs of glory.”

  Johan let out a faint laugh.

  “Ove… he’s always saying he was born for war.”

  “And Tolvad!” Gunnar added. “I bet he’s at home right now, polishing a sword he can barely lift anymore.”

  They laughed, but the tension never really left. After a while, Johan asked in a near whisper:

  “And what if they call you?”

  Gunnar shrugged, gently tugging the reins.

  “If they do, they do. No use worrying ahead of time. We’ll deal with it when it comes. For now, get some sleep. The fields will still be waiting tomorrow — and I’m not letting you slack off.”