Chapter 2: Echoes of a Warrior's Past

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  The sun dipped low in the western sky, its golden rays spilling across the town of Lysa like a painter’s brushstroke, casting warm hues over its weathered stone walls and cobbled streets. Perched at the edge of Elysia's sprawling plains, Lysa stood as a quiet sentinel, a fragile beacon of life amidst the shadow of war. Maya and her personal guard approached the checkpoint just inside the gate, their horses’ hooves stirring dust from the dry earth. The rhythmic clop echoed faintly, a steady cadence against the restless murmur of the town.

  The air was thick with the mingling scents of humanity and commerce—freshly baked bread, the tang of sweat, and the faint acrid note of smouldering wood from a distant hearth. The town teemed with activity—an almost overwhelming contrast to the barren, battle-scarred lands she had left behind. Refugees jostled with merchants, their weary faces illuminated by the warm glow of the descending sun. Vendors called out their wares, their voices sharp and insistent, rising above the clatter of cartwheels and the occasional bark of a dog. Children darted between the throng, their laughter high and piercing, a sound that felt fragile and defiant in a world consumed by so much conflict.

  Maya’s gaze swept over the scene, her expression unreadable beneath her hood. To any other traveler, Lysa might have seemed untouched by the horrors beyond Elysia’s borders, a town spared by fate. But she saw the cracks beneath the surface—the tension in the refugees’ hurried steps, the haunted eyes of the townsfolk who avoided lingering too long in the open. The war had reached even here, its echoes reverberating in the hurried exchanges, the watchful glances cast at strangers, and the unspoken fear rippled through the crowd like an undercurrent.

  For a moment, Maya allowed herself to absorb the scene, the ache in her side a constant reminder of the journey that had brought her here. Her wound still throbbed, a constant reminder of the fight she had barely survived. The pain was a dull burn that spread across her ribs, intensifying with each movement. She tightened her grip on the reins, her fingers brushing the rough leather with a steadying touch, though it did little to quell the discomfort.

  The guards at the checkpoint barely glanced up as Maya and her group approached. Their uniforms, though crisp, hung awkwardly on their young frames, betraying their inexperience. Rookies, by the look of them, their movements were stiff and uncertain, overwhelmed by the sheer number of travelers flooding through the gates. Their eyes darted between the carts, hastily scanning for contraband or other illegal goods, but their focus was scattered, their attention too divided to notice the cloaked figure on horseback passing silently with her entourage.

  Maya’s gaze flicked over them, her sharp instincts cataloging every detail—the trembling hands gripping spears, the nervous glances exchanged as they struggled to maintain control of the bustling line. They were boys playing at being soldiers, untested and ill-prepared.

  These guards paid no heed as Maya’s group passed.

  She exhaled quietly, her grip loosening on the reins. For a fleeting moment, Maya allowed herself to feel at ease, the weight of her journey momentarily lifting. "Maybe we should stay the night," she murmured, her voice low but carrying a note of weariness, to her closest guard, a man named Talon, riding at her side. "It’s been days since we’ve slept in a real bed."

  Talon raised a brow, his weathered face softening into a faint smile. Lines etched by years of battle crinkled at the corners of his eyes, though the warmth in his expression remained steadfast. "An inn would be nice, Commander," he replied, his tone light but genuine. "The men could use the rest, and I’d wager even you wouldn’t mind a proper meal for once."

  Maya’s lips twitched in the shadow of a smile, though she quickly masked it. "I’ll consider it," she said, her tone clipped but not unkind. The idea of a warm bed and a hot meal was tempting, but it was the sight of her weary guards, their movements sluggish after days of hard travel, that nudged her toward her decision.

  "Let’s find a place near the center of town," she said after a pause, her tone firm with the air of command. "Somewhere discreet." Talon gave a small nod of approval, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword. "As you say, Commander. I’ll make the arrangements."

  As they continued deeper into Lysa, the hum of the town grew louder. For the first time in days, Maya allowed herself to hope for a moment of respite. But just as hope began to take root, her eyes caught sight of the second checkpoint ahead, guarded by men in much sharper uniforms. These soldiers were no rookies. Their eyes swept the crowd with the practiced precision of those who had seen combat, and they paid special attention to travelers like her. Maya’s stomach sank.

  "Looks like we’re not through yet," she muttered, her tone darkening as they approached the more disciplined guards. She shifted in her saddle, the movement sending a sharp jolt of pain through her ribs, but she hid it well, unwilling to show any sign of weakness. Her breath hitched slightly, but she pushed through it. The guards ahead were sharper and more dangerous, and she needed to be at her best, even if her body screamed for rest.

  Talon cast a concerned glance her way but said nothing. Adjusting his grip on his sword, he fell in behind her, prepared for whatever lay ahead.

  ---

  After seven years of relentless fighting, peace was no longer a distant dream but a fragile promise—a whisper carried on the winds of hope, too faint to trust.

  The ache in Maya's side continued to pulse with every jarring step of her horse. It was a cruel echo of the events at Blackthorn Pass. She gritted her teeth and pressed onward toward the second checkpoint.

  Behind her, her men rode in grim silence, exhaustion etched deep into the lines of their faces. Days of relentless travel had worn their spirits thin. The desolation of the borderlands gradually gave way to the mist-laden grasslands of Elysia, each mile further removing them from the scars of war. Somewhere ahead loomed the great capital—Elysium, its imposing halls a beacon of authority and ambition, destined to host the signing of the treaty between Valyria and Khorvaire.

  But for Maya, life after war was an empty notion, a faint specter hovering at the edges of the crimson haze of her memories. The battles fought and lives lost haunted her as if death’s cool hand had etched them deep into her soul.

  The last time she had known peace, life had been simple—a quiet existence within her family estate. She never imagined that the person who had wandered the forest and fields, who sat at the table with her family, would one day be the same person standing on bloodstained battlegrounds. She could hardly believe it herself. Those days felt foreign now, a life she could scarcely grasp, so distant from the soldier she had become.

  Despite her efforts to silence it, her mind often returned to the faces of her family. The cool detachment now defining her relationship with her mother, father, and older brother gnawed at her—a void that had only grown since they sent her to the battlefield. They had called it duty, cloaked in noble rhetoric and heavy with tradition. She called it exile.

  Family was meant to be a sanctuary, a bastion against life's storms. Instead, hers chose the brittle facade of honor over bonds of kin. Their betrayal left an unseen wound, more grievous than any inflicted by the enemy—a scar marking the first time she paid the price for misplaced trust.

  Once, she had clung to the fragile hope of peace, daring to dream that this war’s agony might someday yield to a better world—just as promised by the King’s Council. But years of fighting had stripped her of such illusions.

  Promises, she knew now, were as fragile as the fleeting breaths of the dying and as empty as the fields littered with the mangled remnants of lives once full of purpose.

  The word "peace" had become a cruel mockery, whispered by those who had never tasted blood or heard the final cries of comrades.

  The only truths she depended on were the unyielding weight of her blade and the relentless fire that burned within her. Trust was for the naive, hope a discarded relic. The battlefield had taught her everything she needed to know—faith could not shield her, but resolve could.

  Maya sensed the unease simmering beneath Lysa's surface. Though the town appeared untouched by the spreading upheaval in the neighbouring Nations, cracks in its fa?ade were unmistakable. The guards at the second checkpoint stood alert, their eyes scanning the crowd with calculating precision. Hands lingered near their weapons as they maintained their vigilance. This was not peace; it was a fragile calm, teetering on a razor's edge.

  Maya wore a plain cloak over her armor, concealing both her identity and the sword at her side. Her men followed in silence, dressed in simple attire, their uniforms abandoned to avoid drawing unnecessary attention.

  Her hand instinctively brushed the hilt of her sword, Requiem, as they approached the checkpoint—a reflex honed through countless encounters with enemies. The blade was more than a weapon; it was a testament to her journey. A gift from King Aelric of Valyria; it symbolized her prowess as a commander. Forged in the enchanted forges of the capital, its gleaming steel, tempered with magic, bore runes etched to commemorate her victories. It was the weapon of the Battle Master.

  Maya kept her hood low, hoping her distinctive violet eyes—an unmistakable trait of Valyrian nobility—would remain unnoticed.

  But it wasn’t long before one of the guards called out.

  “You there! Stop!”

  Maya halted, her fingers tightening on the reins as the guard, a young man with a hardened look, approached. His eyes locked onto hers, narrowing with suspicion.

  “Where are you from?” he demanded. “Those eyes… they’re not common around here.”

  Maya’s pulse quickened, though she kept her expression neutral. “The South,” she replied evenly.

  “The South?” The guard scoffed. “What part? Those eyes look Valyrian to me.”

  Maya remained silent, but the guard’s scowl deepened as he stepped closer.

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  “I know those eyes,” he growled. “I’m from Khorvaire, and I don’t like people from Valyria. Especially their nobles.”

  The venom in his voice was unmistakable, and Maya stiffened. She had seen that anger before—the seething hatred of those whose homes had been reduced to ash and lives shattered by war.

  “You’re one of them,” he said through clenched teeth. “Valyrian scum, hiding behind titles and swords while people like me lost everything.”

  Behind him, an older man approached, his silvered hair and battle-worn face marking decades of service. He moved with the quiet authority of a seasoned warrior. This was no ordinary guard—this was their commander.

  Maya met his eyes, a flicker of recognition passing between two battlefield predators—silent, yet unmistakable.

  "You fought in the first Valyrian-Khorvaire war?" Maya asked, her voice steady as she questioned the commander.

  The commander gave a slow nod, his expression unreadable. “I did. We fought alongside Khorvaire—our traditional ally back then—in what feels like another lifetime. But the second war... our old king decided he didn’t want any more bloodshed and declared Elysium neutral. Thank the gods he found wisdom in his old age. He knew there was no glory to be found in a second conflict.”

  The guard’s hand tensed near the hilt of his sword, his anger undiminished. “Go on. What part of Valyria are you from? Those eyes… they’re from a noble house, aren’t they?”

  Maya’s attention returned to the guard. “They’re a family trait,” Maya replied coolly. “Nothing more.”

  "The guard stepped closer, eyes alight with suspicion and anger. 'A Valyrian noble trait, no doubt. Your kind started all this because of your greed.'"

  Maya’s patience wore thin as his words dug into deep wounds. She dismounted, her boots hitting the ground with a quiet thud. Her violet eyes locked onto his, unflinching.

  “You think Valyria started the war?” Her voice was steady, yet sharp. “Your king—Raelion of Khorvaire—chose to reignite a conflict that ended decades ago. And when he did, he didn’t fight with honor. He hired mercenaries—killers who cared for nothing but blood and coin. They slaughtered without regard for victory, death, or justice. They burned our villages and killed our children. So don’t speak to me about loss.”

  The guard recoiled slightly, though his hand stayed near the hilt of his sword. His anger wasn’t easily quelled. “And what did you do in response? You invaded our lands and destroyed our homes. Valyrian nobles burned our cities to the ground. So don’t tell me you’re innocent.”

  Maya’s gaze hardened. “Yes, we invaded your country. Yes, we burned villages and cities. But we did it to stop the slaughter your ruler unleashed. To end the madness. You ask why we destroyed so much. Because when you face mercenaries who kill for sport—who massacre innocents without care—you end the war by any means necessary. We brought justice for what your people did to ours.”

  The guard’s face paled, though the fury in his eyes remained. “Justice?” he spat. “You think the deaths of our people are justified because of what some mercenaries did?”

  Maya’s expression sharpened, her words cutting. "King Raelion started this war to gain the victory that his father failed to achieve decades ago. And now, after igniting this conflict, he’s demanding peace negotiations in Elysa, a neutral country, as if he’s not the one responsible for this bloodshed. He’s tried to rewrite history. But all he’s done is repeat the same mistakes.”

  The guard opened his mouth to retort, but Maya moved in a single, fluid motion, her hand going to her sword. Requiem slid free from its scabbard, its etched steel gleaming coldly in the dimming light. The guard jerked back at the sight of the blade.

  Before he could react further, the commander’s voice cut through the air.

  “That’s Requiem, isn’t it?”

  Maya stilled, her gaze locking onto the older man. He stepped forward, his eyes sweeping over the sword before returning to her face. “I’ve heard stories about that sword... and the one who wields it.”

  The young guard, now trembling, looked between them, confused. The commander continued, his voice steady but grave. “They say the woman who carries Requiem led Valyria’s forces to countless victories. The Battle Master.”

  Maya’s face remained unreadable, but she gave a slow, measured nod. “You’ve heard correctly.”

  The younger guard’s face drained of color. “I—I didn’t know. Please… I’m sorry.”

  The young guard dropped to his knees, stammering apologies, but Maya didn’t hear them. Her focus was on the commander, whose gaze held a quiet understanding—as if he recognized the weight she carried.

  His sharp eyes, piecing together every detail, spoke softly but with unmistakable authority. “Stand down.”

  For a long moment, the guard and Maya's men watched in silence as the two commanders locked eyes, their gazes steady and unflinching.

  "You said you fought in the first war." Maya's voice was low, the faintest edge creeping into her words.

  The commander's gaze held hers, his expression calm but heavy with resignation. “I did," he murmured. "When I was young and foolish, I thought I could change the world with my blade. I didn’t understand the cost.”

  He paused, his hand brushing the faint scar along his jawline. 'I survived, though many did not. After it all, I built a life—found purpose and a place to belong. I've found peace, but the remnants of that conflict will always remain with me.

  A dam within Maya suddenly shattered, releasing a fierce surge of grief, anger, and torment that coursed through her. It consumed her entirely, sweeping through every corner of her mind.

  Her grip on Requiem tightened, pulse quickening. She took a step toward the commander, her eyes darkened by the storm of emotions swirling inside her.

  “How can you say that?” she whispered, the words bitter and raw. “How can you find peace… after becoming a monster?”

  The commander’s expression shifted, his brows knitting together, but he stayed silent. Maya could feel the weight of her own words settling between them like a shadow, growing heavier with every heartbeat. She stared at him, searching his face for something—an answer, a reflection of the guilt that had taken root in her heart. But all she saw was his quiet understanding.

  “You fought on the battlefield,” she continued, her voice trembling. “You’ve seen what it does to us. What we become. How can you stand here now and speak of peace after everything we've done? After the lives we’ve taken, the horrors we’ve committed... how can you not feel it every time you close your eyes?”

  Her hands trembled and for a moment, the weight of Requiem in her grip felt unbearable. She had wielded that sword in battle, and led armies to victory—but at what cost?

  The faces of the fallen, the screams of the dying—those memories clung to her, like vines she couldn’t escape.

  The commander’s eyes softened. For the first time, Maya saw the weight he carried. There was no pride when he finally spoke.

  “I remember every battle. Every life taken; every life spared. The faces, the voices—they never leave. I know the weight you carry because I’ve carried it too. But peace…” He paused, searching for the words. “Peace is not forgetting what we’ve done. It’s learning to live with it.”

  Maya’s breath caught. “Live with it?” Her voice cracked. “I’m not the person I was. The things I’ve done… the blood on my hands... I don’t know if I deserve peace.”

  The commander met her gaze. “None of us who fought come out the same. But you’re not a monster, Maya.”

  She flinched. “I am. I see it in their eyes… in my own reflection. I’m not just a soldier anymore. I’m a weapon they forged to destroy.”

  Her voice softened. “I used to fight for something. For my country, for the people I loved. But now… all I see is ruin.”

  The commander stepped closer. “We’ve all experienced horrors. But they don’t define you. What you do now—that’s what matters.”

  Maya looked away. “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because I’ve seen what happens when you let the past consume you. I was almost lost to it, once. But then… I found something worth living for, beyond the battlefield.”

  His eyes softened. “I have grandchildren now. They give me purpose. I found peace, not because I forgot the war, but because I built something after it. You can too.”

  Maya’s grip on Requiem loosened. She wanted to believe him, but her guilt was too strong.

  “I don’t know if I can,” she whispered.

  The commander placed a hand on her shoulder. “You’re fighting, Maya. Not with a sword, but within yourself. And that’s the hardest battle of all. But you’re not a monster. You’re a survivor. And you can find your way back.”

  Maya swallowed, her chest tight. Could she find peace? Could she reclaim the part of herself that wasn’t lost to the horrors of war?

  She closed her eyes and, for the first time in a long while, allowed herself a flicker of hope.

  The commander stepped back. Maya sheathed Requiem and turned to her men, who stood quietly. She mounted her horse and signalled for them to follow. Before riding off, she glanced back at the commander, standing in the fading light.

  Maybe, one day, she could find the peace he spoke of. But for now, the road ahead was long, and her journey wasn’t over. They would not be staying in Lysa for the night.

  In the twilight, Talon rode alongside Maya, catching a fleeting glimpse of something in her silhouette—an echo of a heavy burden. For a brief moment, her strength faltered, leaving her vulnerable and exposed. A faint shimmer of a tear traced a glistening path down her cheek, disappearing into the gathering darkness.

  ---

  The commander sat at his modest dining table, the warm glow of the hearth casting flickering shadows on the walls. His wife bustled around the small kitchen, humming softly to herself. Her presence was a gentle balm against the weight of the day, but his thoughts lingered elsewhere—on the traveler he had encountered earlier. As his wife set the table and joined him, her quiet smile brought a flicker of warmth to his face. Yet the heaviness remained in his chest. He exhaled slowly, his voice barely above a whisper.

  “She’s a legend,” he said.

  His wife glanced up, curiosity sparking in her eyes. “Who?”

  “A traveler,” he replied after a pause, his voice steady but low. “The one with the violet eyes. Maya of Valyria.”

  Recognition dawned in her expression. “You mean her? The Battle Master?”

  He nodded slowly, leaning back in his chair, his gaze distant. “The very same.”

  “She’s no ordinary soldier. Maya took the Valyrian Seventh Army—a ragtag band of farmers, blacksmiths, and conscripts—and forged them into the most disciplined and fearsome fighting force the world has ever seen.” His voice softened, tinged with awe. “Under her command, they became something unstoppable. And she went even further—handpicking an elite force from among them to form her personal guard. They call themselves the Shadow Riders—the best of the best. Warriors who move unseen and strike like lightning. They fight as if sharing a single mind, their unity unmatched on the battlefield. They go where no one else dares, taking on missions no one else can.”

  His wife listened intently, her brow furrowing as he continued. “And Maya herself…” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “She isn’t just a leader. She is the reason Valyria’s forces held the line against Khorvaire in their war’s darkest days. Her iron will, her brilliant strategies, her refusal to surrender when all seemed lost—that’s what turned the tide. They say she can see the battlefield like no one else, predicting every move her enemies would make before they made it. She won battles no one thought could be won—outnumbered, outgunned, and outmaneuvered.”

  He shook his head, his expression a mix of respect and sorrow. “But it came at a cost. They call her the Battle Master because no one can match her. But they also whisper other names—The Violet Sentinel, The Warden of Death, The Final Solution. To some, she’s a harbinger of destruction. To others, she’s a beacon of hope. She’s become more than human in their eyes—a symbol, a force of nature. But I wonder if that’s all she has left now—if she even knows who she is beyond the battlefield.”

  His wife reached across the table, her hand resting gently on his. “Do you think she’s searching for that answer?”

  He sighed deeply. “I don’t know. But one thing’s certain—without her, the war would have taken a very different course. She didn’t just fight battles; she changed history.” His voice softened further, sadness creeping in. “But for all her victories, she looked… tired today. Worn down. Like someone who’s carried the weight of the world for far too long.”

  His wife squeezed his hand, her voice quiet but firm. “Maybe she’s looking to find some sort of peace. Like you found yourself doing after the first war.”

  The commander nodded, though his gaze remained far away. “I think so. But for someone like her… someone who’s seen what she’s seen, done what she’s done… peace might be the hardest thing to find.”

  Silence settled between them, broken only by the soft crackle of the hearth. His thoughts drifted back to Maya’s violet eyes, the fire within them undimmed. He couldn’t help but hope she would find a way to carry on—even in a world that had already demanded so much of her.

  ...