Umma's wings cut silently through the cold night air as she carried Toki back toward the sleeping capital. The city stretched in front of them like a sea of dim lights and darkened rooftops, its streets quiet, its people unaware of the storm that would arrive with the dawn.
There had been no snow that day.
The sky had been clear, the air dry.
And yet—
Toki knew.
Tomorrow, it would snow.
Tomorrow would be cold.
Tomorrow, the sky would weep.
Umma stopped gradually, her massive form casting a long shadow across the outskirts of the city. The buildings here were simpler, worn by time and use, their wooden frames creaking faintly under the weight of years. This was not the capital of nobles and polished marble halls.
This was where real people lived.
Where men laughed loudly to forget the lives they had left behind.
The inn stood before him.
Old. Familiar.
Unchanged.
For a moment, he didn't move.
His gaze lingered on the wooden sign above the entrance, swaying gently in the night breeze. The faint light spilling from the windows painted warm shapes onto the dirt road outside.
This was where it had started.
Where he had first met them.
Two hundred men—loud, unruly, broken in their own ways.
Two hundred men he had beaten into silence.
A faint smile touched his lips.
"…You really made a terrible first impression," he murmured under his breath.
Umma shifted slightly beneath him, as if in quiet agreement.
Toki slid down from her back, his boots landing softly against the ground. He reached up, running his hand along the base of her neck, his fingers brushing through her feathers.
"Wait for me," he said quietly.
Umma let out a low sound, her sharp eyes watching him closely.
Toki tied her to a wooden post beside the inn, securing the reins carefully. His movements were slow—not from hesitation, but from the weight pressing against his chest.
He knew what he had to say.
That didn't make it easier.
For a brief moment, his hand lingered on the door.
Then—
He pushed it open.
Warmth hit him immediately.
The smell of ale, roasted meat, and smoke filled the air, wrapping around him like something familiar—something almost comforting.
Two hundred men turned toward him at once.
Chairs scraped against the wooden floor.
Boots shifted.
Voices died.
And in the span of a single heartbeat—
Every single one of them stood.
"Captain!"
The word rang out almost in unison.
They straightened instinctively, their movements sharp, disciplined—not the chaotic group of outlaws he had first encountered months ago.
They had changed.
No.
He had changed them.
A younger man stepped forward from the front, his head lowering immediately.
Vernil.
"Captain Toki," he said, his voice steady but respectful, "I apologize… on behalf of everyone. We came here without your permission."
Toki looked at him.
And something inside him broke—quietly, painfully.
He smiled.
Softly.
"I didn't come to scold you," he said. "You deserve to enjoy yourselves from time to time."
The tension in the room eased—just slightly.
But not completely.
They were still watching him.
Toki walked past them slowly, making his way toward the counter. The bartender, an older man with a heavy build and tired eyes, looked up as he approached.
Without a word, Toki placed a small pouch onto the wooden surface.
"Another round," he said. "For everyone."
The pouch landed with a dull sound.
Coins.
The last of his savings.
Behind him, the reaction was immediate.
"Captain, that's not necessary—"
"We can pay for ourselves!"
"You don't have to—"
Toki raised a hand, stopping them.
His expression didn't change.
"After what I'm about to ask of you…" he said quietly, "…there isn't enough ale in this world to make up for it."
The room fell silent again.
The bartender studied him for a long moment.
Then, slowly, he pushed the pouch back.
"Captain Toki," he said, his voice rough but sincere, "this round is on me."
Toki blinked.
"These past months… your men have guarded these outskirts day and night. No complaints. No trouble. Just work."
The old man crossed his arms.
"Consider it a small token of my gratitude."
For a moment, Toki didn't know what to say.
Then he smiled—faintly.
"…I'll owe you one, old Gheornn."
The bartender grunted, already turning away to prepare the drinks.
Toki turned back toward the room.
He walked to the center and sat down among them.
They followed shortly after, filling the tables, their eyes never straying too far from him.
The drinks arrived.
Mugs slid across the tables.
Foam spilled over the edges.
The smell of ale grew stronger.
And still—
Toki didn't speak.
He sat there, his hands resting on his knees, his gaze lowered slightly.
His throat felt tight.
His chest heavier with every passing second.
A man slammed his fist lightly against the table.
Not aggressive.
Just enough.
Piron.
"Captain," he said, his voice firm but not unkind, "you had something to tell us, didn't you?"
Every head turned again.
Toki inhaled slowly.
"…I've put you through a lot," he began.
His voice was calm.
"Since the day I became your captain… I've dragged you into situations no sane man would accept."
A few of them exchanged glances.
But no one interrupted.
"And what I'm about to ask of you now…" he continued, his fingers tightening slightly against his knees, "…makes me regret the day I was born."
That got their attention.
Fully.
Tomorrow… the capital will be attacked."
Silence.
"Dragons."
The word settled heavily in the air.
"I've already coordinated with the other commanders," Toki said. "There's a plan."
He paused.
Just for a second.
"…But it requires me to divide you into four groups of fifty."
Now they were listening even closer.
" Your job will be to draw the dragons away from the city… keep them occupied… buy time for the other divisions to evacuate civilians."
He stopped.
Because this was the part that mattered.
"…The chances of all of you making it back alive…"
His voice faltered.
"…are very low."
No one spoke.
"It's a suicide mission."
Then everything fell silent, and he stopped mid-sentence, as if the weight of what he was about to say had finally caught up with him.
Toki lowered his head.
"As your commander…" he said quietly, "…I'm ashamed."
The room didn't move.
"This was my idea."
His hands trembled slightly now.
Barely noticeable.
"But what I'm asking of you…" he continued, forcing the words out, "…is to fight until your last breath."
His voice softened.
"…without fearing death."
"I understand if you refuse," Toki said. "You have families. Wives. Children. Lives that matter far more than this ."
He looked up.
"…You don't have to follow me into death."
For a single heartbeat—
Nothing happened.
Then—
Chairs scraped violently against the floor.
All the men rose at once.
Their fists struck their chests in perfect unison.
"CAPTAIN!"
The sound shook the walls.
"It would be an honor to die at your side!"
Toki froze.
"…No," he said instinctively. "You don't have to—"
An older man stepped forward, his face lined with age but his eyes burning with conviction.
"Captain… before you found us… we were nothing."
His voice carried through the room.
"Thieves. Drunkards. Men without purpose."
"You didn't see criminals—you saw men. You gave us time, patience… and something we had forgotten we even deserved."
The old man stepped closer.
"You showed us that kindness speaks louder than justice… and that courage is stronger than death."
The room erupted.
"CAPTAIN!"
"It would be our honor to fight!"
"To die for those we love!"
"To stand with you until the end!"
"WE WILL FOLLOW YOU TO OUR LAST BREATH!"
The voices overlapped.
Merged.
Became one.
Toki couldn't hold it anymore.
His legs gave out.
He fell to his knees.
Tears streamed down his face before he could stop them.
"…Thank you," he whispered.
"Thank you…"
Hands grabbed him immediately, pulling him back to his feet.
"Captain, don't kneel!"
"Not to us!"
"We're the ones who should be kneeling!"
They laughed.
Some through tears.
Some through clenched teeth.
But none of them let him stay on the ground.
The night continued.
They drank.
They talked.
They laughed louder than they had in months.
Stories were told.
Memories shared.
Time passed.
The moon climbed higher.
And eventually—
Toki stood.
"I need to go," he said.
Vernil nodded slowly.
"…We should prepare too."
No one argued.
They all stood again, this time not as soldiers—
But as brothers.
They walked him outside.
Umma stirred as he approached, her eyes scanning the group carefully.
Toki climbed onto her back, settling into place.
Then he looked down at them.
"…Tomorrow," he said, his voice steady again, "…we're not dying."
They struck their chests.
"YES, SIR!"
Umma moved.
Toki glanced back once.
They were still there.
Waving.
Standing tall.
Until they became nothing more than shadows swallowed by the night.
Toki reached down, gently stroking Umma's neck.
"…We still have one more person to see," he murmured.
His gaze lifted toward the distant city.
"…Then we can go home."
By the time Toki reached the forge, the city had fallen into a deeper silence.
The outskirts were already quiet when he had left his men, but here—closer to the craftsmen's district—the stillness felt different. Heavier. Not peaceful, but earned. The kind of silence that came after long days of labor, where even the walls seemed too tired to breathe.
Umma slowed as they approached, her talons scraping softly against the stone road before she came to a full stop.
The forge stood exactly where Toki remembered it.
Small.
Unremarkable.
Almost disappointing at first glance.
If someone didn't know better, they would have walked past it without a second thought. A crooked wooden structure, its roof slightly uneven, its chimney dark and quiet. No fire burned inside. No light flickered through the cracks.
It looked abandoned.
Toki stared at it for a long moment.
"…Hard to believe a man like that lives here," he muttered.
Umma shifted beneath him, letting out a low, unimpressed sound.
Toki exhaled softly and slid down from her back, his boots touching the ground with a quiet thud. He adjusted his coat instinctively, his fingers brushing against the hilt of his sword as if reassuring himself it was still there.
The memory echoed clearly in his mind.
Toki let out a faint, humorless chuckle.
"…Archibald wasn't exaggerating."
If anything, the old man had been too gentle in his description.
Eccentric, he had said.
That was one way to put it.
Another would be completely unhinged.
Toki stepped forward, approaching the door cautiously. Then he paused.
"…I never did ask his name."
The realization came too late to matter now.
He raised his hand and knocked.
Once.
Twice.
The sound echoed dully through the wood.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then—
A faint noise.
Something shifting inside.
Toki's posture straightened slightly.
Another sound followed.
Faster this time.
Closer.
His instincts sharpened instantly.
That wasn't the movement of someone half-asleep.
The door exploded open.
Steel flashed in the moonlight.
The attack came without warning, a clean, lethal arc aimed directly for his torso.
There was no hesitation.
Toki moved.
His body twisted just enough for the blade to pass through empty air, the wind of it brushing against his coat as he stepped back. In the same motion, his hand snapped to his sword, drawing it in one fluid movement.
The steel rang softly as it left the sheath.
He didn't strike.
Instead, he raised it.
High.
Into the moonlight.
The blade caught the pale glow, reflecting it clearly—illuminating the intricate butterfly pattern engraved along its surface.
"Wait," Toki said sharply. "It's me."
The second strike never came.
The blacksmith froze.
For a moment, the only sound was the faint rustling of Umma shifting behind him.
"…Huh."
The man lowered his weapon slightly, squinting at the blade.
His free hand rose, scratching lazily at his neck.
"…Oh."
"…You're the butterfly boy."
Toki blinked.
"…That's one way to remember me."
The blacksmith stepped fully into the doorway now, his figure illuminated by the faint moonlight. He looked exactly as Toki remembered—wild, unkempt hair, soot-stained clothes, eyes that held a strange, restless energy.
The kind of eyes that never truly slept.
"I heard that you have become captain," the man said casually, as if they weren't standing one breath away from a lethal misunderstanding. "Didn't think you'd survive long enough for that."
Toki sheathed his sword slowly.
"Good to see you too."
The blacksmith yawned, stretching his arms as if he hadn't just attempted to cut him in half.
"So," he continued, "did old Archi send you back? Need another toy?"
Toki shook his head.
"No."
He hesitated slightly.
Then spoke more seriously.
"…Sorry for coming this late."
The blacksmith waved a hand dismissively.
"I don't sleep," he said. "Waste of time."
That… sounded about right.
Toki exhaled slowly.
"I need your help," he said. "And you're the only one who can make what I'm about to ask for."
That got his attention.
The blacksmith's eyes sharpened instantly, the lazy demeanor vanishing like it had never been there.
"Oh?" he said, a grin slowly spreading across his face. "Now that… sounds interesting."
He leaned slightly against the doorframe.
"Go on, then. Let's hear it."
Toki met his gaze directly.
"I need something that can withstand a dragon..."