“We’ve found the survivors, sir.” 

The smell of that night was a mix of ash, iron, and blood. The humid soil of a spring night, heavy beneath the moon, discoloring .

Johannes turned toward the voice. The soldier’s face was shadowed, his rifle glinting faintly under the fractured light.

“We await your order, Major Eisenwald.”

A pause.

“Should we kill them?”

His soldier stood, awaiting for his command.

The wind roars, carrying the faint sound of something fragile.

The rhythm of time faltered.

What if I told you that the scent of that night still lingers in my dreams.

Vivid, relentless, real as the blood on my hands?

What if, in that single moment, I had decided differently?

Would the world have kept its rhythm?

*****

The mission was clear and simple,

guard the western border and kill anyone suspicious who lacked permission to cross.

As the commanding officer, Johannes decided who would live, and who would not.

A judge, or perhaps, a death angel.

This was not his first mission as one. He had grown into his role all too well.

After twenty-six years growing up in a family that ended a long-standing monarchy, he had learned his lesson.

“Kill, or be killed, Johannes.”

His father’s voice lingered like a siren, a man who once stood against the system and was now worshipped as a national hero.

Johannes had grown up admiring him.

A man who once betrayed his own kind, abandoned his aristocratic title, and built a republic from ruin.

And yet, he also saw the cracks.

A man tormented by his own ideals, desperate for affirmation, just like himself.

The night deepened. The wind howled against the canvas walls of the camp, gnawing at the fire that hissed and snapped in protest.

His boots, that were slick with mud, felt colder than usual.

“Bring me the survivors,” he said at last, voice low but sharp.

The soldier before him hesitated.

“We could only bring one, sir. The other’s badly injured.”

“Badly injured?” Johannes lifted his gaze, the tone enough to draw the man upright.

“The younger woman, sir. Looks like a concussion. Heavy bleeding. The older one refused to leave her.”

He leaned back, the firelight cutting across the sharp planes of his face.

A group of Seiryans had been captured earlier that day near one of Elyndra’s posts, a handful of men, a few women, and a small caravan. They’d claimed to be merchants. But the composition of the group was too odd to be missed.

When the patrol grew suspicious and reported to Falkenreich’s post, the travelers panicked and fled. By the time the chase ended, only two women remained alive.

“Where are they now? I want to see them.”

His words cut cold into the night. 

*****

The steady echo of his boots drowned out the laughter of young soldiers.

Beneath the howling wind, the campfire burned in the open field, its light flickering over flushed faces and half-empty bottles. But the laughter died the instant Johannes stepped into the circle, like a conductor silencing a waltz mid-bar.

Silence fell, sharp and immediate, replaced by the chorus of boots striking mud.

“Salute, sir!”

Johannes didn’t return the gesture. “What information did you get from the survivors?” His voice cut clean, eyes already scanning the unfamiliar shapes within the camp.

Under the shadow of a tent knelt an older woman, dark hair streaked with silver, her merchant’s garb torn and muddied. Her shoulders trembled, yet her eyes burned with a fierce, protective light. She crouched beside another figure, shielding her like a wall.

Johannes’s steps slowed. Then, deliberate as a blade, he moved closer and stood tall, keeping a measured distance.

“Your name,” he said in Seiryan, his accent rough but clear.

The woman said nothing.

He scoffed, shifting his gaze to the younger one.

“Don’t you dare get close to her!”
The older woman lurched forward, arms outstretched like a mother wolf, fury blazing in her eyes.

So, she’s someone important.

Suspicion bloomed. Without a word, he flicked his fingers toward his men.

A soldier stepped forward, seized the woman by the shoulders, and dragged her back. Her resistance was futile from the start, though her defiant voice screamed like flint.

Johannes stepped forward again in slow steady rhythm, the firelight reflected in his cold blue eyes.
The first thing he caught was the scent: rain and blood, laced faintly with jasmine.

Time seemed to hold its breath. The only sounds were the wind’s howl and the crackle of burning wood, casting restless shadows over pale skin and dark hair that gleamed under the moonlight. Her clothes were soaked in crimson, the color spilling against her like an unfinished painting, stirring something raw inside him. 

She wasn’t dead. Sleeping.. yes, that word fit better.

Unconsciously, his hand reached out, brushing aside a loose strand of hair. Her skin was cold beneath his touch, cold enough to make his fingers tremble.

“Don’t you dare touch a single hair of my mistress with your dirty hand!”

The voice snapped him back. He withdrew, his expression unreadable.
“If you don’t tell me who you are, or who she is, I can’t promise you’ll live.”

“I would rather die.”

Her words cracked the air like a whip, but he didn’t flinch. His attention had already narrowed to the young woman on the ground, searching… each breath, each shadow on her face.

And then he saw it.

A faint glint beneath the torn fabric of her breast pocket, something smooth, deliberate, not born of accident.

He reached in carefully and drew it out: a long jade pin, its tip capped in gold, carved into the shape of a peony in bloom.

A symbol of power. And destruction.

The realization froze his breath.

Without looking at his men, he raised his hand.
“Kill the older woman.”

The gunshot shattered the night followed with a single thud and silence. 

“And treat this one,” he said quietly. His tone was flat, the voice of judgment itself.

Johannes rose, the jade pin warm and heavy in his palm.
That night, a judge made his choice, one that fractured the rhythm of his world.

The darkness, once absolute began to discolor.

A ray of light crossed his eyes, sharp enough to shatter the vision.
The fire was gone. The night, gone.
Yet the faint trace of jasmine lingered.

Across the table, the same jade pin, carved with a blooming peony, rested in the hair of a monarch, a queen who reminded him of the woman from another time. 

And achingly beautiful. 

The rhythm of time resumed, quiet and indifferent, as if nothing had ever faltered.

Only he remained… discolored.

“Then allow me to ask in return.” 

The woman before him tightened her grip, slender fingers curling as though holding herself together. Her eyes, still carrying the moonlit glow, watched him without blinking.

“Why are you here, Your Majesty?” softly, yet edged like a blade. 

He knew the piece he needed to move –, or he believed he did. The bridges he might mend… or burn beyond repair. 

He sharpened his gaze, deep blue turns into a cold ocean in the winter time, like a general ready to move his piece.

“Why stand again on the soil that handed you over like an offering?” 

*****

A frail hand rested on a gilded frame, the cold metal seeping into her frail fingers as her gaze lingered on the black and white figures captured within. A soft knock at the door pulled her back to reality.

“Madam Chiyo, are you calling for me?”

The elderly woman, dressed in traditional Seiryan attire, returned the frame to the wooden sideboard. She straightened her posture before turning to face the voice. A young woman in her early twenties stood by the doorway.

“Ann,” Chiyo asked, her voice steady as tempered steel, “did you say that Her Majesty has a meeting with the Falkenreich representatives today?”

Ann, Reina’s closest attendant, bowed her head in confirmation.

“That is correct, madam.”

“And from our side?”

“They all arrived at dawn.”

Ann sensed the tightening of the air around her senior, tone sharper than steel, her gaze drifting toward a time long untouched. It had been Chiyo who issued the chilling order that morning to conceal the forbidden truth from the newspapers, shielding it from the young queen. Yet Ann believed Chiyo was also the one most quietly undone by it.

The truth could not be hidden forever. Everyone knew that. Still, they clung to the hope of buying time  to protect the young queen’s heart, a little longer. 

After hearing the list of those who had traveled from Seirya, a faint sense of relief filled Chiyo’s lungs, easing some of the weight from her shoulders. Yet she knew the storm was far from over.

To strengthen a monarchy who rose from ruins was no small task for a young queen.

Did she doubt Reina’s resolve?

No. She had watched the young princess grow stronger each day under her guidance. Without question, Reina had carried her duty as faithfully as any predecessor. Yet Chiyo believed that as long as even a single speck of weakness remained, the risk of failure would remained.

That was Chiyo’s duty.

To reduce the risk.
To guide the young queen.
Even if the path demanded pain. 

“Thank you for your hardwork Ann.” 

“Tell Taji to prepare a formidable feast for our representatives.”

*****

Author’s note:

Thank you for being here! Chapter three is a turning point for many of our characters. It was one of the hardest chapters for me to write because it was my first time entering Johannes’s mind and seeing the world through his eyes.

“Whose Name is Written on Water” by Max Richter is the song I listened to while writing this chapter. It truly captures how Johannes felt at this moment. Welcome to Johannes von Eisenwald’s mind.

Whose name is written on water – Max Richter