DREAM: Rebirth across Time

Headow

A blood-soaked, bare-chested man barked at his men. "Cowards, get up and fight."

Steven moved forward with his sword ready. "Who is he?"

He saw Twyford beside him, breathing heavily. "He is called Murdac, one of the five captains. He fought in border conflicts before going missing five years ago."

Murdac gave a loud roar. "Come, die like the others!"

Calmly, Steven raised a hand to stop his men and said, "Hold."

He spoke in a clear voice. "Twyford. Do you recall that you said two strikes?"

Twyford let out a sigh. "Yes, I did."

Steven nodded a little. "Show it."

Twyford walked onward toward the captain of the bandits.

Murdac gave a mocking grin. "Are you sending your dog to confront me?"

Twyford gave a smile. "The blade that cuts at his command is me."

Murdac took a defensive stance, forcing Twyford to take a step back.

Most people will hesitate to initiate contact, not Twyford. He appeared before him with a single blink and slashed across Murdac.

The first strike.

The sound of their swords colliding was like a thunderclap.

Stumbling back, Murdac screamed. "You will pay for that—"

Twyford interrupted him before he could finish. He clenched his blade upward and drove it straight under the rib cage.

The second strike.

Murdac froze as his mouth began to leak blood. He let go of his cleaver with a dull thud.

Then Twyford leaned in. "You only need two strikes to kill a boastful dog."

Over the battlefield, a stunned silence descended.

Steven put his sword down.

His men rallied around him as they raised their heads and started breathing normally again.

Clinton made a whistling sound. "Don't let me spar with that one,"

Twyford used the cloak to clean his blade. "Your Highness, did I deserve my drink now?"

Steven had a sly smile. "A couple of drinks."

The men began to cheer.

The outpost—once a haven for outlaws— echoed with a shout of victory.

The ground was stained with blood, and bodies with broken weapons lay motionless.

Smoke from burning wagons continued to rise.

He steadied his resolve, "This is just the beginning."

Clinton, beside him, laughed in between breaths. "Remind me not to challenge you in chess."

Steven wiped the blood from his cheek and grinned. "I don't lose,"

The men ransacked the outpost and found a massive treasure room filled with chests.

The chest brimmed with gems, gold coins, silk, and spices tucked between crates of salted meat and weapons.

Steven remained motionless as Clinton forced open a second chest, this one containing silver ingots.

Clinton let out a low whistle. "They have been defrauding the populace as well as merchants for years."

Steven moved forward and took a ledger in his hands. Names were scrawled inside, those of nobles. His fingers clenched around the book that was bound in leather.

He glanced at Clinton. "What do you think this is worth?"

Clinton rubbed his beard. "Hard to say together with the goods and coins? Enough to outfit a small army or pay off the debts of a noble house that is drowning."

Steven paused, staring at a carved wooden box in the corner. He nodded absently and concentrated on his thoughts.

Upon opening it, he discovered a sapphire-encrusted brooch carefully wrapped and bearing the Talvace crest. There was a time when his maternal family was proud.

Now, the House of Talvace, known for its warriors and fidelity to the throne, was merely a nameless entity. Having been crushed by failed harvests, ignored by court politics, and deprived of trade because of bandit control, they had almost fallen apart.

"This makes a huge difference," Steven whispered.

He spun around and spoke. "I want this treasure packed and ready to move, Clinton."

Twyford came up front, leading a gang of gruff-looking bandits, their faces covered in dirt and their hands bound.

He declared, "They surrendered after Murdac was taken down. His rule seemed to be based more on fear than allegiance."

Steven stood with an unreadable face. "Will you stand with me?"

The bandit gave a slow nod. "Bleeding for a banner is preferable to being slaughtered like dogs without a home."

Twyford furrowed his brow. "We will watch them closely and deal with them if they try anything suspicious."

Steven looked at him first and then at the men. "You must gain a reputation by fighting for something greater than money."

The men exchanged glances before dropping themselves to their knees in unison. "Yeah, we will fight."

Clinton leaned over. "We have reached thirty now, a good number. It is not quite an army yet, but it feels like one now."

Steven sighed, looking around at his improbable force of soldiers and former bandits.

Twyford smirked beside him.

The remainder of the day was filled with activity.

They repurposed wagons, packed loot, and attended to the injured.

Steven scaled a small ridge that overlooked the smoking ruins as he looked straight ahead toward Headow, still days away.

His voice was a whisper, "This victory was just the beginning. There is still more to come."

Steven felt something other than fear or bewilderment for the first time.

Hope.

---

Lord Atkins had a twisted smile as he read a letter in the room of a dilapidated mansion tucked away in the Eastern hills. His sharp cheekbones, hooked nose, and narrow, calculating eyes were brought into sharp relief by the flickering candlelight.

The letter was sealed using a regal seal in black wax, a silver serpent belonging to Prince Ramsey.

He read the exquisite script, each word tinged with a hint of malice.

"Lord Atkins, the renegade puppy, makes his way to Headow. Ensure the wolves of Headow are buried next to their deceased Queen. Before they sprout, burn the roots."

Carefully folding the parchment, Atkins placed it next to his wine. "So, at last, the drunkard wakes up," he whispered in a harsh, low voice.

He walked toward the large arched window that looked out over his expansive domain. With the help of Prince Ramsey, Atkins had become more powerful.

There was a gentle knock on the door.

"Come in," Atkins advised.

A young man in dark armor entered and bowed. "My lord. Scouts report that Prince Steven travels with a small group."

Atkins muttered a chuckle. "He dares to enter my territory with so little?"

He spun around, voice cutting through the room like a drawn blade. "Then let a thousand thorns bury him."

There was a pause as Baron Atkins was lost in his thoughts. ""Perhaps it is time the Blackthorns earned their coin."

These mercenaries were vicious, savage, and entirely devoted to coin.

Atkins poured himself some wine and said, "Inform the Blackthorns that I desire his services. I will erase the prince and every village that contains Talvace's blood."

"However, the innocent people—" The shaky guard asked his master.

"The populace will once more come to dread the name Atkins," he growled. "That young man is a spark. I will prevent him from turning into a flame."

Stepping back to his desk, he unfolded a map of the area. Near the bottom, a dwindling reminder of ancient honor was Headow.

The soldier appeared anxious. "How about the King? They are still under his protection."

Venomous, Atkins smiled back. "King Ascot has aged, his strength has diminished, and he continues to be preoccupied with court games."

He unlocked the cage and fastened the letter to the leg of a raven, this one addressed to the captain of Blackthorn.

The wine swirled in his hand as he watched the raven take off into the crimson-streaked sky.

A few days passed, and the proud silhouette of Headow was drenched in shiny light. Tall, weathered, but unbroken stone walls were surrounded by rows of red-tiled roofs, spiraling towers, and arched bridges that cut across the soft river flowing through the city.

A magnificent waterfall gushed from the cliffs behind the keep, sprinkling silvery mist over the lower wards.

For the first time, a sincere smile appeared on his face as he opened his mouth slightly.

His chest tightened as he considered… "So this is where my mother called home."

Despite all of the violence, the bodies, and the fire, this world still had beauty.

Twyford whispered next to him, "I got married in this castle in my dream yesterday."

"There are no slow-killing tax collectors in your dream," Clinton added icily, repositioning the blade at his waist.

The company laughed lightly, but Steven fixed his gaze on the city gates. The smile on his face vanished as they entered the city, Headow.

There wasn't the usual commotion on the streets.

The stalls stood empty.

Kids engaged in silent play.

From doorways, women looked anxiously. There was an unseen weight in the air, like a city holding its breath.

Steven pondered as his hand automatically gripped the reins. "How come such a serene sadness envelops such a lovely place?"

The stillness was broken by the abrupt shout.

"You scumbag, come back here!"

With haste, Steven dismounted. "Hurry up."

As they rounded a corner, the sight before them made him feel sick.

Three thin men were lying on the ground, writhing and bleeding, being constantly kicked by a gang of armed thugs.

The leader, a garish man, laughed as he slipped the wine from his goblet.