FAR FROM HOME

Leaders from the districts, the military units, and the naval commands of Nucus stood in rigid lines along both sides of the seaport. 

At the center of the formation, George Montgomery, mayor of Nucus, kept his eyes fixed on the dark shape of the naval vessel as it crept into the harbor.

It was not an ordinary day.

Soren Anderson—youngest four-star admiral among Westland’s four naval regions—was coming home. Not thirty yet, and already the name people lowered their voices for. Stuff he’d commanded still got chewed over in mess halls. He’d broken fleets that were supposed to be unbreakable, and pulled loyalty out of men most officers only ever saw in books. Word of his return had spread fast. Civilians packed the barriers three and four deep just for a look at him.

A young man in the crowd craned his neck.

“Why’s half the navy standing out here?”

The man beside him didn’t look away from the ship.

“You haven’t heard? Admiral Anderson’s coming in. The mayor himself’s waiting.”

“The four-star? The one who isn’t even thirty?”

“That’s him.”

The talk rippled outward. People repeated the same facts like they were trying to make them real.

When the vessel finally kissed the dock, the formation stiffened. Montgomery took half a step forward.

“Ready yourselves. He should be coming down.”

The gangway lowered. An officer appeared first, then another, then groups of sailors in no particular order. The welcoming lines stayed motionless. Soren did not appear.

More officers. Still no admiral.

Even the captain stepped onto the dock alone.

Montgomery’s face changed.

“Captain. Where is Admiral Soren?”

The captain glanced back at the ship as if the answer might still be waiting there.

“Mayor… I was told your people would receive him. He was aboard when we left the base.”

Montgomery’s brows drew tight.

“You don’t know where he is.”

One of the senior commanders stepped in before the captain could reply.

“Perhaps the arrival information was wrong. He may have taken another route.”

Montgomery shook his head once.

“Naval command confirmed this vessel. We’ve been standing here on that confirmation.”

The commander looked at the empty gangway.

“Then we search the ship.”

“Do it.”

Officers went back aboard. They checked the command room, the cabins, the officers’ quarters, the storage decks, the lower holds. Outside the barriers the civilians began to murmur.

“Why hasn’t he come out?”

“Maybe he’s still inside.”

“The captain’s already down. Almost everyone else is off.”

“I thought he was supposed to be first.”

Minutes passed. The search party returned with the kind of faces that needed no explanation.

Montgomery didn’t wait.

“Well?”

The lead officer hesitated.

“Mayor… we’ve been through the entire vessel. There’s no sign of Admiral Soren.”

Silence settled over the dock like fog.

Thousands had come to see the youngest four-star admiral in Westland. The mayor had cleared his schedule. Senior commanders had left their posts. And the man they had all gathered for was simply gone.

Nucus Memorial Cemetery

A young man stood in front of the black marble tomb. Coat over his uniform, but the posture still gave him away. Soren Anderson had been standing there for a while, looking at the name cut into the stone:

CHARLES ANDERSON

FOURTH YOUNG MASTER OF THE ANDERSON FAMILY

No expression moved across his face. Nothing moved on his face. Just the cold in his eyes. He got down, placed the flower against the stone, and let his fingers rest there longer than he needed to.

“Charles. Your brother finally came home.”

He stood. The silver ring on his finger caught the light—the same ring Charles had pressed into his hand the day Soren left for the academy. He had never taken it off.

For nearly a year he had chased every thread connected to Charles’s death. Every lead dissolved. No witnesses. No physical evidence. Only the family’s official story: an accident at the seaside. Soren had never believed it. Charles had been blind since childhood. He knew the limits of his world better than anyone. He would not have gone to the water alone.

Years earlier Soren had been five years old and knew nothing of power or bloodlines. His father and Chadwick Anderson, patriarch of the Anderson family, had been close for a long time. That friendship decided Soren’s life the night a fire took everything else.

The house burned with his parents inside. By the time help showed up there was nothing left. A neighbor found the boy out in the dark, clothes smelling of smoke. He didn’t cry. Didn’t ask for them. Just sat outside the hospital ward afterward, staring at nothing like he already understood they weren’t coming back.

Chadwick came himself. He looked at the silent child and made a decision.

“He is my friend’s son,” he told the family later. “From today he is one of us. Anyone who has a problem can come to me.”

No one argued to his face.

Soren grew up inside the Anderson walls. Chadwick treated him almost like a grandson. The boy learned fast—too fast, some said. Things shown once stayed with him. Chadwick began taking him to gatherings, teaching him things he usually reserved for his own blood. That was when the trouble started.

The Anderson children watched an outsider receive the attention they believed was theirs. The matriarch hated it most. One evening Chadwick praised Soren for answering a question no one else had managed, and she finally opened her mouth.

“Chadwick. He is not Anderson. How long do you intend to pretend he is?”

Chadwick’s voice went hard.

“He is my friend’s son. That is enough.”

“You have children of your own.”

“And he is still a child.”

The argument ended there. The resentment did not. When Chadwick was away the warmth disappeared. Seats at the table were questioned. Achievements were dismissed. The reminder that he carried no Anderson blood became a daily fact.

Only one person never joined in.

Charles Anderson—the fourth young master, blind since childhood—never cared about blood. To him Soren was simply his brother. They became inseparable. At eight years old Soren sat beside Charles and read aloud for hours. When Charles wanted to walk the grounds, Soren took his hand. When other children laughed at the blind boy, Soren put himself between them without thinking.

One afternoon, after chasing the latest group away, Charles found Soren’s hand.

“You’re angry again.”

“They shouldn’t laugh at you.”

Charles smiled. “Then don’t let them make you angry.”

“You’re not?”

“I can’t see them.”

Soren stared, then laughed. Charles laughed with him. That was how it worked. Soren protected Charles from the world; Charles made Soren feel he belonged somewhere.

Then, when Soren was fifteen, Chadwick died.

Everything changed overnight. With the patriarch gone the family stopped pretending. Kindness vanished. Soren was pushed to the edges, reminded daily that he was not one of them. But Charles stayed. No matter how the others treated him, Charles refused to step away.

Soren had lost his parents at five. He had lost Chadwick at fifteen. As long as Charles remained, he told himself he still had a family.

But he was wrong.