Rise Of The Rejected Son-in-law

Return Of The Patriot

The sun was setting in the west, painting the endless desert in shades of gold and crimson. The heat of the day was finally fading.

Tens of thousands of soldiers stood in formation, their uniforms rippling under the dying light. The Iron Fang Brigade—Britain’s most feared special forces—was silent, every gaze fixed on the man standing before them.

He wore no expression, only a quiet, suffocating authority that pressed on every chest like a weight. The three gleaming stars on his shoulders glinted in the sunlight. His name was Ethan Phoenix, a man both feared and revered. He is a soldier whose name had become a legend whispered on battlefields across continents.

He looked like a devil that had crawled out of hell. Even among thousands of hardened warriors, not one dared to breathe too loudly.

Beside him stood an older man, with grey hair. Three stars adorned his shoulders as well. He was General Arthur Graves, commander of the Western Division, and Ethan’s mentor.

Arthur’s deep voice broke the silence.

“Have you truly made up your mind to go, Ethan? The doctor’s made arrangements. You don’t have to do this.”

Ethan didn’t answer immediately. His gaze dropped to the small photograph in his palm—creased, stained with blood and sweat. It showed a man and a woman standing before a red backdrop.

The man in the photo looked younger, freer. The woman beside him was striking—cold and beautiful, her delicate face holding quiet resilience and the sadness of a thousand unspoken words.

Ethan’s voice was low when he finally spoke.

“I’ve carried this burden long enough, General. The eight legendary masters have fallen. The border will stay peaceful for at least five years. That’s enough time for you to train the next generation of Phoenix Warriors.”

Arthur’s sigh was heavy, laced with both pride and pain.

“You’ve travelled half the world, bled for this country more than any man I know. That battle with the Eight Legends nearly cost you your life, Ethan. You’ve earned your rest.”

"Cough, cough, I’ve arranged for someone to accompany you, Logan Vane, my aide. He’ll act as your secretary. Don’t refuse. There are people in the capital moving pieces we can’t see. The Iron Fang needs a steady hand, even if it’s from afar.”

Ethan raised an eyebrow, the faintest shadow of a smirk touching his lips.

“Logan Vane, my secretary? That’s a weak excuse, Arthur. You just want a spy to watch over me.”

Arthur chuckled dryly, “Cough, cough! Perhaps. Or perhaps I just don’t want to see you vanish without a word.”

He straightened then, his expression firming into the steel of command. His voice boomed across the sands.

“Before you leave, Phoenix… do me one favor—in front of your men. Let them see their commander off properly.”

Ethan hesitated. “Arthur—”

But the older man didn’t let him finish. His voice rose again, filled with emotion that cracked just slightly at the edges.

“Long live Ethan Phoenix, Commander of the Iron Fang Brigade!”

For a heartbeat, the desert was silent. Then, like thunder, the soldiers’ voices erupted in unison.

“LONG LIVE ETHAN PHOENIX! LONG LIVE THE COMMANDER!”

The echo roared through the vast wasteland, shaking the air, rumbling across the dunes like an oath.

Ethan turned sharply, his hand rising in salute. The evening sun caught his profile—scarred, calm, unyielding.

As he lowered his hand, his soldiers’ eyes burned red with tears and pride. None dared speak, none dared move. They knew this was the last time they’d see their commander stand among them.

Without another word, Ethan strode toward the waiting helicopter. The blades spun slowly at first, gathering speed, stirring the sand into a storm around him.

Arthur stood tall, his salute unwavering as the helicopter lifted off, vanishing into the crimson horizon.

The legend of the Phoenix… had begun its return.

**********************

( Brentwood Vale, villa area.)

Ethan Voss carried a single leather bag and walked; each step took him farther from the boy he once had been. The weight on his shoulder was small; the weight inside him, accumulated over five years of iron and desert, was something else. He had not come back for ceremony. He had come back for a promise he had never truly kept.

Five years ago, He remembered the way time had slipped when someone slipped a drug into his drink. He had woken in a in a mental hospital, he had met Sandra Lannister. An accident of circumstance—one night stand, ended in a hasty marriage the next morning. He had left that night to protect her from the truth of him. He left thinking he was saving her. He left thinking shame would keep them safe.

Now he returned no longer as the embarrassed youth but as Commander of the Iron Fang Brigade, a man whose name bent men to attention. He planned to give her the glory she deserved— The honours, protection, the life he had promised.

A security guard politely intercepted him at the gate. “Sir, may I help you?” the man asked, hand resting on his radio.

Adam nodded. “Mrs Sandra Lannister. I’d like to see her.”

The guard’s eyes flicked over the bag, then to the courtyard. Laughter drifted across hedges—bright, careless. The gate opened and Ethan stepped inside.

In one corner of the courtyard six, maybe seven children tumbled and chased one another, brand labels flashing like badges of status. Their joy was loud enough to make the whole place feel well-ordered. But in the shadow of an orange tree, one child sat apart.

She was a pale thing in rags—the wrong kind of child for the wrong kind of house. Her hair clung to her face in sweat-dark tendrils; her clothes hung loose and grubby at the edges. Round eyes that had once been lively looked emptied, the sheen gone. Bruises mottled her arms and a dirty smear crowned her cheek.

The scene tilted on a new axis when a woman in a black evening dress and heels swept toward them. Her makeup was exact, her perfume a practiced statement. She bent, cooed, and then, with a quickness that tasted of polished cruelty, addressed the wrong child.

“Darling! How did you fall, are you okay, baby?” she asked, voice syrupy. The injured child, voice thin and brittle, answered, “Mum, she pushed me.”

Slap!

The slap was clean as a bell. Five red fingers bloomed across the girl's cheek. Other children froze mid-squeal. The courtyard seemed to hold its breath.

The woman leaned in, her eyes were hard as cut glass. “Little bastard, are you tired of living? If you dare hurt my son, I’ll break your legs.”

A small, wet sound escaped the crouched girl. She doubled forward and spat out blood. She was vomiting blood.

Violet’s outrage sharpened into theatrical fury. “Sandra, look at what your child has done. Today is my son’s birthday; what if he’d been seriously hurt? What would you do then?”

From the far side of the courtyard came another voice—raw, sudden, threaded with something far sharper than the genteel tones around it. Sandra Lannister moved as if pulled by a string. She came running, hair loose, cheeks drawn; she looked shabbier, bearing the evidence of hardship.

She wrapped herself around the child as if she could hold the bruises at bay with her arms. Her fingers trembled when she reached for the girl’s swollen cheek; she paused, afraid to touch and afraid not to. The child coughed again.

“Children fall. They bump. She’s a child—stop it, Violet. This is too much. As an adult, you should be ashamed.” Sandra’s voice was thin but fierce.

Violet’s lip curled. “Don’t play the martyr. You don’t even have a real niece. If your filth hurt my boy, she deserves a lesson—even if it kills her.”

Tears streamed down Sandra’s face before she had the chance to wipe them away. Her body shook with something like anger that had been held a long time. “She is my daughter,” she said, voice breaking. “You have no right.”