POV: Cedric

I was, according to my mother, making a tremendous mistake.

I was also, according to my father, bringing shame upon the family name.

And I was, according to my little brother Theo, the absolute coolest person to ever exist in the entire history of existence, which was the only opinion that actually mattered, so I chose to focus on that one.

"You're going to kill so many zombies," Theo said, practically vibrating with excitement as he watched me stuff the last of my belongings into my pack. "Like, hundreds. Thousands, maybe. You're going to be a legend."

"Obviously," I agreed, because agreeing with Theo was both easy and correct. "They'll write songs about me. 'Cedric the Magnificent.' 'Cedric the Zombie Slayer.' 'Cedric, Who Is Also Incredibly Handsome.'"

"That last one doesn't rhyme."

"Art doesn't need to rhyme, Theo. It needs to be true."

My mother made a sound from the doorway that suggested she was developing a headache. She'd been making that sound a lot lately—specifically, ever since I'd announced my intention to volunteer for the Bastion three weeks ago.

The announcement had not gone well.

There had been shouting (my father), crying (my mother), and enthusiastic cheering (Theo, who had immediately been sent to his room for "not reading the atmosphere," which seemed deeply unfair since he was ten and the atmosphere was confusing even to me).

Since then, my parents had cycled through denial, bargaining, anger, and what I could only describe as resigned disappointment. They'd landed somewhere around "cold acceptance punctuated by heavy sighs," which was honestly an improvement.

"You don't have to do this," my mother said, for approximately the four hundredth time. "Your father knows people. We could arrange—"

"An exemption?" I pulled the drawstring on my pack tight, not looking at her. "A nice comfortable position somewhere safe while other people's sons do the actual fighting?"

"There's nothing wrong with—"

"There's everything wrong with it." I turned to face her finally, and some of the humor drained from my voice. "Mother. You know there is."

She pressed her lips together, and for a moment, I saw something flicker in her eyes—not just worry, but something deeper. Something that looked almost like recognition.

My mother had been young once. Before the marriage, before the money, before she'd become the respectable wife of Aldermoor's most successful merchant. I'd heard stories, whispered between servants when they thought no one was listening, about the girl who'd wanted to be a soldier. The girl who'd trained in secret. The girl who'd given it all up for a comfortable life and never quite forgiven herself.

I didn't know if those stories were true.

But sometimes, when she looked at me, I wondered.

"Just..." She crossed the room, reaching up to adjust my collar even though it didn't need adjusting. Her hands were trembling slightly. "Just come back. That's all I ask. Come back to us."

"Every visiting day," I promised. "You won't be able to get rid of me."

"I'm serious, Cedric."

"So am I." I caught her hands, stilling them. "I'll come back. I'll write every week. I'll even eat vegetables, though I want it noted that this is a significant sacrifice."

A watery laugh escaped her. "You hate vegetables."

"I despise them with every fiber of my being. But for you, Mother, I will choke down the occasional carrot."

She pulled me into a hug—fierce and tight and slightly desperate—and I let myself sink into it for just a moment. Let myself be her son instead of the brave volunteer. Let myself feel the fear I'd been pushing down for weeks.

I was terrified.

Of course I was terrified.

But terror had never stopped me from doing anything before, and I wasn't about to let it start now.

My father did not come to say goodbye.

He was "occupied with business matters," according to the servant who delivered the message, which was father-speak for "I'm too angry to look at you without saying something I'll regret."

That was fine. I hadn't expected anything different.

The thing about being the son of a wealthy merchant was that everyone assumed your life was easy. And in many ways, it was—I'd never gone hungry, never feared for my safety, never watched someone I loved die screaming. I had warm clothes and a soft bed and an education that most people could only dream of.

But I also had a father who measured worth in profit margins. A father who saw his children as investments—assets to be deployed for maximum return. My older sister had been married off to a trade partner's son before I was old enough to really know her. My role, as the older male heir, was to learn the business, take over the ledgers, and continue the family legacy of making money while other people died protecting us.

I had never wanted that.

I had never wanted to be the person who stayed safe while the world burned.

And maybe that was naive. Maybe it was stupid and reckless and all the other things my father had called me when I'd announced my decision. But I couldn't shake the feeling that I was meant for something more than counting coins and negotiating contracts.

I wanted to matter.

I wanted to prove that I was more than my father's son.

"Cedric!" Theo came barreling around the corner, nearly crashing into me. "The Officials are here! They're in the square! There's a wagon and everything!"

"A wagon?" I put a hand over my heart in mock surprise. "How revolutionary. I was expecting a fleet of golden carriages."

"There are carriages," Theo said, tugging at my sleeve. "For the Officials. But the volunteers have to ride in the wagon. It's got a canvas top and everything."

"Luxurious."

"Come on." He was practically dragging me now, all boundless energy and excitement. "You're going to miss it!"

I let him pull me through the halls of our home—too large, too cold, too empty—and out into the morning sun. The square was visible from here, already crowded with families and volunteers and the dark-uniformed Officials who would take us to our new lives.

Theo stopped at the gate, his enthusiasm suddenly dimming. "You're really going."

"I'm really going."

"And you're going to come back?"

"I'm going to come back."

He was quiet for a moment, scuffing his shoe against the cobblestones. Then "Can you bring me a zombie skull? A real one?"

I choked on a laugh. "That's—Theo, that's disgusting."

"It would be so cool, though. I could put it on my shelf. Show all my friends."

"Your friends would have nightmares."

"My friends are boring. They need nightmares."

I crouched down to his level, ruffling his hair in a way I knew he secretly liked despite his protests. "Tell you what. I'll bring you something better than a zombie skull."

"What's better than a zombie skull?"

"You'll have to wait and see." I grinned at his frustrated expression. "Consider it motivation for you to behave while I'm gone."

"I always behave."

"You set the gardener's shed on fire last month."

"That was an accident."

"You used three different types of oil."

"An elaborate accident."

I laughed—really laughed, the kind that came from somewhere deep in my chest—and pulled him into a rough hug. He squirmed, protesting that he was too old for hugs, but his arms wrapped around me tight enough to give away the lie.

"I'll miss you," I said quietly.

"Don't get killed," he mumbled into my shoulder. "That would be really inconvenient."

"I'll do my best."

"And write to me. Not just Mother. Me."

"Every week."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

He pulled back, trying very hard to look stoic and mature and failing entirely. His eyes were bright, and I pretended not to notice the way he blinked rapidly to keep the tears from falling.

"Go," he said, shoving at my chest. "Go be a hero or whatever. I've got important things to do."

"Important things like setting more fires?"

"Elaborate fires, Cedric. There's a difference."

I was still laughing as I walked toward the square, my pack over one shoulder and my heart lighter than it had any right to be.

The Officials from Aldermoor were, predictably, polished.

Unlike the Officials who visited border villages—weathered men and women who had seen real combat—ours looked like they'd stepped out of a portrait. Pressed uniforms. Perfectly groomed horses. The kind of practiced solemnity that suggested they'd rehearsed in front of a mirror.

I found it deeply annoying.

The lead Official called names from a scroll, and one by one, volunteers stepped forward. Most were like me—sons and daughters of wealthy families, looking for glory or adventure or escape from suffocating expectations. A few were conscripts, their faces pale and terrified, chosen by lottery because Aldermoor had to meet its quota somehow.

I watched them shuffle toward the wagon and tried not to feel guilty.

"Cedric Val Aldermoor."

I stepped forward, chin high, and was gratified to see a flicker of recognition in the Official's eyes. My family was well-known—my father's business dealings touched half the region—and there had been considerable gossip when word spread that the Val Aldermoor heir had volunteered.

Let them talk, I thought. Let them see that not all of us are content to hide behind our walls.

"Volunteer?" the Official asked, pen poised.

"Yes."

He marked his scroll. "Line up by the wagon."

I turned to go—and caught sight of Theo at the edge of the crowd, waving with both arms like a madman. My mother stood beside him, one hand pressed to her mouth, the other clutching my brother's shoulder like an anchor.

I waved back, grinning broadly.

Watch me, I thought. Watch me become something more.

The wagon was, as Theo had accurately reported, not a golden carriage.

It was cramped, uncomfortable, and smelled faintly of hay and something I chose not to identify. I claimed a spot near the front, stretching my legs out as much as the limited space allowed, and surveyed my fellow volunteers.

There were six of us from Aldermoor. I recognized most of them vaguely—faces from parties and social functions—but hadn't bothered to learn their names. The conscripts huddled together at the back, avoiding eye contact with everyone.

"So." The boy across from me spoke, his golden hair perfectly styled, his signet ring glinting in the light. "You're the Val Aldermoor boy. The one who volunteered."

I raised an eyebrow. "And you are?"

"Augustin Vale." He said it like I should be impressed. "Our families do business together."

"Do they? How fascinating. I've literally never paid attention to my father's business dealings."

Augustin's expression flickered—confusion, mostly, with a hint of offense. "You're... not what I expected."

"I rarely am."

The wagon lurched into motion before he could respond, and I turned my attention to the road ahead. We'd be stopping at other villages along the way, collecting more volunteers, before making the final trek to the Bastion. According to the Official who'd briefed us, the journey would take three days.

Three days in a cramped wagon with Augustin Vale and his perfect hair.

Wondrst village we stopped at was called Ravenshollow—a small, eerie place near the old woods where mist clung to the ground even at midday. We picked up two volunteers there: a girl with a long black braid and gentle eyes, and a tiny, anxious creature with mousy hair and ink-stained fingers.

The fiThe girl introduced herself as Seraphine, and there was something immediately warm about her—something that made you want to tell her your problems and let her fix them. The anxious one was Wren, who mumbled their name so quietly I had to ask them to repeat it twice.

"Room for two more?" Seraphine asked, already climbing into the wagon without waiting for an answer.

"Plenty of room," I said, shifting to make space. "Welcome to our humble transportation. Watch out for Augustin—he might try to tell you about his family's business dealings."

"I wasn't—" Augustin sputtered.

"He was absolutely about to," I continued cheerfully. "I could see it in his eyes. That gleam. The 'let me tell you about my portfolio' gleam."

Seraphine laughed, settling onto the bench beside me. "I'll consider myself warned."

Wren hovered at the edge of the wagon, looking like they wanted to be anywhere else. I extended a hand to help them up, and they flinched before taking it—their grip surprisingly strong for someone who looked like a stiff breeze might blow them away.

"You alright?" I asked.

"Fine," Wren mumbled, immediately retreating to the back corner of the wagon. "Just... not fond of travel."

"Neither am I," Seraphine said kindly. "But we'll manage together, won't we?"

Something in her tone made me think she wasn't just talking about the wagon ride.

The second day brought more villages and more volunteers. From Coldmire, we gained a giant of a boy named Cassius—gentle-eyed despite his intimidating size—and a silent, scarred soldier named Theron who looked like he'd already seen more death than the rest of us combined. From Whitmore, a mischievous thief called Fen who was immediately caught trying to pickpocket Augustin, and a tiny, fierce girl named Lark who couldn't have been more than fourteen.

The wagon grew more crowded. More chaotic. More interesting.

I found myself gravitating toward the center of conversations, pulling people out of their shells, coaxing laughter from the frightened conscripts. It felt natural—as easy as breathing—to make people comfortable. To make them feel like maybe, just maybe, this wouldn't be so bad.

"You're good at that," Seraphine observed on the second night, as we camped beside the road. "Talking to people. Making them feel safe."

"It's a gift," I said, only half-joking. "Also a curse. I literally cannot stop talking. It's a medical condition."

"I doubt that."

"It's true. My mother had doctors look at it. They said 'Madam, your son is simply insufferable' and prescribed bed rest for everyone around me."

She laughed again—a warm, genuine sound—and I decided I liked Seraphine. She was the kind of person you wanted on your side when things went wrong.

"Why did you volunteer?" she asked. "If you don't mind me asking. You're from Aldermoor. You didn't have to."

PART 1 OF CHAPTER 2