Mother of Midnight

Chapter 179 – Broken

As horrid as the thought was, Caelum wasn’t sure what he believed in anymore.

He had grown up with stories of war—glorious battles, noble causes, victories hard-won through grit and valor. But standing in the aftermath of his first true battle, the weight of reality crushed those tales underfoot like brittle bones. He felt pathetic.

One battle. Just one, and already, he was broken.

How weak was he, to let a single fight shatter something inside him?

He had been prepared for blood, for pain, for the chaos of war—but not for that. Not for the sight of an entire battlefield erased in an instant, lives snuffed out as though they had never been. Tarric, the Serkoth exomancer, had wiped out so many with a single spell, reducing men to nothing but scattered remnants in the dirt. Had they even had a chance? Maybe. Maybe there had been a moment where they could have turned the tide, pressed their advantage while they still had the numbers.

They had outnumbered the Lekines dozens of times over. They could have advanced faster, put pressure on the Serkoth before that spell was unleashed. Surely something like that had taken time to cast, hadn’t it? There had to have been a window, an opening—some way to stop it.

But no one had.

And now it didn’t matter.

The army was broken. Not scattered, not wounded—broken. Reduced to a mere fraction of what it once was. They had supplies, thankfully—food, water, weapons. But what did that matter when morale was gone? When every soldier bore the same hollow, haunted expression? Caelum had seen it in their eyes, in the way they carried themselves. The way they flinched at the smallest sounds, their hands tightening instinctively on their weapons as if expecting another wave of death to roll over them.

They had witnessed annihilation.

And so they had fled. Retreated behind the eastern sentry wall, setting up a semi-permanent camp in its shadow. A pitiful attempt at regrouping, at regaining some semblance of order. But it felt fragile. Temporary. Like a single gust of wind could scatter them to the four corners of the earth.

Caelum sat by the dwindling fire, staring at the embers as they cracked and flickered, burning down into nothing.

Much like them.

A bowl of gruel was held in front of him, the thin, lukewarm slop barely steaming in the morning chill. Caelum blinked up, his thoughts sluggish, and found Grunhilda standing over him, her scarred hands steady as she offered it out.

He took the bowl without a word, managing a weak smile in thanks. It felt hollow, forced, but she nodded in return and sat beside him without comment.

The weight in his chest hadn’t lessened over the past week. If anything, it had settled deeper, anchoring him in place like a stone. His appetite had vanished along with his sense of certainty. The battle—if it could even be called that—was over, but the ghosts of it lingered.

Faeruhn never turned up. The thought drifted through his mind as he absently stirred the gruel with his spoon. He hadn't wanted to say it out loud, hadn't even wanted to think it, but after a week with no word, no sign...

He’s dead.

Halfway through his food, he sighed, the tension in his chest coiling tighter.

"Are they all like that?" His voice came out quieter than he intended, almost hoarse.

Grunhilda glanced at him. "What do you mean?"

He swallowed, his throat dry. "Just… gone. Everyone. So many dead so quickly." His breath hitched, and he forced himself to take another bite just to keep his hands busy.

Grunhilda exhaled sharply through her nose, staring down into her own half-eaten gruel. "No. No, they aren’t." Her voice was steady, but there was something raw beneath it. "Over the battles I’ve been in, they lasted days—sometimes weeks." Her grip tightened around her spoon. "Not hours."

"Oh."

The word felt small, useless.

He lowered his gaze, staring into the sickly grey slop in his bowl, his stomach twisting. The smell was enough to make him lose his appetite, yet he pushed his spoon through the mush, moving it around in circles as though the simple task could distract him from the discomfort gnawing at him.

“You aren’t a warrior. You are too soft.” Grunhilda’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and clear, but there was no malice in her words—just a blunt, unyielding truth. It wasn’t a condemnation, but rather a simple fact, one that Caelum couldn’t deny, even if it stung.

“I know.” His response was quieter than he’d intended, almost meek, as if the weight of his own inadequacies pressed down on him harder than the lack of food. He swallowed thickly, as if he could force the lump in his throat down, but it remained. “I just thought I could help. There are so many who live outside the grace of Praxus.”

Grunhilda’s gaze softened for a moment, the warrior’s edge in her eyes dimming just enough to show the woman beneath. She exhaled, heavy with the understanding of his struggle. “I know, and it’s a damn shame,” she said, her voice low but not unkind. “But there are other important jobs. We need farmers to feed our soldiers. We need blacksmiths to make our arms and armor. We need bakers so we have fresh bread. There are many important jobs.”

Caelum’s shoulders sagged under the weight of her words, his heart heavy with the knowledge that no matter how much he wanted to be out there with them, fighting for the cause, his role was not that of a warrior. Not yet. Maybe not ever. The thought crushed him, but he knew there was truth in her words.

“And they would be better suited to me.” His voice cracked, though he tried to make it sound firm.

Grunhilda’s nod was slow, deliberate. Her eyes met his with the understanding only one who had walked the path of warriors could have. “You’ve got a good heart, Caelum. You want to do good. That’s worth more than any sword.”

Caelum’s fingers clenched around the edge of his bowl, the thin wood creaking under his grip. It wasn’t the words themselves that stung, but the reality they brought with them. He wasn’t like the others. Not a warrior, not a fighter. Just a man caught between the ideals he held and the limitations of his own body and mind.

“I just… I want to matter,” he muttered, his eyes still fixed on the mess in his bowl. It wasn’t hunger driving him now, but something deeper. A gnawing emptiness he couldn’t shake. “I want to be something more than… than just this.”

Grunhilda studied him for a long moment, her gaze sharp, but there was no judgment in it, only quiet understanding. She leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, the faintest twitch at the corner of her lips betraying some hidden thought.

“You matter,” she said at last, her voice steady and firm. “Not because of how many men you can cut down, or how well you can swing a blade. You matter because you care. That’s a rare thing, Caelum. So many would trade it for a few more years of battle or bloodshed, and they’d be none the better for it.”

He let her words hang in the air, the weight of them pressing on him like an unseen hand. His mind swirled, tangled between what he thought he should be and what he truly was. The struggle felt endless, like a storm that refused to subside.

“What can I even do at this point? I can’t desert, it would be dishonourable,” Caelum muttered, his voice strained and thick with the weight of his frustration. He clenched his fists in his lap, the pressure in his chest growing tighter by the second.

Grunhilda, seated across from him, didn’t immediately respond. Instead, she stared ahead, her expression unreadable as the flickering light from the campfire danced across her face. Her gaze was distant, lost in thought. The silence stretched, heavy and thick, before she finally exhaled and nodded to herself, as if making a decision. She rose from her seat with the grace of someone used to taking command in the darkness.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, her voice low but firm, the finality of her words leaving little room for argument.

Caelum just nodded, his heart still racing with a jumble of emotions he couldn’t quite place. “Yeah. See you tomorrow,” he murmured, the words hollow in the space between them. He watched as she turned and made her way to the edge of the camp, her silhouette swallowed by the night.

The fire crackled behind him, but he could hardly hear it over the noise in his mind. What could he do? His choices felt so limited, so small. He could fight, yes, but not the way the others did. He could try to find a purpose beyond what he was already doing, but nothing seemed to fit, nothing felt right. He couldn’t desert. No, that was something he couldn’t bring himself to do. The shame of it would be unbearable.

With a heavy sigh, Caelum stood and made his way to his assigned tent, the world around him blurring as exhaustion weighed on him like a heavy cloak. Inside the small canvas shelter, the cot was modest but functional. He didn’t bother undressing, didn’t even think about the discomfort of the rough fabric beneath him. He simply fell onto the bed, the weariness in his bones dragging him into the sweet embrace of sleep almost immediately

He couldn’t breathe.

The sudden pressure on his nose jerked him awake, his eyes snapping open as panic surged through him. His lungs screamed for air, but the fingers pinching his nose held firm, denying him the simple relief of a breath. He flailed for a moment, the panic clouding his mind, before the pressure disappeared in an instant. A breath—sweet, desperate, and aching—rushed into his lungs, filling the empty space in his chest. His body jerked with the suddenness of it, like a drowning man finally emerging from the water.

But as he drew in that first breath, his mind began to clear, and he realized that there was still a hand—warm, firm—pressed over his mouth, keeping him silent.

He squinted into the darkness, his vision still adjusting. The low light was barely enough to see by, but the shape of the hand was clear. He recognized it immediately. Grunhilda. Her grip was firm, purposeful, but there was no malice in it. She simply watched him, her expression unreadable in the dimness. A single finger rested against her lips, signaling him to remain quiet.

For a long moment, neither of them moved, their eyes locked in the dark. Caelum’s heart raced in his chest, but the silent command in her posture made him still, made him wait. She slowly lifted her hand from his mouth, her eyes never leaving his as she made a subtle motion with her fingers—a quiet command to follow.

Caelum blinked, still groggy, his mind still swimming in a haze of sleep and confusion. But something in her stance, the way she held herself, made him recognize the urgency. Whatever was happening, whatever she was about to do, he had to stay with her.

With an unsteady breath, he slowly pushed himself upright, his limbs heavy and uncoordinated from sleep. His head spun for a moment as he struggled to shake the fog from his mind, but Grunhilda was already moving. She was a shadow in the night, her movements fluid, precise, and quiet. There was no hesitation in her step, no sign of doubt. She was leading him, and he knew, without question, that he had to follow.

Caelum stumbled slightly as he got to his feet, still disoriented, but he managed to keep pace with her as she navigated the darkened camp. His senses were slowly coming to life, the crisp night air biting at his skin, the sounds of the wind rustling through the trees. But despite the stillness of the world around him, there was a tension in the air—something he couldn’t place, but something that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

He followed Grunhilda in silence, his footsteps muffled in the dirt. His mind raced, questions spinning like a whirlpool, but he knew better than to ask. She wasn’t one for explanations until it was necessary. For now, all he could do was stay close and trust her—trust that wherever she was leading him, it was important.

It felt like the passage of bells, though it could have been only moments, before Grunhilda finally stopped. Her hand shot up, palm open, the sharp gesture cutting through the quiet night. Caelum’s feet froze mid-step, his heart pounding in his chest as the tension of the moment gripped him. He could feel the slight tremor in his hands as he tried to steady his breathing. The air felt thicker now, colder too, as if the world itself had quieted in anticipation.

He was still half-dazed from sleep, but his instincts, honed over years of training, told him to listen—to feel the world around him. He barely dared to exhale, his senses straining to pick up any sounds in the surrounding darkness. The camp, just a little ways behind them, was still faintly audible, but the noise of the soldiers seemed far away now. The faint crackling of the fires, the idle chatter of the men, the stomping of boots on dirt—it all blurred into the background as his focus zeroed in on the silence ahead. The stillness that had descended upon them was all-consuming.

Grunhilda’s eyes flicked toward him for just a moment, her expression unreadable in the gloom, before she motioned forward again, her fingers curving downward. Without a word, they moved, slipping through the shadows of the camp’s outskirts. They avoided the patrols with practiced ease, ducking behind trees and low bushes whenever the faint glow of torchlight passed by, the guards oblivious to their presence as they lazily made their rounds.

The sounds of the camp seemed to fade away entirely as they drew further into the trees. The dense forest swallowed them whole, the air cooler here, tinged with the scent of pine and earth. Still, neither of them spoke. Caelum couldn’t help but wonder what had prompted Grunhilda to act this way—what had led her to this decision. He thought of the soldier’s code, of duty and honor, and the knowledge that desertion was something far worse than any punishment. It was the end of one’s career, the end of respect, the end of everything they had worked for.

Yet here they were, walking deeper into the forest, as though nothing mattered.

Are we deserting? Caelum wondered, his heart sinking with the weight of the question. It felt like betrayal, like they were abandoning their post, leaving everything they had sworn to protect behind. His mind screamed for him to stop, to question it, but his legs kept moving, driven by some unseen force that he couldn’t fight.

Grunhilda led the way, steady and sure, her movements silent, like a ghost. The longer they walked, the more Caelum’s doubts began to gnaw at him. He was a soldier. He had sworn an oath. This wasn’t right. But still, he never stopped moving.

After what felt like a bell or two, maybe more, the dark trees parted slightly, and they came to a small clearing. The first light of dawn was beginning to creep up from the horizon, a faint grey glow that pushed the shadows back just enough to make out the shapes of the world around them. Caelum blinked in the dim light, his legs aching, his mind still struggling to catch up with everything that had happened.

Grunhilda moved with a deliberate purpose, crouching near a hollow, fallen log, and reaching inside. She retrieved a backpack, then a second one. Without a word, she handed one to him. His fingers brushed hers briefly, and he took it gingerly, as if the weight of it was suddenly too much for him to bear.

She threw the other pack over her shoulder with ease, adjusting it with the confidence of someone used to carrying more than their fair share of burdens. Caelum followed suit, hesitating for only a moment before securing the strap around his chest, the pack now resting on his back. They continued without a word.

The forest seemed to stretch on for miles, endless and unforgiving. Every step Caelum took felt heavier than the last, his body protesting the constant motion, the lack of rest. His muscles burned, and the weight of the pack felt like a growing burden on his shoulders.

Why am I still following her? he thought. There was a gnawing doubt in the pit of his stomach, a quiet voice telling him this was wrong—telling him he shouldn’t be here. He had always prided himself on his discipline, his sense of duty. Abandoning their post was something he could never have imagined. Yet, here he was, walking through the forest as the day slowly began to break.

This is wrong. We can’t just leave. We can’t just—

But his body kept moving. His feet kept finding the next step, the next breath. He couldn’t stop now. The world around him was too large, too uncertain, and something in him told him he had no choice but to keep going.

Even when night turned into day, the sky lightening from black to grey, Caelum didn’t stop. The morning light filtered through the trees, casting pale rays on the forest floor, but the tension in his chest didn’t ease. He had to force himself to summon an augment—one he had used countless times before—just to keep his legs from buckling beneath him. His body felt exhausted, drained, and the strain was starting to show.

But there was still no word between them. No reassurance, no explanation. Just silence.

Caelum didn’t speak, couldn’t speak. His mind was too occupied with the storm of thoughts swirling inside him, with the guilt, the fear, and the endless questions. What had brought them here? What had made Grunhilda do this? What would happen when they were far enough to truly leave the camp behind?

Dusk painted the skies with streaks of orange and purple, the fading light casting long shadows across the forest floor. The air had turned cold, biting at their exposed skin, but it didn’t seem to faze Grunhilda. She was moving with purpose, her boots crunching softly on the frost-kissed earth as they both came to a stop, the weight of the journey starting to settle heavily on Caelum's shoulders. Sweat clung to his skin, his muscles aching from the long hours of walking, but there was a strange relief in the moment, as if the world was holding its breath with him.

“We make camp now,” Grunhilda said simply, her voice a low murmur against the quiet of the forest. There was no warmth in her tone, but it wasn’t cold either. It was just matter-of-fact, as though it had been decided long before they reached this point.

Caelum nodded, his mind still a whirl of confusion and guilt. He didn’t speak—couldn’t bring himself to, not yet. He bent down to place his pack on the snow-dusted ground, the soft sound of it hitting the earth a small anchor in the sea of uncertainty around him. His fingers trembled slightly as he unlatched the straps, fumbling for a moment before pulling out the tent he had been carrying. It was a small one, not much larger than what he’d used during the long marches, but it would suffice for the night.

The snow here was light, just a scattering of frost across the ground, more a reminder of the season than a true hindrance. Caelum exhaled sharply as he began to unfurl the tent, the familiar task grounding him in a strange way. The cold seemed to sink deeper into his bones, but he focused on the process—on the rhythm of setting up camp, on the small, practical steps that felt more familiar than the wild, unpredictable path that had led them here.

The older woman, meanwhile, was already moving off into the surrounding woods. Her steps were purposeful, steady, and without hesitation. She didn’t even look back at him as she disappeared into the shadows, her silhouette swallowed up by the gathering night. Caelum didn’t know how much firewood they would need or how long they would be out here, but it seemed to matter little to Grunhilda. She knew what she was doing. She always did.

As he worked, Caelum couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that had settled in his chest. The tent poles went into the ground with practiced ease, but his mind kept wandering back to the same question: Why had they left? Why had he followed her?

His fingers fumbled again as he tried to secure the tent’s flaps, the cold creeping into his fingertips, but he didn’t stop. There was too much on his mind, too much he didn’t understand. His eyes darted briefly in the direction where Grunhilda had gone, but the forest seemed to hold her, her movements hidden in the dark. He could feel the weight of their desertion, like a stone lodged in his gut.

The firewood, when Grunhilda returned, was more than enough. She didn’t speak as she dropped the heavy logs near the camp, her expression unreadable. She wasn’t asking for anything. She wasn’t waiting for any response. The fire would need to be made, and Caelum was the one who would do it.

With a sigh, he knelt by the wood, his hands stiff and cold as he worked to arrange it into a small, manageable pile. A spark from his flint struck the dry bark, and soon enough, a small fire began to flicker to life. The warmth spread out in soft waves, but it did little to ease the turmoil inside him.

He glanced up briefly, catching Grunhilda’s eyes across the fire. She was still standing, her arms crossed over her chest, watching him without saying a word. Her silence was more oppressive than any command, and Caelum couldn’t bring himself to ask the questions that had been burning in his mind.

As the fire crackled and sputtered, casting dancing shadows on the snow-covered earth, Caelum finally spoke, his voice quieter than he had intended.

“Why did we leave?” The words felt strange coming from his mouth, as though they didn’t belong to him.

Grunhilda didn’t immediately respond, her gaze unwavering as she studied the fire. The wind stirred the trees around them, carrying with it the scent of earth and pine, but in the moment, Caelum could only focus on her stillness, the tension between them hanging like a storm in the air.

Finally, Grunhilda spoke, her voice carrying a weight Caelum hadn’t heard from her before. It was low, measured, and cold, as if the words had been waiting to escape for longer than either of them knew.

“Because this war is unjust.”

The words hit Caelum like a slap to the face. His breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, he was sure he hadn’t heard her right. He looked at her in stunned silence, his heart pounding in his chest. His mind was reeling, his every instinct screaming against what she had said. This couldn’t be true. It couldn’t be.

“It is the will of Praxus! It must be just,” he insisted, his voice desperate, though it cracked in his throat. He was trying to hold on to something, anything that would tether him to the reality he had always believed in. His entire world had been built on the idea that war had a purpose, that it was driven by something higher—something divine.

But Grunhilda’s eyes hardened, and she shook her head slowly, her expression grave.

“Lies,” she said, the word cutting through the air like a blade. “You saw how easily even a champion of Praxus lied to us. This isn’t the first time either. I’ve fought alongside him before.”

Caelum’s breath faltered. She was right. He saw how Darius regarded their opponents. He tried to process the thought, tried to wrap his mind around the idea that everything he had known—the very foundation of his belief in the war, in the righteousness of his cause—could be a lie. But Grunhilda’s words weren’t just theoretical; they were laced with a bitter, lived truth that Caelum.

It can’t be true.

Caelum’s voice faltered as he spoke the words, a tremble in his chest betraying his confusion. “It—it can’t be true.”

Grunhilda’s eyes softened for a moment, but the coldness in her words remained. She didn’t soften her stance. She didn’t sugarcoat the truth for him.

“They weren’t bandits. They weren’t marauders,” she continued, her voice steady but laced with barely contained rage. “They had cities. They had exomancers capable of leveling armies. They had civilization, Caelum. The Sovereignty looks down on non-humans for being lesser than the favored species of Praxus. Is that just?”

Caelum’s mind was a whirlwind of disjointed thoughts, his heart pounding in his chest as his knees buckled beneath him. The weight of her words, so casually spoken, struck him like a thunderclap. He couldn’t breathe. The very foundation of everything he’d believed in—the ideals he’d fought for—was slipping through his fingers like sand.

Before he knew it, tears had begun to streak down his face, hot and fast, betraying the inner chaos he couldn’t contain. He hadn’t even realized he’d started crying until the salty taste of his own tears hit his lips, a bitter reminder that the world he thought he knew had just crumbled.

Grunhilda, ever the stoic warrior, didn’t seem surprised. She only sighed, a sound that seemed heavy with years of unshed burdens, before she crouched down beside him. In one smooth motion, she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into a strong embrace. It wasn’t comforting in the way he had hoped—there was no gentle rocking, no soft reassurances—but it was solid, steadfast. She held him as if her strength could be shared, if only for a moment.

The warmth of her presence was the only thing grounding him, the only thing that made him feel like there was still some semblance of reality left. She held him for what felt like ages, the minutes stretching on as he let the rawness of his emotions spill out, the tears flowing freely as the dam of his conviction cracked.

It wasn’t the way he’d expected to be comforted, but it was the only way Grunhilda knew how to offer solace. And in that moment, that was all Caelum needed.

Eventually, she pulled back, her grip loosening as she gave him a look that wasn’t harsh but steady, filled with a quiet strength. “Get that fire going,” she said, her voice a low rumble in the night. “I’m going to secure the area.”

Caelum nodded numbly, his chest still tight, his mind still struggling to process everything she had just revealed. He wasn’t sure he understood it all—he wasn’t sure he would ever understand—but he could feel the shift within himself. The fire wasn’t just for warmth. It was for something else. Something he wasn’t ready to face just yet, but knew would be inevitable.

As Grunhilda turned away, disappearing into the shadows once more, Caelum slowly gathered himself. His hands shook as he went to tend to the fire, but he didn’t stop. One task, one movement at a time. That was all he could do.