Chapter 129: Moment to Breathe Part 2

Words : 1017 Updated : Oct 8th, 2025

As the afternoon sun tilted westward, long shadows crept across the clearing. The laughter didn’t stop, but it mellowed—like the warmth of the day had begun to sink into everyone’s bones. There was a calm, rare and precious, that settled over the group like a warm blanket. Inigo walked the edge of the field, taking quiet stock. The air smelled of moss, cider, and smoke. Not gunpowder. Not sweat or oil. Just clean, living earth. He stopped near the tree where Meryl sat cross-legged, sketching with surprising focus. Her charcoal lines traced the curve of the treeline, with faint outlines of JLTVs behind the picnic setup. "You draw?" he asked. Meryl looked up, startled, then nodded. "My older brother taught me. Before he left." "Soldier?" "Hunter," she said. "Didn’t come back from the Wyrmwoods." Inigo said nothing for a moment. "You’ve got an eye. Keep sketching. Even if war comes—it’s good to remember what peace looks like." She blinked at that. "Yes, Instructor." But her hand trembled just slightly as she went back to drawing. Not far off, Hal and Feron had built a small throwing range using stacked logs. They were competing to see who could toss small river stones closest to a wooden cup without knocking it over. Lio cheered each near miss like it was a festival game. Brenna sat at the base of a thick oak with Lyra beside her. The two passed a flask back and forth—nothing strong, just cooled herbal tea—but the moment still felt sacred. "I’m starting to forget what life was before all this," Brenna murmured. "You’ll remember," Lyra said. "The trick is not letting this—" she gestured toward the JLTVs, the rifles, the drills "—become the only thing that defines you." "Easy for you to say. You still smile." Lyra chuckled softly. "I don’t smile because it’s easy. I smile so I don’t break." That silenced Brenna for a moment. She looked up at the sky, cloudless and blue, and said, "Do you think we’ll survive what’s coming?" "I think you’re tougher than you realize," Lyra said. "All of you." Inigo watched from a distance. Not with suspicion, or judgment—but with a quiet sort of pride. They were still rough. Still green. But no longer strangers. Something had begun to knit between them—a shared rhythm, a quiet trust. It wasn’t the same as battle-hardened experience, but it was a foundation. And that was enough. He turned and walked to the supply tent. Inside, tucked beneath crates of training paint rounds and cleaning kits, he retrieved something he’d been saving. A small wooden chest, carved with simple flower motifs along the lid. He opened it and pulled out a cloth-wrapped bundle. Inside: a hand-carved board, flat stones in two shades, and a set of hand-written rule sheets. Go. The strategy game had been a gift from an old friend—now long dead. But the game itself? It still taught discipline. Foresight. Risk. Patience. He carried it back to the fire and placed it between Sark and Lio, who were trying to out-brag each other about yesterday’s marksmanship scores. "What’s this?" Sark asked, raising an eyebrow. "A challenge," Inigo said. "You win? You pick tomorrow’s meal. You lose? You’re on firewood duty." Lio rubbed his hands. "Easy. I’m good at games." "No," Inigo said flatly. "You’re good at talking. Let’s see if your brain keeps up." He set down the board. The first round began with careful moves, hesitant hands, and too many mistakes. But before long, the game quieted them—forced them to think, to watch, to plan. Brenna and Meryl soon joined to watch. So did Feron, chewing on a sprig of mint. Lyra, meanwhile, had lit a second fire—this one just for warmth. She pulled a small lute from her pack. No one had seen her bring it before. Her fingers plucked a slow, wandering melody—nothing grand, just a tune of home. It was enough to make the clearing feel like another world entirely. As dusk settled in, someone—no one remembered who—started humming. Then Hal, voice uncertain, joined in with a half-forgotten camp song. The rest followed, not in harmony, but not far off. "Down by the river, where the fireflies fade, We laid our dreams on silver blades..." Even Inigo didn’t stop them. Even Inigo, for once, just listened. Night deepened. Stars blinked to life, scattering across the sky like powdered glass. The moon had not yet risen, and the world was dark but calm. They told stories. Not of battle, but of childhood. Of the time Sark fell off a hay cart trying to impress a girl. Of Brenna’s prank war with her older brother. Of Meryl’s failed attempt to bake bread that ended in a flour explosion. Laughter rippled through the firelight again and again. "Do you miss your world?" Lyra asked Inigo quietly when the others had gone quiet. He looked up at the stars. "It’s not about missing," he said. "It’s about remembering why I came here in the first place. Why I stayed." "And why did you?" He turned to look at her. "Because I had the chance to change something." Lyra didn’t press. Just nodded, and plucked a quiet note from her lute. By the time the fire had burned low, most had dozed off beneath blankets or leaned against logs, half-asleep. Only Inigo, Lyra, and Meryl still sat upright. Meryl passed the sketchbook to Inigo. On the final page, she had drawn the clearing—not in perfect detail, but enough to see each of them: laughing, eating, sleeping. The JLTVs stood in the background like ancient beasts. "This is what I want to remember," she whispered. He nodded. "We’ll make sure you can." And when they all awoke the next morning to the sharp bark of, "Gear up," they didn’t groan. They didn’t complain. Because something had changed. The bruises, the sweat, the drills—they weren’t just training anymore. They were becoming a family. And though none of them would say it aloud, they all knew deep down: this was the last peaceful night they might have for a long, long time.

Chapter 129: Moment to Breathe Part 2

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