Chapter 161 - 108 : Year 19 - 25 Victory ?

Chapter 161: Chapter 108 : Year 19 - 25 Victory ?

By the eighteenth year, Lucian and Lucy welcomed their second son into the world. His birth brought happiness to House Veymont, but the castle no longer carried the same atmosphere that had surrounded the arrival of their first child.

Back then, the household had been full of celebration, with family members gathered beneath one roof and servants sharing in the excitement. Now, many of the men were away at war, and those who remained had grown accustomed to waiting for news from the front. There were still smiles, congratulations, and prayers of gratitude, but the happiness was quieter, often interrupted by the arrival of a messenger or the sight of a familiar face missing from the household.

Some servants had already lost relatives to the fighting, while others knew families who were still waiting to hear whether their loved ones would return. Even in the castle’s busiest halls, there were moments when people seemed reluctant to let themselves be happy for too long. ℯℯ𝘭.𝘤ℴ𝘮

Lucian was away again when his second son was born. He would return whenever the campaign and his responsibilities allowed, but his visits were brief compared with the long stretches of time he spent with the army. Lucy therefore carried much of the burden at home, overseeing the household, reviewing accounts and correspondence, settling disputes brought before her, and ensuring that the estates continued to function while her husband and other senior members of the family were away.

She also had two young sons to raise, and she did her best to give them the warmth and attention they needed, even when her own days left little room for rest. Her responsibilities had grown considerably, yet the people around her continued to find the same thoughtfulness and steady kindness that had always defined her. Under her care, the household held together through the uncertainty, though the strain of the war could still be felt in the quieter moments.

The brothers grew up in that atmosphere, but their experiences were different. The elder boy, now four years old, had already learned to recognize the pattern of his father’s departures and returns. He knew Lucian loved him, and whenever his father came home, that affection was made clear in the time they spent together. Yet he was beginning to understand that his father could not always stay.

Sometimes he asked when Lucian would return, and when messengers rode through the gates, he would watch them with the hope that one might bring news of his father or announce his arrival. He was still young enough to believe that the next visit might come sooner than expected, but old enough to feel the disappointment when it did not.

His younger brother knew none of this. At that age, the world was made up of familiar faces, familiar voices, and the places where he felt most at ease. His mother was the constant presence in his life, and his elder brother was the familiar companion who was often nearby. Lucian, by contrast, was someone he saw only occasionally, a man whose face and voice carried a faint sense of familiarity but who never remained long enough to become part of the boy’s everyday world.

When his father returned, Lucian would gather him into his arms, speak to him affectionately, and try to make up for the time they had spent apart. The boy might accept the embrace or settle against his father’s chest, yet he would often return to his mother or brother once the moment passed. There was no understanding of duty or distance in that response. His father was simply less familiar to him than the people who were there every day.

As he grew, the younger boy also began to show a quiet, unusual sharpness for his age. He picked up familiar routines quickly and seemed content to spend long stretches playing on his own, arranging small toys or wooden pieces into neat rows and stacking them into structures that he would carefully rebuild whenever they fell. He could become so absorbed in these little arrangements that he barely noticed the activity around him.

The castle was not without warmth, and Lucy never failed to comfort him when he needed her, but she was often pulled away by the demands of the household. The boy gradually found his own comfort in quiet corners and familiar objects, where he could spend time without having to compete with the constant movement around him. It was a small habit at first, hardly something anyone would have thought worth remarking upon, but it became part of his nature as he grew.

By the nineteenth year, the war had already claimed enough lives to make its cost impossible to ignore. Enwitra and Varell had both lost seasoned commanders, respected martial artists, and soldiers whose names were known well beyond their own households.

Some of the fallen had been celebrated figures whose strength and experience had once seemed almost unshakable; others had been ordinary men whose deaths mattered most to the families waiting for them at home. At the same time, the fighting had given younger martial artists and previously unknown commanders opportunities to distinguish themselves, and some had begun earning reputations that would have taken years to build in peacetime. Yet every new name rising to prominence stood against the memory of those who had fallen. The war had consumed wealth, horses, supplies, and years of service from both kingdoms, and neither side had found a way to bring the conflict to a decisive end.

House Veymont continued to fulfil its obligations, while its soldiers fought alongside the wider forces of Enwitra, but the longer the campaign lasted, the more uncertain its eventual cost became.

Above the sealed chamber beneath Castle Veymont, children grew, families waited, and the war continued to shape the lives of those caught within its reach. Lucian was gaining the hard-earned judgment of a seasoned martial artist, learning through real battles what years of training alone could never have taught him. Lucy was carrying responsibilities that would once have been shared among several members of the family, while their sons were growing into two very different children under the same roof.

And beneath it all, Ethan remained submerged in the pool of blood, his body still occupied with the damage that had kept him sleeping since the eleventh year. The births, departures, and deaths above him passed without reaching his awareness. Eight years had changed the lives of the people living in the castle, but for Ethan, they had passed in an unbroken silence.

The war ended in the nineteenth year.

After years of fighting, neither Enwitra nor Varell possessed enough strength to continue the conflict without risking something far worse than the losses they had already suffered. The anger that had brought them to war had not disappeared. The assassinations that had provoked Enwitra’s outrage, the suspicion surrounding Varell’s involvement, and the deaths of nobles on both sides had left wounds too deep to be healed by a declaration of peace. Yet anger alone could not replenish an exhausted army, replace experienced commanders, or restore the wealth consumed by years of campaigning.

The war had begun with a desire for retribution. Varell’s involvement in the assassination of a border noble had provoked outrage among Enwitra’s nobility, particularly because the killing had taken place within territory where the victim should have been under the crown’s protection. What had initially been a matter of justice and retaliation had gradually become a struggle for security, prestige, and the prevention of future incursions. Neither kingdom could afford to appear weak, and neither could withdraw without finding a way to explain its sacrifices.

But the battlefield had its own judgment.

Enwitra had prevented Varell from achieving its original objective and had demonstrated that assassinations within its borders would not go unanswered. Varell, in turn, had resisted Enwitra’s attempts to carry the conflict deeper into its territory. Neither kingdom had secured the decisive victory its nobles had once imagined. Both had taken losses, both had spent heavily, and both had discovered that defeating an enemy was considerably easier to declare than to accomplish.

There were other kingdoms watching their borders.

A prolonged war had weakened the two rivals enough to make continued fighting dangerous for reasons beyond the battlefield. If either kingdom exhausted itself in an attempt to destroy the other, its remaining neighbors might see an opportunity to seize territory, interfere with trade, or settle old disputes of their own. The prospect of emerging victorious only to become vulnerable to a third power was enough to temper even the most stubborn demands for revenge.

Negotiations followed.

The final settlement did not erase the grievances that had begun the war, nor did it produce a friendship between the two kingdoms. It established a boundary neither side could readily cross without inviting another conflict, while allowing both crowns to claim that their principal objectives had been achieved. Enwitra could declare that it had defended its nobles and forced Va to abandon the prospect of further assassinations within its territory. varell could claim that it had prevented Enwitra from conquering or permanently occupying its lands.

In the royal proclamations, there were victories to celebrate. But among the soldiers who had survived the campaigns, there was mostly relief.

And among the noble houses that returned home, there were empty places that no proclamation could fill.