Chapter Text
James had always thought of himself as a normal child from a normal family.
He spent most of his days playing with other children his age, or helping his mother with small chores around the house. Yet every evening, without fail, he waited by the window for his father to return home, partly because he missed him, and partly because he longed to hear the stories his father brought back from work.
James’s father was a soldier, a lieutenant in the Atlesian Army, though the rank itself meant little to the boy. What mattered to him was simpler: his father saved lives, and carried home stacks of strange papers called “documents,” which he studied even at the dinner table.
James would sit patiently, watching and waiting for the moment those papers were finally set aside. Only then would his father lean back, smile tiredly, and begin telling stories before sending him off to bed.
There were nights when his father did not return at all, and his mother would gently explain that duty had kept him away. On the nights he did come home, many of the stories were ones James had already heard, repeated word for word. His father believed the boy had long forgotten them.
He hadn’t.
But James never said so. Even hearing the same story again filled him with the same excitement, so he simply listened, wide-eyed, every single time.
---
It was an ordinary Sunday morning — until it wasn’t.
James awoke to the sound of his father’s voice echoing through the house, sharp and furious. The man was speaking into his Scroll, pacing back and forth.
The sound frightened James.
His father almost never raised his voice. Even when he scolded James, he always did so calmly, firmly, and with quiet patience. Until that moment, the boy had half believed his father was incapable of anger.
Today proved otherwise.
---
“Unbelievable. Simply unbelievable.”
His father’s voice trembled with restrained fury.
Every recommendation he had made — every single one — had been rejected. He had spent the entire night in a military briefing, arguing over the structure of an upcoming operation. All but one of his superiors had dismissed his concerns outright.
“Unnecessary complexity,” they had said.
“It would delay the operation.”
“It has already been considered.”
Empty excuses, in his mind.
He had spent days and sleepless nights preparing those proposals. He had barely seen his family. And now, in the end, it had all been for nothing.
Only when he noticed the silence on the other end of the line did he realize he had been venting his anger at a subordinate.
“…I apologize, Sergeant,” he said at last, forcing calm back into his voice. “I lost my composure. I hope I didn’t offend you.”
“No offense taken, sir,” the younger soldier replied quickly. “These operation talks have clearly taken a toll on you.”
“…Is it that obvious?”
“Sir… it might be wiser to step back. It’s not good to stand alone against high command. No matter how dangerous the mission is, we can take care of ourselves. You don’t need to carry it all.”
“I will not lead my men into near-certain death,” his father snapped again, voice rising despite himself. “Especially for an operation with no real purpose.”
“Sir, you can’t lead us in this state,” the soldier insisted gently. “Please take care of yourself. Arguing with those old generals won’t change anything. Sit down, breathe, and let’s get through this.”
The words struck home.
He father slowly straightened, drew a steady breath, and regained the rigid composure of a professional officer.
After a moment, he tapped on his Scroll again, voice now calm and commanding.
“Gather the squad in Training Hall Seven tomorrow at 0900. We begin drills immediately and continue until deployment.”
“Yes, sir. Understood.”
The call ended.
His father reached for his coffee, now long cold, and took a weary sip.
Only then did he notice a small figure peeking from the bedroom doorway.
James.
Their eyes met.
His father’s shoulders sank slightly.
…This would be hard to explain.