[Volume 2 | Chapter 64: The Iron General (IV)]

To call the Scryer household an austere affair would be an understatement. The decor was minimal, practical, and efficient, as if the Iron General's personal philosophy had seeped into the very architecture of the house.

No photographs adorned the walls, no personal touches softened the corners. Military accuracy manifested in the geometric arrangement of furniture, the perfect right angles of picture frames displaying commendations and medals rather than family moments. It was a home designed for efficiency rather than comfort. Its occupants were merely stationed there rather than living in it.

The dining room continued this theme. It was a simple wooden table with four chairs, though only three would be occupied tonight. The fourth seemed preserved, untouched, like a shrine to the concept of absence.

Acacia watched as Elias moved through familiar motions in the kitchen, pulling cans from a pantry and operating a simple cooking plate. There were no fresh ingredients nor home-cooked aromas, just the metallic tang of preserved food being transferred from industrial containers to civilian plates.

For someone who loved cooking as much as Acacia, this was really painful to see. This was no less than an abhorrent sin.

"You don't cook?" Acacia couldn't help but ask; it was a question that left his mouth before he could consider its implications.

Elias glanced up at Acacia like a puppy caught eating its owner's food. "I'm... not very good at it. Not like—" He cut himself off, focusing intently on the task at hand.

Rudyard, seated at the head of the table with perfect posture despite the informal setting, regarded his son with something between disappointment and resignation.

"My son has many talents. Culinary arts are not among them."

Acacia's eyes drifted to the fourth chair.

"Does your mother cook?" he prodded, then immediately regretted the question as Elias fumbled a can, nearly dropping it.

"M-my mother..."

"My wife was an exceptional chef," Rudyard interrupted. His tone softened imperceptibly. "She believed that nourishment was a form of care. Unfortunately, it is a perspective I came to appreciate more in her absence."

Frankly, Acacia never expected Rudyard to have a soft spot for anyone, even his own wife. But, then again, what did he know?

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"No apology necessary. Clarissa has been in what the doctors call a 'persistent vegetative state' for two years now. A coma, in layman's terms."

The clinical description couldn't mask the undercurrent of misery beneath the words. Even Rudyard Scryer, it seemed, had limits to his stoicism.

"She fell ill suddenly," the Iron General continued, gaze fixed on some middle distance. "One moment, discussing her environmental research findings at the dinner table; the next, collapsing without warning. The doctors have no explanation nor prognosis. They are merely polite terms for a woman who sleeps like the fairy tale princess, unaging and unreachable."

Elias stood frozen by the counter.

"She remains at Windsor Medical Center. Room 307. Elias visits her regularly, though I find the practice somewhat futile."

Room 307.

It was the room Elias had visited in the hospital, to which the Irregular had eavesdropped on. Elias had never lied about his mother's condition; he'd simply never mentioned it. A secret kept not through deception but through omission, the way one might guard a wound too painful to acknowledge.

"The human mind requires hope, even in its most irrational forms. Elias maintains his, despite all evidence suggesting its futility."

"...It's not futile...."

Acacia turned to hear Elias's small voice.

Rudyard didn't either bother to look at his son.

"....The doctors say she might still hear us. Maybe familiar voices could help."

"The doctors say many things, none of which have brought her back in two years."

The argument was a familiar one. One that always ended in a bruise or two for the youngest Scryer, it seemed. The only thing that avoided this conclusion was the existence of Acacia in the Scryer household. So, Elias swallowed his words, turned back to the cooking, and put on his fakest smile ever.

"Shall we eat?" Elias suggested, breaking the moment as he set down three plates of what appeared to be some form of military rations. Beans, meat of indeterminate origin, and corn, all swimming in identical brownish sauce.

Mom didn't raise a quitter... Acacia prayed to himself.

The food itself was... well, it was edible in the loosest definition of the word. He didn't want to offend Elias or his father, but it was a challenge to swallow each bite.

They ate in silence for several minutes, the only sound the occasional clink of utensils against plates. Acacia forced himself to take measured bites despite his lack of appetite, recognizing that refusing the meal would be perceived as rejection of already-strained hospitality.

"I could... teach you how to cook, Elias," he offered between bites, hoping to break the tension.

Elias looked up from his food, surprise and trepidation warring in his expression.

"Really? I'd love that!"

"It's not that hard, not even for beginners."

Rudyard, for his part, remained silent but attentive.

"I've... never been very good at it. I've always relied on—" Elias stopped himself, glancing at the fourth, empty chair.

Acacia understood. Cooking was, for many, a communal act. It was the shared language of families, friends, and lovers. An empty kitchen could be a lonely place, especially when once filled with life and noise. He knew this all too well. He missed his mother's cooking so much, and he knew that no matter what he did, his cooking could never fully replicate hers.

Moreso because the Tachyon Empire lacked like 95% of the ingredients used in the region of the Sugoroku Empire he was raised in.

"Did your mother cook, Mr. Belmont?" Rudyard interjected, his tone surprisingly gentle.

Acacia paused, spoon hovering over his plate.

"Yeah. She made everything from scratch. Said food from packages lacked soul."

He could almost taste her noodles, feel the texture of freshly steamed buns between his fingers.

Real memories, transplanted into the fiction of Acacia Belmont, the Wallachian refugee.

"A woman of tradition," Rudyard observed. "It is hard to find one like that nowadays. Too many women are concerned about power and position. A good, honest home is the backbone of a healthy empire, and yet they all seem to forsake that duty. The Tachyon Empire will fall when women lose their way."

Acacia had no idea if Rudyard was being unironically sexist or not. He didn't care, honestly. He just wanted to avoid making the Iron General any more hostile towards him.

So, he decided to switch subjects.

"I heard Elias is attending Vanguard University this fall."

"Indeed. To be honest, I was surprised when his acceptance letter arrived, given the academic standards required for admission," Rudyard commented, eyes lingering on Elias for a moment.

Acacia noted that he didn't express pride in his son's achievement. Not a single "congrats" or "I'm proud of you" came out of his mouth. The closest he got to praise was a mere "surprise."

"Nevertheless, this opportunity will provide him with invaluable networking opportunities among the Empire's most promising young minds. It is imperative that Elias leverages these connections to advance his future prospects, especially if he wishes to secure a top position in the Imperial Legion. Perhaps, even one day, surpassing my position as either a Knight or Legion General. That is the standard I hold him to. Nothing less."

A heavy silence descended upon the table. Elias stared at his plate, the weight of his father's expectations pressing down on him like an invisible hand.

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"Vanguard University is a great achievement," Acacia said, trying to lighten the mood. "Two students, Leila and him, both from Windsor, when most years it's just a handful of students from the entirety of the Orion Province. That's incredible. Even moreso that, Vanguard only accepts the best, regardless of background."

"In theory," Rudyard agreed. "Though theories often bend to accommodate political realities. The Empire has become increasingly... progressive in its admissions policies."

Elias stiffened, knuckles whitening around his fork.

"Father—"

"I merely observe, Elias, not condemn. The meritocratic ideal serves the Empire well when properly implemented. However, when diluted by populist sentiments and misguided notions of fairness, it can undermine the very strength we seek to cultivate. Talent must be tempered by discipline and tradition. Else, we risk breeding weakness rather than excellence. Your achievements, talent, and practical aptitude in Thaumaturgy are undeniable; I have molded you for that. I merely question whether every student admitted alongside you met the same rigorous criteria, or if political expediency played an undue role in their selection."

The Iron General's words hung in the air, sharp and pointed. Acacia shifted uncomfortably in his seat, feeling the tension between father and son as though it were an extra layer of gravity on the table.

"I think," Acacia said carefully, "that merit takes many forms, not all of which can be measured by standardized evaluations. Many times, exceptional circumstances reveal capabilities that might otherwise remain hidden."

Rudyard arched an eyebrow. "An interesting perspective for an outsider. What insight can you possibly claim into the intricacies of our Empire's merit-based systems?"

"I can't claim any, but neither can I close myself off to possibilities beyond my immediate understanding."

The Iron General's lips thinned into a tight line.

"Spoken like a diplomat's child. Plausible deniability and non-committal platitudes."

That's the second time I've gotten compared to a diplomat here…

"Regardless, it's an interesting perspective. One might argue that certain situations, perhaps in crisis, reveals character more accurately than controlled conditions."

"War certainly does," Acacia countered, sensing an opening. "I imagine you've seen that firsthand."

Rudyard's posture shifted slightly.

"Indeed. The battlefield strips away pretense more efficiently than any assessment tool ever devised. Men who present impeccably in peacetime often crumble under real pressure, while those deemed unremarkable may end up demonstrating extraordinary courage."

The gambit worked.

"Like Zachary did?"

Elias's fork clattered against his plate.

Rudyard went perfectly still.

When he finally spoke, his voice carried a dangerous edge, like a blade worn thin from overuse.

"Where did you hear that name?"

Crap.

Acacia realized his error immediately. In attempting to redirect the conversation again, he'd stumbled into territory even more volatile than he'd anticipated...!

"I—Windsor Preparatory Academy has a memorial! For students and alumni who fell during the war! Elias mentioned his brother had attended the school."

The Iron General's gaze flickered to his son, whose face had paled considerably.

"Is that so, Elias?"

"I-I—yes, sir. I thought Acacia should understand the sacrifices made to ensure his safety in our Empire. It helps us remember the true cost of war."

Nice cover!

"Understandable," Rudyard conceded, though he still looked suspiciously. "Yes, my firstborn demonstrated exceptional courage. He sacrificed himself to save his unit during the Northern Campaign. His arm was all they recovered."

Just like how he spoke of his wife, he couldn't remove the underlying emotion within his voice. He tried to hide it, he tried to bury it, but it was there.

This was the true source of the fracture between father and son—the impossible standard it had created for Elias to live up to.

"I'm sorry," Acacia offered, knowing the inadequacy of the words even as he spoke them.

Rudyard continued as if the Irregular had not even uttered a word.

"Zachary understood duty. He recognized that individual sacrifice serves a greater purpose, and that the collective good will demand personal cost."

His gaze shifted to Elias, who seemed to physically shrink.

"A perspective that seems increasingly rare in younger generations."

The rebuke, thinly veiled as a philosophical observation, struck with the intent to maim. Elias's face flushed, a mixture of shame and smothered anger as he stared down at his plate.

"...Sometimes sacrifice is just a waste. Most of the time, it's just death without purpose, dressed up in noble language to make the survivors feel better."

Acacia's words came out more sharply than he'd intended. He felt his own anger rising, not just at Rudyard but at a world where children were asked to pay in blood for the ambitions of their elders.

He knew all too well that feeling, and the pain of the people left behind.

The temperature in the room dropped several degrees.

"Such a convenient, naive philosophy for those unwilling to make difficult choices, Mr. Belmont. If one refuses to accept the necessity of sacrifice—if one rejects the very premise that the individual may sometimes be required to yield for the greater good—then one cannot possibly hope to comprehend the true nature of leadership, nor the burdens born by those tasked with safeguarding an entire society."

I've already gone too far into this. I'm going all in now.

"The burden of leadership shouldn't be to sacrifice others; it's to find a way forward without sacrificing anyone! Leaders who can't imagine a world where everyone gets to go home are failures, not saviors!"

A terrible silence descended.

Elias stared at Acacia in horror and something approaching awe. Rudyard's expression had hardened into something truly formidable—the Iron General in full force, no longer the grieving father or suspicious interrogator.

"It must be a blessing to speak so idealistically on matters of which you have no experience. Perhaps if you find yourself in a situation where one man must die for ten thousand to live, you will understand the cost of such 'enlightened' leadership. Or perhaps you will doom them all in the name of moral purity."

"...I've known enough loss to recognize the difference between noble sacrifice and throwing lives away to feel important. No one has the right to decide that another's life is disposable, and glorifying the idea of self-sacrifice is one of the greatest evils in the world."

Rudyard set his fork down.

"I believe we've exhausted the possibilities of productive conversation for one evening," he said, rising from his seat fluidly. "Elias, ensure Mr. Belmont finds his way home safely. I have reports to review."

Without waiting for acknowledgment, the Iron General turned and left the dining room, his footsteps fading down the hallway toward what Acacia presumed was a home office.

For several heartbeats, neither remaining occupant spoke. Then Elias released a shaky breath, as if he'd been holding it for hours rather than minutes.

"You shouldn't have done that... no one talks to him that way," he whispered, though there was no real admonishment in his tone.

"Someone should." It was a simple reply.

Elias shook his head, still in shock.

"How did you know about Zachary? Really?"

Acacia weighed his options, then decided on a partial truth.

"I overheard you at the hospital. Talking to your mother in Room 307. You mentioned him then."

Understanding dawned on Elias's face, followed by a flush of embarrassment.

"You were there? When I..."

"Just for a moment," Acacia assured him. "I didn't mean to intrude."

Elias nodded slowly, processing the revelation.

"...Why didn't you tell me about your mother, or Zachary?"

Elias began, then faltered. He stared down at his half-eaten dinner, seemingly searching for words.

"They're wounds that never really heal. Just talking about them makes them fresh again."

He looked up, vulnerable and honest in his mint-green eyes.

"And I guess I wanted to be just Elias to you. Not the younger brother of the war hero. Not the son with the comatose mother. Just... me."

"I understand."

Acacia had said it instantly.

How often had he wished for the same thing?

To be seen as himself, not as an Irregular, not as a refugee, and not as any of the labels that society insisted on attaching to him?

"Thank you," Elias murmured.

"For what?"

"Just... thank you."

They finished their meal in silence, but it was a different quality of quiet than before.

Outside, the Windsor night had settled into full darkness as the suburban streets became illuminated by the soft glow of evenly spaced lamps. As they walked toward Pandora's residence, Acacia found himself scanning shadows out of habit, alert for any sign of threat. But the night remained peaceful, the dangers of recent days momentarily held at bay.

"He's not always like that."

Elias said suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence.

"My father, I mean. Before everything... before the war, before Zachary, before Mom got sick... he used to laugh sometimes. I remember it, but I don't think I'll ever hear it again."

Acacia said nothing to that.

"He used to take us fishing on his rare days off. He'd tell stories about his own father, about growing up in a military family. There was this gentle side to him that just... disappeared."

He paused, looking at the stars for guidance.

"Sometimes I wonder if that version of him is still in there somewhere, or if it died with Zachary."

"People change when they lose someone. Sometimes forever."

Acacia said, thinking of his own family. What had their loss done to him? What pieces of himself had been buried alongside his village? Was there a part of him that could never come back?

"Maybe," Elias conceded. "But I keep hoping that if I become the perfect son, the perfect knight, that maybe I can bring him back. Like if I fill the hole left by Zachary, there will finally be room for that other version of him to return."

As if he was trying to be a ghost of someone else…

The irony of the situation was that Acacia was also trying to be a ghost of someone else. A boy named Acacia Belmont who perished in flames, a boy whose identity he had stolen to survive. He was no different than Elias, even if he was an Irregular.

And so, he had no solution to give him. No advice that could change anything.

They would continue to suffer as they attempted to perform roles that ill fitted them.

The stars above remained silent as well.

When they reached the front gate of Pandora's residence, they stopped.

"Damn, I'm tired as hell!" Acacia yawned. "First Alaric, and now your dad. It's like I'm cursed to always get into fights with powerful people."

"I'm sorry about that, by the way," Elias said sheepishly.

"Don't be. I'm not."

Elias smiled, a hint of his usual charm returning.

"Well, goodnight then."

"Goodnight."

They exchanged a handshake, and then Elias began walking back home.

Acacia watched him disappear into the night, wondering if either of them would find the missing pieces of their families in the places they were looking.

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