NOVEL NEXT 113. A Golden Badge
Noise entered Tucker's ears. It was sharp and filled with rage. The surviving captains were shouting over one another, demanding answers. A purpose. Directions for their next objective, yet in the grand marble chamber of the war room, not a single word escaped Reynold's lips. He simply stood there as the room fractured around him, helpless to change the outcome.
Tucker's eyes fell on the helmet that rested on the long, polished granite table. The cool steel grey with dark metallic accents belonged to the captain of the Twenty-Ninth. Its dome shape was smooth and rounded with vertical ridges running from the front to the back. Then, at the jaw and cheek area, were layers of plating that flared out slightly at the bottom. It was the last remaining symbol of the Twenty-Ninth platoon, and to see it smeared with dirt and grime made his heart ache.
He glanced at the other captains, who were furious with one another. They were fuming beyond belief, and Reynold was desperately trying to ease the conflict among them, but his voice barely had any weight. Tucker slowly exhaled. It was a waste of time. The arguments led nowhere. Even Brian and Max didn't bother with it as they stood to the side with their arms crossed and silently watched.
There was no point in them being here. Not if they didn't reach some sort of conclusion, and for the captain of the Twenty-Ninth's last memento to witness such a spectacle was a disgrace. Tucker reached into his damaged leather pouch, pushing the letter aside, and pulled out a small silk cloth. He began wiping the dirt away from the helmet's narrow eye slit and continued cleaning the helm with care. Around him, a few captains caught a glimpse of his actions.
One by one, the voices faded. The captains fell silent, their gazes drawn to the scattered helmets resting on the long stone table. Symbols of those who would never speak again. Some were friends; others, brothers. Out of the thirty-one captains, eleven were dead. Hundreds of the bastion's soldiers had been laid to rest—not by choice, but by fate. And now in the fortress's darkest hour, the best warriors the bastion had to offer were turning against each other.
"Is this what you want to show your fallen comrades?" Tucker asked, his voice cutting through the stillness. "A room filled with the Kingdom's finest soldiers, tearing each other apart?"
"We're arguing for good reason," one captain growled. He brushed his scruffy hazel beard and glared at Tucker with his grey eyes. "I'm sure you're also frustrated with the current situation after everything your platoon's been through."
Tucker didn't deny it. The captain of the Sixth Platoon was right.
He watched Erwin Harris run his fingers through his unkempt brown hair, pushing it back with a weary sigh. His broken helmet sat on the table, identical to the one from the Twenty-Ninth, symbolizing that both of them served under the same banner—the Ironheart Order.
"Now they want us to leave?" Erwin muttered in disbelief. "Just like that?"
"We don't have a choice," Reynold said coldly. "It's a royal decree."
"Then who's going to stay behind? Who's going to die so the rest of us can leave?" Erwin snapped, gritting his teeth. "I'm not going to let any more of my men die in this goddamn city."
Reynold said nothing. He reached into his coat, beneath where a golden badge rested, and pulled out another folded letter. The red wax seal at the bottom of the page drew their attention. It was another royal decree, and as Reynold laid it on the table for everyone to see, a heavy silence clung to the air. Tucker's eyes slightly widened as Brian clenched his jaw. This was the reason the captains closest to Reynold were seething.
This was the cause of their frustration. It was a list. A list of platoons that had been ordered to stay. To buy time for the other soldiers to leave and deep down… Tucker prayed with all his heart that the Thirty-First wasn't on it. But reality was often disappointing. At the very bottom was his platoon, written in black ink that had yet to fully dry.
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"What is this?" Brian demanded. "After the betrayal, after losing nearly my entire platoon to the traitors… you're asking us to stay behind and stall the enemy?" He stepped forward, his voice shaking with rage. "Don't you have a conscience?"
"It wasn't my choice," Reynold replied. "I just compiled the list of soldiers we had by platoon and sent it to the royal administration like I was ordered."
Brian scoffed. "Like you were ordered? If the commander were here, he wouldn't be writing names down like some kind of execution list. He would have requested reinforcements and prepared a counterattack."
"Well, the commander isn't here now, is he?" Reynold shot back. "He's currently unconscious and on the way back to the royal capital with the other wounded soldiers. So by royal decree, we need to follow orders and do as we're told."
"This is bullshit," Erwin said. "The Sixth platoon and three nearly devastated platoons are all that's left to defend the retreat? You're just asking for us to die."
"You'll be provided with the best equipment we have, and whatever supplies you need," Reynold said.
"Right…" Erwin nodded with a bitter laugh. "The best equipment we have? You mean the gear that hasn't been shipped out or burned? We're torching everything of value so the enemy doesn't get it. There won't be anything left!"
"Then what do you propose we do?" Reynold asked. "Someone needs to buy us time, and I already have the men fortifying the inner perimeters as we speak!"
"Have you asked for any volunteers?" Tucker asked.
"What?" Reynold narrowed his eyes, focusing on Tucker. "Have I asked for any volunteers? Do you hear yourself? Who would willingly volunteer to their deaths?"
The captains in the room fell silent. Reynold looked around the chamber. Every single one of them stood like statues. Not daring to move a muscle. The only sound they could hear was the flag of their kingdom snapping in the wind. A sharp reminder of everything they stood to lose.
Then, in that silence, a voice broke through.
"I would," Max said. He stepped forward, crossing his arms while staring at the others through his damaged visor. "Not because I believe in your leadership capabilities, but because my friends deserve a chance to live."
"The same goes for me," Tucker said.
"And me," Brian added.
Reynold gripped the arm of the commander's red velvet chair. His pale knuckles against the dark wood. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You three…" he muttered, glancing between them. "So what are you suggesting? That I make an announcement? A call for volunteers?"
"That's exactly what I'm suggesting," Tucker said. "Give them a choice."
"And what if there's not enough volunteers?" Reynold asked. "Then what?"
"Then we'll just have to make do," Tucker replied. "With whatever we have."
Reynold stared at him for a moment and shook his head. Soon, he nodded and turned to the rest of the captains. "Very well, you'll be the ones to tell your men. Those willing to stay behind will gather in the grand hall. The rest—send them to the teleportation platform. Do I make myself clear?"
The other captains nodded.
"Good, then you're all dismissed," Reynold said, watching as the other captains began walking to the steel doors that sealed the chamber. But as everyone else moved, Tucker remained still. "Is there something else you want to say?"
"There is," Tucker replied. "I want you to hand over command to Captain Morgan or Captain Maystone."
The room froze. Everyone stopped in their tracks, eyes drifting onto Tucker with disbelief. To ask for command over the bastion was unheard of. No one in their right minds would ever do that, especially not in these conditions. Yet they were witnessing such an event unfold.
"Are you out of your mind?" Reynold snapped.
"I'm perfectly sane, sir."
"Then why the hell would you say that?"
"Because if any of my men were to volunteer to stay behind, I want it to be under someone who won't hesitate. Someone who'll do everything they can to keep them alive."
Reynold's expression darkened. "So you're saying I won't?"
Tucker didn't utter a word. He didn't need to, not after everything they had been through. His silence was enough.
The two locked eyes. Even though Tucker didn't say it, Reynold knew what he was referring to. The incident with Nox, the advisor who slipped through his fingertips. The man who caused irreversible damage to their ranks. The lives that were lost because Reynold hesitated. By now, word was already spreading about what had happened, and Tucker was right. Any man who volunteered now wouldn't follow Reynold. They wouldn't trust him, and the quiet accusations that none of the captains dared to voice spoke louder than words. No one would follow him anymore.
Reynold's jaw tightened without saying a word. He walked towards Tucker and unpinned the gold badge from his chest, revealing a wreath encircling a single sword.
"Fine," he said, pressing it into Tucker's hand. "But it won't be Morgan. It won't be Maystone."
He met Tucker's eyes.
"It'll be you."