Silent Scarf (eBook)

Affry Johan (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2025 | 1. Auflage
360 Seiten
Publishdrive (Verlag)
978-0-00-110492-1 (ISBN)

Infos

Ren Karibata is only nineteen when his life crumbles in an instant. Once a young trade administrator in the flourishing village of Riverbrick, Ren watches everything he loves burn to ash when the Kingdom of Suragato launches a brutal surprise attack. His parents are killed. His home reduced to rubble. All that remains is a sky-blue scarf-his mother's final gift, and a symbol of everything he's lost.

Driven by grief and a quiet, burning resolve, Ren escapes to Brickvia and enlists in the military. But unlike the soldiers around him, Ren has no thirst for vengeance. Having endured the horrors of war firsthand, he makes a vow: to end the war without becoming a killer.

In the face of growing conflict, political deception, and brutal combat, Ren holds fast to his idealism-even when it puts him at odds with allies, commanders, and the very nation he's sworn to protect. With only his wits, a scarf, and the weight of his past, he dares to challenge a world where mercy is weakness and power is won through blood.

Silent Scarf is a powerful military fantasy about the cost of war, the strength of empathy, and the resolve to stand for peace in a world that demands violence.

Textauszug

Chapter 1

Operation Riverbrick

The morning sun spilled gold over Riverbrick, bathing its terraced fields in warm light. Rows of green stalks swayed to the rhythm of the wind, whispering prosperity. This land cradled between gentle hills and the glimmering River, had fed generations. Grain from Riverbrick was prized across the region. Merchants often joked that even the rice here bowed with pride.

At the heart of this bounty was a thriving village, cobbled roads weaving between timber-framed homes and busy stalls. Ox carts rumbled past crates of salted fish, silks, and earthenware pots. Barges coming closer as they docked at the port, where the river's current carried goods north to Brickvia and beyond.

And above all this, from a modest building on the edge of the port, Rendo Karibata watched.

"Manifest from Loma district arrived this morning," called out an assistant, dropping a leather scroll onto his desk.

Ren, nineteen, lean, and sharper than most gave him credit for, took the scroll with a nod. “Was it weighed?”

“Twice. They're short by two sacks again.”

“Of course they are,” Ren muttered, scratching a note on his ledger. “Remind Loma’s quartermaster that I know the difference between clever trade and outright theft.”

His voice carried no anger, only weary certainty. His desk was cluttered, ink smudges staining the wood. Maps, records, and manifests layered the space like scales on a dragon.

Outside, a bell rang once—signaling a successful inspection at the southern gate. Ren’s mother always said that bell meant the village breathed well.

“Ren! Come home early today, will you?” his mother’s voice echoed faintly from the doorway. She stood with a basket of vegetables, her graying hair tied beneath a sky blue scarf.

Ren turned with a rare smile. “If the west dock doesn’t collapse under that caravan, I’ll be there before dusk.”

His father, taller and broad-chested, approached from behind her. “Or we’ll come drag you out ourselves. Even the cargo needs rest.”

They laughed. Ren’s smile softened. In this village, everything made sense. Paperwork had rhythm. Trade had rules. Life, though simple, was whole.

He returned to his desk, flipping the next manifest open.

Weight discrepancy. Docks under repair. West caravan two days early.

He scribbled corrections with precise strokes, unaware that within hours, the land he cherished would ignite in screams and flame.

Then, it began with a rumble beneath the soil—so faint at first, it could have been thunder over the eastern cliffs. Ren barely looked up from his parchment.

But then came the second rumble. Louder. Heavier. Followed by a low, unnatural hum that did not belong to weather or wagon.

A scream tore through the air.

Ren froze.

Another scream—closer now. And then the bell rang.

Not once.

Not twice.

Four times.

The emergency signal.

He shot to his feet. Outside, villagers scattered like startled birds. Children clutched their mothers, merchants abandoned carts mid-bargain, and crates of dried goods spilled into the mud as panicked feet trampled them.

“Ren! What’s happening?!” his mother’s voice came again—but this time from somewhere beyond the street, cracked with fear.

Then he saw it.

Over the southern ridge, flags black as dried blood rose above columns of armored figures. The Suragato Kingdom.

Their soldiers marched in perfect discipline—shields locked, spears raised, blackened steel flashing in the light. Their war machines rolled like beasts: siege wagons with iron jaws, ballistae mounted on wheels. No banners of warning. No declarations. Only advance.

Ren’s mind struggled to catch up. “No… no, no, not here. Not Riverbrick.”

Explosions erupted near the north granaries. Pillars of fire bloomed. The scent of ash reached him—followed by the metallic stench of blood.

“Father! Mother!” he bolted from the port office.

The streets had turned into mazes of fire and smoke. Flaming debris fell from rooftops. Screams layered over one another. Soldiers in Suragato black stormed through gates, cutting down anyone who resisted.

Ren ducked into an alley, clutching the wall for balance as a group of villagers were herded like cattle past him. A child stared at him—eyes wide, mouth open—but was dragged along before a word could be exchanged.

He pushed forward, weaving through chaos. His lungs burned with smoke. His eyes stung. He turned a corner—only to stop dead.

His home was gone.

Not burning.

Gone.

The wooden frame had collapsed under a flaming siege stone. He staggered toward it, calling out. “Mother? Father?!”

No answer.

Only the groan of wood and the crackle of flames.

He saw part of a hand—his mother’s sky blue scarf wrapped around it, fingers limp beneath rubble.

Though frayed and dust-covered, it still carried her scent. Without a word, he wrapped it around his neck. From that day on, it became his silent vow, his reason to endure, his symbol of resistance.

His world, so full of order and purpose, had unraveled in a single hour.

Riverbrick had fallen.

And Ren had nothing left but ash.

Ren stumbled back through the scorched alley, half-running, half-dragging his body forward. His ears rang. His chest felt hollow. The scream he tried to release wouldn’t come out.

He turned toward the port—toward the last place that still held shape in his mind.

The trade office.

His office.

The building stood at the water’s edge, just barely outside the main street, its tiled roof dusted in ash, its wooden walls cracked but upright. The harbor beyond was a vision of hell—barges capsized and burning, cargo crates floating like corpses. Thick smoke coiled from the water.

Ren pushed through the warped front door. The hinges groaned.

The inside was chaos.

Scrolls littered the floor. Ink bottles had shattered, smearing manifests into meaningless black stains. A beam had fallen across the desk—his desk—crushing it under charred splinters and soot.

His hand trembled as he picked up a half-burned ledger, its pages curling in his grip.

Kaishin River shipment log. Loma District. North dock, 3:17 p.m.

He let it fall.

Footsteps pounded outside. Foreign voices barked commands. The enemy was sweeping the village now, killing resistance, securing supply routes. No mercy. No pause.

Ren crawled to a crawlspace beneath the rear floorboards, where he kept emergency trade papers and maps. He shoved the hatch open.

Inside—nothing but ash and twisted parchment.

He sat in the wreckage, back against the broken beam, the fire's light flickering through the smoke-choked windows. No father. No mother. No home. No office. No future.

Just a nineteen-year-old boy with ink-stained hands and too many memories of balance sheets and cargo lists.

Tears finally came, hot and bitter. But not loud.

He didn’t want the soldiers to hear.

By nightfall, Riverbrick was a broken skeleton of its former self.

Shops—pillaged. Homes—reduced to ash. The port—silent. The once-bustling village lay under a blanket of smoke, lit by burning roofs and dying torches. Bodies lined the streets, some still clutching tools, others with hands raised in surrender that were never accepted.

But in the shadow of ruin, a few voices still whispered.

The survivors—farmers, tradesmen, elders—had gathered in the old prayer hall beneath the remains of the bell tower. There were only a few dozen. Their faces were streaked with soot and grief. Some were bandaged, others trembling. And amidst them sat Ren, silent, hollow-eyed, holding a sky blue scarf around his neck tightly.

An old man stood, his voice thin but determined.

“We can’t fight them. Not with hoes and fishing spears.”

“We’ll die like the others!” shouted a younger man, his hands shaking.

“We’ll all die if we stay quiet,” came another voice—a woman, blood staining the edge of her sleeve. “Brickvia must know. King Hikusa must be told what’s happened here.”

The old man nodded slowly. “We need to send someone. A rider. No—two. They must ride tonight. Cut through the marshes. Avoid the road.”

“Who?” someone asked. “Who’s fast enough? Brave enough?”

Ren raised his head.

“I know the eastern paths,” he said hoarsely. “I marked them myself for supply routes. I can guide them as far as I can.”

The room fell quiet. They stared at him—not just as a boy, not just as the trade clerk. But as someone who had lost everything and still had something left to give.

Two men stepped forward—young, but hardened by what they’d seen today.

“We’ll ride,” one said. “We’ll make it to Brickvia. Even if it kills us.”

The old man gripped their shoulders. “Then go. Before the night gets darker.”

No prayers. No ceremony. Just hurried maps, pieces of bread, and stolen horses.

Ren watched them disappear into the mist-covered eastern trail.

He didn’t know if they’d make it.

He didn’t know if Brickvia would care.

But it was the first step. The first ember of hope in the wreckage of Riverbrick.

And he swore, as the fires burned behind him:

This will not be how it ends.

In the heart of the kingdom, Brickvia castle breathed with an...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 19.7.2025
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Fantasy / Science Fiction ► Science Fiction
• ISBN-10: 0-00-110492-6 / 0001104926
• ISBN-13: 978-0-00-110492-1 / 9780001104921