Chapter 7: The Name He Refused to Answer
The question came when no one expected it.
Not during battle.
Not during orders.
Not in front of Seraphina or the officers.
It came at night, when the fire burned low and the men had stopped pretending they weren't tired.
They sat in a loose circle, twelve figures outlined by flickering light and shadow. Armor lay half-removed. Weapons rested within reach. No one joked. No one complained.
That, more than anything, told him how close the day had come to ending badly.
Rovan was sharpening his sword when he spoke.
Slow strokes. Even rhythm.
"We've been fighting under you for days now," he said without looking up.
No one reacted immediately.
Rovan kept working the blade.
"We follow when you move. We stop when you stop. We hold when you tell us to hold."
He paused, finally glancing up.
"But we don't know what to call you."
The fire popped softly.
The others looked up.
Bran shifted, wincing as his injured arm reminded him it still existed. Lethan leaned forward without realizing it. Corin stopped humming mid-note.
No one spoke.
They were waiting.
The man at the center of it all felt his chest tighten.
A name.
Such a small thing.
And yet it pressed harder than any battlefield order.
He had known this moment would come. Anyone who stood in front long enough was eventually asked who they were.
The problem was—he didn't know how to answer.
The name from his past life surfaced first.
It came uninvited, heavy with memories that didn't belong here. A name spoken by people who no longer existed, tied to a life that had ended suddenly and meaninglessly.
That name carried weakness.
Regret.
A man who had never stood for anyone but himself.
Using it would feel like dragging a corpse forward.
The name of this body, on the other hand, was barely more than a record entry. A lowborn nobody. A soldier meant to die early enough that no one would notice his absence.
That name carried nothing.
Neither felt right.
Silence stretched.
Lethan shifted uncomfortably. "We don't mean anything by it," he said quickly. "It's just… shouting 'hey' in a fight gets confusing."
A few quiet chuckles followed, easing the tension just enough to keep it from snapping.
Rovan held his gaze.
"No one's asking you to bare your soul," he said. "But if we're going to keep standing behind you, we should know who we're standing behind."
That was the truth of it.
This wasn't curiosity.
This was a threshold.
Up until now, they had followed his actions.
A name would mean they were choosing him.
He looked into the fire.
Sparks rose and vanished, brief and silent.
"I won't use my old name," he said finally.
The words felt heavier than expected.
Corin frowned slightly. "Old?"
"It belongs to a man who's dead," he replied. "He doesn't get to lead anyone."
No one argued.
"And I won't use the name written on the roster," he continued. "That one was never meant to last."
Bran nodded slowly. "Fair enough."
Silence returned—but this time it wasn't waiting.
It was giving space.
He searched himself, not for something grand or impressive, but for something empty enough to grow into.
A name wasn't a reward.
It was a direction.
"If I'm going to walk forward," he said, voice steady now, "I'll do it under a name that starts here."
He lifted his head.
"My name is Aren."
The word hung in the air.
Short.
Unadorned.
Unclaimed by any past.
Rovan tested it once, quietly. "Aren."
Bran nodded. "Easy to say."
Lethan let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Easy to shout."
That was enough.
No cheers followed.
No vows.
But something settled into place all the same.
For the first time, they didn't look at him like a position.
They looked at him like a person.
Later that night, as the fire burned low, Rovan sat beside him.
"Seraphina's going to formalize this," Rovan said quietly. "A unit. Structure."
Aren nodded. "I know."
"And you?" Rovan asked. "You ready for that?"
Aren thought of the name he'd just chosen. How light it felt—and how heavy it would become.
"I already am," he said.
The next morning, when orders were given, a junior officer hesitated before speaking.
"…Aren," he said, carefully.
The name felt different when spoken aloud.
Real.
And that was how it began—not with banners or authority, but with a name chosen under fire.