Chapter 2: The Cost of Loyalty

On the way back from the East Wing, Head of Security Derek Young felt inexplicably uneasy.

He kept his gloved hands tucked in his jacket, shifting from foot to foot as he watched the president’s every move. The hair on his neck prickled, a sixth sense honed from years of protecting people with targets on their backs.

The president ahead seemed somehow different.

He had the same posture, but the walk had a new weight—shoulders squared, eyes sharp as a hawk’s. Something about him made even the most seasoned agents stand a little straighter.

The face was the same, the person was the same, but those eyes, that bearing—he simply didn’t seem like the president of old.

Derek tried to remember the last time the president had looked anyone in the eye like that, with purpose instead of weariness. This was no routine day.

For instance, as the president walked, seeing the aides’ hands red with cold, he would fetch a few hand warmers from the presidential limo and calmly order them distributed, urging everyone to stay warm.

The limo, a classic Lincoln, had never seen such use. Marcus rummaged in the glove compartment, pulling out hand warmers as if it was second nature, handing them off to the shivering aides without a hint of condescension.

A young staffer blinked at the packet in his palm, like he’d just been handed a golden ticket. Another wiped her nose on her sleeve, mumbling thanks she hadn’t said to a boss in years.

The warmth of his smile, the easy way he talked about Quinn’s fretting, left the staff both confused and strangely reassured. He sounded almost like an old coach, or a father sending his kids off to school.

Afterward, the president stuck his head out of the car window, entirely lacking in presidential decorum, his gaze sweeping the crowd, finally settling on Derek Young.

Derek suppressed a startled laugh—the president looked like a college kid on a spring break road trip, not a head of state. For a moment, the tension eased.

Derek Young straightened and said, “I’m here, sir.”

He made sure to stand at full attention, voice steady. In his years of service, he’d learned that uncertainty could be deadly around powerful men.

Marcus Goodwin smiled even more easily. “It’s nothing, I just remembered that there’s a pile of firewood in the East Wing. It would be a waste to leave it there. Take some men and bring out the firewood, so everyone can keep warm on the road.”

The request was simple but laced with the kind of kindness Derek hadn’t seen in this office for a long time.

Derek Young was startled, bowed his head, jaw clenched, like a man swearing an oath he meant to keep. “Sir, that wood’s for the bigwigs. Folks like us are supposed to make do with space heaters and old coats.”

Derek’s voice trailed off as he tried to find a polite way to refuse, but he knew arguing would only make things worse.

“I told you to take it, so take it.”

The command left no room for negotiation. There was steel in the president’s voice—a reminder that this was no ordinary leader.

Marcus Goodwin cut Derek Young off without a trace of doubt. Derek Young looked up, meeting Marcus Goodwin’s steely gaze.

And so it was. The guards and aides carried off nearly a hundred hand warmers. In the bitter north wind, mist swirled, and many had tears in their eyes.

For many of them, it was the first time they’d felt seen by someone in power. The wind whipped around them, but the gesture warmed more than their hands—it thawed something in their hearts, too.

Derek Young did not shed tears. He was summoned to Marcus Goodwin’s side for questioning.

He wiped the mist from his glasses, steeling himself for whatever would come next. There was no escaping a summons from the man now called president.

Marcus Goodwin asked casually, “What do you think of Secretary Quinn? And of General Ford?”

His tone was casual, almost conversational, but the question cut to the bone. In politics, such questions were never innocent.

Derek Young was nearly frightened to death.

He felt as if he’d been called to the principal’s office—no, worse, like he was standing trial for his soul.

Is this something I should answer?

Derek wondered if this was a trap, but the old rules no longer seemed to apply.

But the president had asked, so Derek Young could only say, “Secretary Quinn is loyal to the country, the most faithful in the Union. General Ford is a fine man, but unfortunately cannot understand your burdens, often defies orders, and finally strayed onto the wrong path.”

He spoke as carefully as a lawyer in court, choosing words that couldn’t get him hanged for treason or sycophancy.

Marcus Goodwin chuckled. “I know. You were the one who arrested Ford. Since he went astray, why did you bring him to the capital?”

There was a hint of mischief in his smile, as if inviting Derek to confess a secret.

Derek Young wiped his sweat and nodded. “A few months ago, when I went to see General Ford… Ford told me directly that my visit could mean nothing good. Then he invited me in to drink. I thought the whiskey must be poisoned, that Ford, knowing he would die, did not want to die in prison, so he wanted me to die with him. I fought the Northern Coalition with Ford in my early years, and thought that if it ended this way, it would be alright, so I drank with him.”

Derek’s voice softened as he spoke, the memory of old brotherhood and battlefield loyalty seeping through the cracks in his professional mask.

At this, Derek Young’s expression dimmed.

He stared at his shoes, remembering the long nights spent in muddy foxholes and the kind of friendship forged only in fire.

“I didn’t die, and Ford didn’t die. Ford just smiled and said, ‘You’re still my brother. I’ll go with you.’”

His words trembled with equal parts pride and sorrow, the kind of pain you carry for a lifetime.

Wind and snow howled. Marcus Goodwin and Derek Young fell silent for a long moment.

Outside, the Savannah wind rattled the windowpanes, the sound deepening the silence that settled between them.

After a while, Marcus Goodwin patted Derek Young on the shoulder, his expression unreadable. “You’ve had it hard, too. I know Ford’s merits, but for the sake of the country, I cannot tolerate him.”

His hand was heavy, both in comfort and warning—a coach’s gesture, but also a general’s.

Derek Young opened his mouth, wanting to speak, but in the end, all his words turned to a sigh.

He let the air out slow, shoulders sagging under the weight of so much unspoken history.

After returning to the inner office, Marcus Goodwin sent Derek Young to fetch the history books. “Tomorrow the Northern envoys arrive. I want the histories from the end of the last century to now, to see how previous presidents dealt with foreign threats.”

The request was both simple and revealing—Marcus wanted to know not just facts, but the spirit of those who’d come before.

Derek Young took the order and couldn’t help rolling his eyes inwardly.

He muttered under his breath as he walked away—there were few role models in those books, at least none fit for the world as it stood.

With your way of handling things, aside from that puppet president from the 1800s, there’s no one else to learn from.

He thought of the names that filled history classrooms—some revered, most forgotten. The cynicism in his heart deepened.

While Derek Young went for the books, Marcus Goodwin wandered the inner office, searching for more documents. The more he understood of this world, the more control he would have.

He searched every drawer and cabinet, opening dusty boxes and rifling through folders with the determination of a man on a mission.

Most prominent among the documents were those on the Union-Coalition peace talks. Most officials supported them; a few fiercely criticized Marcus Goodwin for ruining the country and harming the people. Marcus memorized these names for future reference.

He made mental notes—some names he underlined in his mind, the loyal and the traitorous sorted in columns only he could see.

Then Marcus found a corner of the office stuffed with items.

He noticed it behind a battered bookcase—an almost-forgotten stash of memorabilia and medals, half-buried under dust covers.

Among them: gold medals, bows, swords. Digging deeper, Marcus pulled out a great banner, four words upon it: ‘Utmost Loyalty—General Ford.’

The banner’s fabric was faded, but the letters were bold—evidence of old glory now cast aside.

The silent wind stirred that tattered banner. Marcus’s expression turned cold.

He let it unfurl, feeling the weight of lost pride and broken promises settle in the room.

So this was where the rewards once bestowed by the Union president upon Ford ended up. After Ford was accused, no one dared keep these things, so they were sent back to the residence.

He thought of the betrayal such a gesture implied—praise one day, disgrace the next, as if loyalty could be boxed up and returned like a defective appliance.

If the president could reward a general so lavishly, Samuel Goodwin must once have held real power.

There was real authority behind these tokens—power that could have changed the course of the nation, if only it hadn’t been squandered.

With real power, how did it come to this?

He asked himself, bitterly, how anyone could let it all slip away.

Marcus Goodwin’s brow furrowed deeper. Looking at the banner, a thought struck him: Who says only powerful officials can betray the country?

He considered the possibility that the rot went all the way to the top. It wouldn’t be the first time in American history.

Perhaps even the president can betray the country.

He let the thought hang there, heavy as lead.

Marcus Goodwin tossed the banner aside, face cold, and looked again into the corner.

The medals clattered on the wood floor, echoing in the silence. His anger simmered just beneath the surface.

If the president and officials betray the country together, even a newcomer like Marcus Goodwin could see: there were likely few loyal officials left in the administration.

He counted on his fingers the men and women he thought he could trust—and came up short.

Don’t think that just because Derek Young obeys now, if you truly want to set things right, Derek Young and his guards will necessarily follow. Since forever, cutting off a man’s livelihood is like taking his family away. Marcus Goodwin, an old hand, understood this well.

He remembered union strikes, cops turning on their own, and how fast loyalty could turn when paychecks and safety were threatened. He resolved to move carefully, and never underestimate the cost of hard change.

To save Ford, to restore the Union, to launch a northern campaign—this would require a long-term plan.

He knew this wouldn’t be settled by one grand gesture. The fix would be slow and dangerous, like rebuilding a levee one brick at a time while the floodwaters rose.

Marcus Goodwin exhaled, suppressing his impatience, and continued searching.

He took a moment to let the fire inside cool, then pressed on, determined not to let frustration cloud his judgment.

There were other things in the corner—mostly letters between Samuel Goodwin and Ford. Marcus Goodwin ignored Goodwin’s memos, searching only for Ford’s words, hoping to glimpse the man himself.

He thumbed through envelopes, searching for a voice that rang true. Ford’s handwriting was bold, impatient, a man who’d spent too long in the field to care for fancy prose.

Then he saw a long essay.

Its title: ‘A Call to Arms’—‘Memorial on Sending Forth the Troops.’

The words hit Marcus like the opening bars of a national anthem—stirring, solemn, familiar in their defiance.

Marcus Goodwin thought, this ‘Call to Arms’ must have been written years ago, when Ford first set out to campaign north.

He could imagine the speech, delivered in a packed hall, men and women holding their breath for a future that seemed just out of reach.

Then a line caught his eye:

“The late president’s grand enterprise was not yet half complete when he passed; today the country is divided in three, and the Midwest is exhausted and weak—truly a moment of life and death.”

He read the line over and over, the words digging into old wounds he thought had scarred over long ago. It sounded eerily like speeches from his own youth—full of mourning, but also hope.

Reading this, Marcus Goodwin suddenly felt something amiss. His mind grew muddled. This tone, this predicament, was just like that of a professor a century ago.

He pictured the stern old teachers of Maple Heights, their voices echoing in frosty classrooms, rallying the hopeless with little more than grit and stubbornness.

The old house in Maple Heights, lofty aspirations; Silver Hollow, churches silvered with frost.

He remembered walking home in the snow, knuckles raw from cold, heart raw from disappointment, but still dreaming of something better.

“Yet the officials within the administration do not slacken, and the loyal men outside forget themselves for the cause. All strive to repay the late president’s exceptional favor, wishing to return it to you.”

A pang of longing struck Marcus—a longing for a time when loyalty meant sacrifice, not survival.

Marcus Goodwin’s hands began to tremble.

He set the paper down, steadying himself with a deep breath, trying to keep the emotion from spilling over.

He kept reading, reading of old allies, then of being a commoner, farming in Maple Heights… The late president did not regard me as lowly, but thrice visited me at my home… entrusted me at the time of defeat, ordered me in times of peril, and for twenty-one years since then…

Every line was like a punch to the gut—reminding him of the people he’d let down, and the promises he’d sworn to keep.

Tears streamed down Marcus Goodwin’s face, unstoppable.

He didn’t try to hide it. The grief was too big, the history too heavy.

“The late president knew I was cautious, so on his deathbed entrusted me with great matters… In May I crossed the river, ventured into the wilds. Now the South is pacified, arms are sufficient, it is time to reward the three divisions, pacify the Heartland, restore the Union, and return to the old capital. This is how I repay the late president and fulfill my duty to you.”

The words blurred as he read, but the message burned bright. It was a call to carry the torch, no matter how heavy.

As he read, the words blurred. He reached to wipe the page, but it remained indistinct—only then did he realize his tears had fallen upon it.

He laughed bitterly at himself—old men don’t cry, his father used to say. But this, this was worth the tears.

Wiping away the tears, a harsh, guttural wail burst from the office.

The sound was primal, torn from somewhere deep in his soul. It rattled the shelves and sent a chill through the mansion.

Marcus Goodwin wanted to curse, to shout, to order himself to stop crying, but found his throat could not make a sound.

His hands shook so badly the paper rattled. He pressed the heel of his palm to his eyes, but the tears wouldn’t stop.

So it was himself who was crying.

He cried until his chest ached and the room blurred, until there was nothing left but the sound of his own breath and the distant wind.

When Derek Young returned with several boxes of books, he saw Marcus Goodwin clutching ‘A Call to Arms,’ weeping bitterly.

The sight stopped Derek in his tracks. He’d seen presidents scream, rage, or drink themselves to sleep—but never this. Never such naked sorrow.

No one knows how long before Marcus Goodwin finally stopped. After this outpouring, he seemed to shed many shackles, truly inhabiting this world.

He wiped his face, composed himself, and when he looked up, he was someone new. The burdens of the past were still there, but now they rested easier on his shoulders.

It turned out, from ancient times to now, it was always the same sky and earth.

He realized that the struggle never really changed, no matter the century or the name on the door.

Marcus Goodwin looked at Derek Young, shook the paper in his hand, and asked, “Who did Ford copy this from—a wise old professor?”

He tried to inject some humor into his voice, as if daring Derek to challenge the tears that still glistened in his eyes.

Derek Young nodded, a little dazed. “Yes, ‘A Call to Arms’ is renowned for a hundred years—who but Professor Franklin could compare?”

Derek spoke with genuine awe; Franklin’s name still carried the weight of legend among the loyal staff.

Marcus Goodwin grinned and waved his hand. “Alright, pick out the histories of the late century for me first.”

The request was gentle, but there was urgency behind it—a man determined to learn from the past, not repeat it.

Derek Young was efficient, arranging books as he spoke. “Sir, actually, Ford admired John and Greg more. He once told me that if in this life he could be remembered in history like John Marshall and Greg Fields, he would not have lived in vain.”

Derek paused after saying it, as if worried he’d gone too far. But Marcus only listened, filing away the names and the hopes that came with them.

Marcus Goodwin said nothing, only glanced at Derek Young. “You really can’t forget Ford, can you?”

The question was both challenge and confession—a test of loyalty, and an admission of shared admiration.

Derek Young grew nervous, pursed his lips. “I wouldn’t dare.”

He looked down, his voice barely above a whisper, fearing he’d betrayed himself.

Marcus Goodwin laughed. “It’s alright—even if you dared, you should.”

He meant it—a leader needed men who remembered heroes, not just yes-men and cowards.

While Derek Young was still bewildered, Marcus Goodwin began reading, flipping from Silver Hollow onward, seeing the decline of the Midwest, rebellions everywhere, shortages of food and men, seeing Professor Franklin, with one man’s strength, exhaust himself to pull the country from the abyss, still able to write ‘A Call to Arms,’ still able to campaign north.

He read hungrily, skipping meals, letting the history soak in until it felt like his own. The story was all too familiar: one man fighting against the dying of the light.

Marcus Goodwin’s eyes reddened again.

It was impossible not to be moved—the echoes of old struggles sounded louder with every page.

Then came the turmoil in the Heartland, three counties responding, but lost at a crucial battle.

He slammed his fist on the desk, rattling a cup of cold coffee left by some previous visitor. The pain brought him back to himself.

Marcus Goodwin slammed the table, hard.

The sound echoed through the office, drawing startled glances from the hallway.

Derek Young’s eyelid twitched.

He flinched, but didn’t move, waiting for what would come next.

Then Professor Franklin marched out again and again, each time failing at the last moment, until he died exhausted, perishing in the autumn wind.

The futility was suffocating, yet somehow, the struggle itself was the answer—a lesson Marcus wouldn’t forget.

Marcus Goodwin suddenly closed the book.

He took a long breath, then let the book fall shut, his mind racing with questions and half-formed plans.

He closed his eyes, letting tears fall, and said to Derek Young, “Call Secretary Quinn. I have urgent matters to discuss.”

He let the order hang in the air, heavy as a verdict. The tears were gone now—what remained was iron resolve.

Derek Young was stunned—he’d been stunned countless times today. The president was far too unusual; that indescribable temperament was even more pronounced, but Derek Young just couldn’t figure out what it was.

He stumbled back a step, nodding. Something had shifted, and there was no turning back.

Marcus Goodwin opened his eyes, a cold light flashing: “Still not going?”

The words cut through the fog of uncertainty—no hesitation, no mercy.

Derek Young instinctively straightened. “Yes, sir!”

He snapped off a salute and hurried out, determined not to test the limits of the new order.

That night, Secretary Quinn entered the residence late, as was his custom. He thought nothing of it—the Northern envoys had arrived, and in recent days the president had been recuperating, practicing his signature in the East Wing. Now was just the time to discuss affairs.

He walked the long, carpeted hallway, briefcase in hand, mind already racing with talking points and contingency plans. For him, this was just another day at the office.

Only Derek Young looked a bit strange, saying the president seemed different today.

He brushed it off, attributing Derek’s nerves to the coming negotiations. What president didn’t get jumpy before a big meeting?

Secretary Quinn smiled faintly. “The Northern envoys have come; it’s natural for the president to be a little unsettled.”

He adjusted his tie, ready to offer whatever comfort or advice the president might need.

But when he entered the inner office, Secretary Quinn realized just how different the president truly was.

There was an electric tension in the air—a sense that anything could happen. The lights glinted off the president’s watch as he leaned back, relaxed but alert.

Marcus Goodwin sat casually at the big oak desk, idly flipping through ‘The American Chronicles.’ When he looked up at Secretary Quinn, his gaze was careless, even disdainful—not like a president, but like a wandering ex-athlete.

He looked more like a man who’d just finished a pickup game in the park than a leader facing national crisis.

Secretary Quinn bowed. “Mr. President, you summoned me—what is your command?”

He used the official greeting, out of habit, but there was a tremor of uncertainty in his tone.

Marcus Goodwin closed the book, smiling. “Nothing major, I just wanted to ask: if the Union faces a crisis, must it be solved step by step? If we act rashly, changing orders overnight, would that not plunge the administration into chaos and give the enemy an opening?”

The question was pointed, but his tone was that of a man seeking advice—not a dictator, but not entirely a supplicant, either.

Secretary Quinn considered. “That is generally so, but it depends on the matter at hand.”

He measured each word, careful to leave himself room for retreat.

Marcus Goodwin said, “For example—the Union-Coalition peace talks.”

He watched Quinn closely, eyes unblinking, reading every twitch and hesitation.

Secretary Quinn understood. The president was wavering. He replied calmly, “As you say, if we do not negotiate now, not only will the administration fall into chaos, but the Northern Coalition will show no mercy. Negotiating first and preparing for war is the safest policy.”

He said it as if reciting from a government playbook—safe, cautious, utterly predictable.

Marcus Goodwin sighed, stood up, walked to the corner, and picked up the ceremonial sword Samuel Goodwin had once bestowed on Ford.

He ran his hand along the blade, feeling its weight and balance, imagining the hands that had carried it into battle and into betrayal.

He said, “Secretary Quinn, whenever I think that these peace talks require Ford’s blood, require the flesh and blood of countless people to feed the Northern Coalition, I feel uneasy.”

His voice was low, but every word crackled with a righteous anger that could not be reasoned away.

Secretary Quinn had never heard such words before, but it didn’t matter. He was prepared to reason with the president, to explain that the Northern Coalition could not be defeated, that Ford’s victories were mere exaggeration and insubordination.

He opened his mouth, ready with statistics and sober warnings, but the words froze in his throat.

But before he could speak, Marcus Goodwin continued, “Besides, these are not peace talks at all—this is our Union bowing and scraping, becoming the Northern Coalition’s lapdogs. My legs are not strong, I cannot kneel, so you, Secretary Quinn, said you would kneel for me. But you not only kneel yourself, you break the legs of those who refuse to kneel. Isn’t that going too far?”

His words hung in the air like smoke after gunfire. The insult was sharp, but the accusation sharper still.

Quinn, you broken-backed dog, how dare you usurp the position of secretary?

He didn’t shout the words, but let them drip with contempt, as if daring Quinn to respond.

The words ‘broken-backed dog’ echoed again and again in the office, Marcus Goodwin’s voice deliberately raised. Derek Young stood at the door, dumbfounded, thinking, Has the president gone mad today?

He’d never heard language like this in the halls of power—raw, unfiltered, impossibly honest.

Secretary Quinn, for once, lost his composure. “Mr. President, how can you insult your staff so?”

His cheeks flushed, his composure slipping as the gravity of the accusation hit home.

Marcus Goodwin raised the sword, walking toward Quinn. As he approached, wind and snow flashed in his eyes, and the hidden fire surged forth.

The air snapped with static. Marcus’s grip on the sword was steady, his eyes cold. When he moved, it was almost too fast to see—a flash of steel, a spatter of warmth across the carpet, and then silence.

Marcus Goodwin said, “I’m not insulting you—I just don’t want you to die without understanding.”

His tone was calm, even gentle, as if he were explaining something inevitable to a child.

Secretary Quinn was stunned, not knowing what the president meant. Then, suddenly, the office darkened, then brightened. Wind whistled past his neck, and his life flashed before his eyes.

Time seemed to slow, every detail etched in memory—the chill in the air, the glint of the blade, the final moment before darkness.

Only then did Secretary Quinn realize: that was the flash of a sword.

He had no time for regret. The end was as swift as it was final.

That sword light was so bright, the entire office seemed to dim for a moment.

It was as if a lightning bolt had struck, cleaving history in two.

In his last instant, Secretary Quinn couldn’t help but think: The president’s sword is so fast.

The thought flashed, absurd and final, before everything went black.

Marcus Goodwin sheathed his sword.

The motion was smooth, practiced—he’d done it a thousand times in his mind, if not in his body.

He stood in the office, his gaze following Quinn’s severed head as blood spurted three feet, then thudded to the floor.

There was no fear in his eyes, only a grim satisfaction, as if justice—however rough—had finally been served.

Inside and outside the office, there was silence.

For a moment, the world held its breath, waiting to see what would come next.

Derek Young—Marcus Goodwin called, startling the staff, aides, and guards into shrieks.

The sound was sharp as a rifle shot, shattering the spell. Chaos erupted in the hallway, but Marcus’s voice cut through it all.

Derek Young, at least, did not scream. His jaw trembled, eyes blank. “Mr. President, what are your orders?”

He stepped forward, boots squeaking on the polished floor, refusing to show the fear that knotted in his stomach.

Marcus Goodwin stared coldly at him. “Quinn is dead, but many things are unresolved. There is much I do not know—how many of Quinn’s people are in the guards, whether you, Derek Young, are one of his. I know nothing.”

The accusation was direct, the distrust absolute. Marcus made no promises, offered no reassurances.

Derek Young was shocked again, this time finally snapping back to himself, hurriedly kneeling. “I have followed you for twenty years—I am only your man.”

He dropped to his knees, voice hoarse, every word carrying the weight of years of loyalty and fear.

After speaking, Derek Young instinctively thought: No, if the president knows nothing, how does he dare kill?

He realized, with a cold shiver, that the new president was a man who would act on principle, not comfort—a dangerous leader in dangerous times.

Actually, I hadn’t intended to kill today. Marcus Goodwin seemed to hear Derek Young’s thoughts. He held the sword, hands behind his back, gazing far away. “But Franklin died at Gettysburg.”

The words came out flat, but their meaning was thunderous. For every moment of inaction, there was a price to pay.

Derek Young:

He could only listen, knowing that history had shifted, and there was no going back.

Marcus Goodwin’s gaze returned to Derek Young. “Franklin died at Gettysburg, General Sykes survived. Why must this world burn up Franklin and Ford, leaving only lapdogs to wield power? Back then, I couldn’t stand the county commissioner oppressing the people, couldn’t stand Marshall slaughtering Toledo, couldn’t stand Grant’s betrayal. I was good at enduring, I knew it was safer to wait, to distinguish loyal from traitorous before acting. But when I saw Franklin die, I could no longer bear it.”

His voice grew thick with emotion. He let the truth spill, uncaring who heard it.

“I am, in the end, not at peace.”

The admission hung in the air, raw and honest. There would be no peace, not for him—not yet.

“So I no longer care whether you are Quinn’s man or not. I just want to kill Quinn. Every day Quinn lives, his faction devours more of the people’s flesh and blood, and Ford suffers another day in prison. For the greater good, how could I not kill?”

He fixed Derek with a look that brooked no argument. The lines between right and wrong had never been clearer.

Derek Young knelt, trembling all over, not knowing whether he was terrified by suspicion or excited that long-buried hopes had finally come true.

His heart pounded, uncertain if this was the beginning of the end, or the start of something new.

Marcus Goodwin looked down at him. “I do not care if you have followed me for twenty years—you know better than I how those twenty years were lived. For the next twenty years, I do not wish to live like that.”

His words were both promise and warning—a future built on loyalty, not fear.

“So for the next twenty years—are you still willing to lead the way for me, to sweep away the disloyal?”

He extended a hand, not just for allegiance, but for partnership in the difficult road ahead.

Derek Young bowed his head, jaw clenched, like a man swearing an oath he meant to keep. “I’d die a thousand deaths without regret!”

The oath came out hoarse, but true. For the first time in years, hope glimmered beneath the surface.

In that moment, Derek Young finally understood what that unfamiliar temperament in Marcus Goodwin was—it was a heroism that spanned heaven and earth, lingered for nine hundred years, and would not be extinguished.

He looked up and saw not just a president, but a leader worth following—a man ready to burn for his people.

3

That night, Marcus Goodwin took his sword straight to the Federal Detention Center, forced open the prison gates, and rushed to see Ford.

He left the residence in the dead of night, headlights cutting through the fog as he raced across town. The guards at the gate stared in shock, not daring to oppose a man so determined.

Ford sat with his back to the cell door, eyes closed. “My ears are injured, I can’t hear clearly. Whoever comes to accuse me, I have only four words: God knows, God knows.”

The cell was cold, the air thick with resignation. Ford spoke without turning, voice gravelly but unbroken.

Marcus Goodwin took a deep breath. Even through the cell door, he could hear the loyalty in those four words.

He recognized the defiance—the refusal to break, even when every hope had been stripped away.

He could also smell the festering wounds on Ford’s body, see the mottled marks of the whip.

The scent of infection and old blood filled the air, making Marcus’s stomach twist. But he kept his eyes on Ford, determined not to flinch.

Marcus Goodwin shouted, “Buddy, I’m late!”

He put every ounce of sorrow and apology into those words—a reunion not of politicians, but of brothers lost and found.

Ford frowned, slowly turned, and saw that familiar yet unfamiliar face.

He blinked, as if seeing a ghost—then recognition dawned. The room seemed to shrink around them, every scar and memory between them blazing to life.

Familiar, naturally, because of Samuel Goodwin; unfamiliar, because Ford had never seen such burning light, such honest tears, in Goodwin’s eyes—had never seen Goodwin pick up a sword and strike at the Federal Detention Center cell door.

He stared at Marcus in disbelief, hope flickering where only despair had lived before. For the first time, he saw a man willing to risk everything for a friend.

Of course, the door didn’t break.

Marcus grunted, embarrassed but undeterred. Even legends had their limits.

But that didn’t matter. Marcus Goodwin’s expression did not change, and he struck again.

He set his jaw, ready to batter the door down if it took all night. The clang of metal rang down the hall, drawing startled shouts from the guards.

The guard hurried over, “Mr. President, Mr. President, there’s a key, there’s a key!”

The young guard was frantic, waving a ring of keys as if trying to calm a rampaging bull.

Marcus Goodwin was not the least embarrassed. He quietly stepped back half a pace, and as soon as the guard opened the door, he rushed forward, tears in his eyes, seized Ford’s hand, and cried, “Buddy, I’m late!”

The embrace was fierce, undignified, utterly American in its sincerity. In that moment, the years, the pain, the betrayals—all faded, replaced by the unbreakable bond of men who refused to yield, no matter what history demanded.

As Marcus held Ford in the flickering light of the cell, he realized the war for the Union’s soul had only just begun.