Chapter 3: Old Friends, New Faces

He patted Daniel’s shoulder, said hoarsely, “Where is my blade?”

The question was soft, almost pleading. It was as if holding his weapon would anchor him, give him the strength to face whatever came next.

Daniel turned and called out, and an attendant brought the double-edged blade.

The attendant moved quickly, head bowed, placing the blade in Robert’s outstretched hands. The steel gleamed, cold and deadly, a link to the man he used to be.

Robert flicked the blade, the steel leaving its sheath half an inch, gleaming like a pool of cold water, and two lines of tears slid from his eyes, dropping onto the blade.

The room seemed to hold its breath as Robert stared at the blade, his reflection wavering in the polished metal. Tears slid down his cheeks, silent and unashamed.

Such a blood feud—how can it not be avenged?

The words echoed in the room, heavy as a funeral bell. Robert’s grip tightened on the hilt, his resolve hardening.

With a tap, the blade returned to its sheath. Robert squeezed out a breath from his throat, his face showing neither joy nor sorrow.

He exhaled slowly, setting the blade aside. The mask of calm settled over his features, hiding the storm raging inside.

“Who did it?”

His voice was flat, but there was steel beneath it. Everyone in the room felt the shift—the moment when grief turned to purpose.

Daniel answered truthfully, “It was Quentin Summers who broke the alliance. Luke Morgan crossed the river in disguise, launched a sneak attack. Mike Francis surrendered to the enemy. Gabriel was defeated at Mainfield and died in battle. After Gabriel’s death, Frank drank day and night, flogged soldiers when drunk, and was killed by his own men.”

He paused between each name, letting the weight of it settle in. Robert’s jaw clenched, his knuckles white around the blade.

Robert finally couldn’t hold it in, his cheeks twitched, his tearful eyes wrinkled. “So it wasn’t Don Drake’s doing?”

He blinked back tears, struggling to make sense of it all. The old rivalries seemed pointless now, swallowed up by the tide of tragedy.

Daniel said, “Not long after Gabriel’s death, Don Drake also died.”

The news landed with a dull thud. Another enemy gone, but the pain remained.

Robert snorted, looked up at the ceiling. John Young saw something was wrong and quickly said, “Mayor, I know you are angry and sad. A hero of a generation, killed by petty men—such a grudge must be avenged. So you already set out to attack the enemy. Danny and I couldn’t stop you, even Chief Charles couldn’t stop you, but you lost at Elmwood, suffered heavy casualties, lost seven or eight-tenths of the elite force, and almost all the mid-level officers. Mayor, at sixty-three, you had burned yourself out, burned up the last essence of Silver Hollow—nothing left to burn.”

John’s words came fast, trying to fill the silence, to explain away the guilt and grief that hung between them. He glanced at Daniel, hoping for support.

Robert still looked up, unable to lower his head for a long time.

He stared at the ornate molding on the ceiling, lost in thought. The weight of failure pressed down on him, heavier than any sword.

After a long while, John Young heard a voice drifting down from above: “So according to you, I failed Charles, failed his years of effort, and failed the people of Silver Hollow, the sons of the three armies, right?”

The words were soft, but they cut deep. John flinched, but didn’t look away.

Daniel heard something off, quickly saluted, and said, “If there were no Riverbend in your heart, there would be no Silver Hollow today.”

He spoke with conviction, his voice steady. The others nodded, murmuring their agreement. Robert’s legacy was bigger than any one defeat.

John Young still stood there, not afraid at all.

He met Robert’s gaze, unflinching. There was history between them, the kind that couldn’t be shaken by a few harsh words.

Sure enough, Robert laughed heartily, patted Daniel, and said, “Danny, after all these years, you’re still so honest—try scaring John.”

The laughter was infectious, breaking the tension in the room. Daniel rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help smiling.

Daniel: “….”

He shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips.

John Young rolled his eyes, said to Daniel, “When you were young, you ran around outside, not familiar with the Mayor. He was really wild—singing, betting on fights, racing cars, brawling—what hasn’t he done?”

John’s voice was teasing, but there was pride in it, too. The stories of their youth were legend in Silver Hollow, told and retold at every gathering.

Daniel, hearing this, for some reason felt a bit worried.

He chuckled nervously, glancing at Robert as if expecting him to leap up and start a new adventure right then and there.

Robert pointed at Charles, asked John Young, “When I was dying, did I leave any last words? How did I arrange for this man?”

He wanted to know what legacy he’d left behind, what promises he’d made in his final moments.

John Young exclaimed, face full of wrinkles, white hair, lively expression: “Your last words were remarkable—unprecedented, probably won’t be matched in the future. Normally people appoint a regent—you didn’t appoint me as regent, fine, appointing Charlie makes sense, but you said your cause is his cause, so everything of yours is his. If your son Andy is too useless, let him do it himself—go deal with Don Drake’s people, revive Silver Hollow, return to the old town.”

John’s eyes sparkled as he recounted the story, his voice rising with excitement. The others nodded, remembering the moment well.

Daniel said seriously, “Chief Charles deserves it.”

He spoke with conviction, his respect for Charles clear in every word.

John Young glared at Daniel, then realized that after Robert became young again, he himself had also become a lot younger.

He ran a hand through his hair, surprised to find it thicker, less gray. He grinned, the years melting away.

Robert was also laughing, and after the laughter faded, he ignored the two of them, took his blade and strode toward Charles.

His steps were confident, purposeful. The room parted before him, everyone watching in awe.

Charles was still busy. Robert smiled and said, “Alright, stop sealing off the news from Maple Heights Mansion. You can’t keep it hidden, can I just stay in the mansion forever?”

He clapped Charles on the back, a gesture both friendly and commanding. “Let the world know,” he said, “the Mayor’s back.”

Charles nodded, “Everything is up to you.”

His voice was steady, his eyes shining with renewed hope. He signaled to the aides, who hurried off to spread the word.

For a moment, Robert felt exposed, vulnerable. He looked away, pretending to study the pattern in the carpet.

Robert chuckled, seeing Charles busy giving orders, called out, “Hey, Chief.”

The nickname brought a smile to Charles’s lips. He turned, attentive as ever.

Charles immediately turned back, as if afraid Robert would suddenly disappear. “I’m here.”

He stepped closer, his posture both formal and affectionate. The bond between them was unspoken, but everyone in the room felt it.

Robert waved his hand, “No need to be so formal. I’m just asking, after all the fighting, Don Drake’s family hasn’t made a move?”

He was all business now, his mind already racing ahead to the next challenge.

Charles said, “Don Drake’s family has already attacked Summers, but hasn’t won, and is stationed to observe.”

He spoke quickly, eager to prove he was on top of things. The political landscape was shifting fast, and every move mattered.

Robert asked again, “What about Quentin Summers?”

His eyes narrowed, calculating. He knew better than anyone that alliances could shift in a heartbeat.

Charles said, “The lord of Summers has already sent an envoy to negotiate peace. At that time, you agreed to peace talks and a truce.”

He laid out the facts, his tone careful but hopeful. The prospect of peace was tempting, but Robert knew better than to trust too easily.

He nodded, muttering, “Peace is good. Yeah, peace is good.”