It was during this grueling, freezing survival program that he first crossed paths with Theon.
The two of them weren't close. They were mere acquaintances—two quiet, hardened men sharing silent nods across a campfire, enduring the same bitter mud and practicing the same marching drills.
When the final rosters for the grand fleet of 23 wagons were drawn, Taras’s name wasn't on them. He wasn't chosen to guard the Beacon Convoys or watch over the volatile Blink Gate remnants. Instead, his unflinching stoicism was deemed "better suited for domestic stability." He was assigned to the Concord’s local militia, tasked with keeping the peace within the safe, sterile stone walls of the city.
He watched the First Expedition march out of the gates. He watched friends, rivals, and peers vanish into the ash-choked horizon.
And then, he watched the silence set in.
The First Expedition failed. Slowly, publicly, and incompletely. As the grim news trickled back to the Concord, a quiet, suffocating guilt took root in Taras’ chest. The comrades he had bled with in training—the ones who had been "lucky" enough to go—were gone, swallowed by the Evershade and the unraveled wilds.
Determined never to let his guard down or grow soft in the safety of the city, Taras threw himself into his work. For decades, he served the Concord’s militia with religious devotion. While other soldiers let themselves go in retirement, Taras never stepped away from his training. He kept his dense, seasoned bulk, his broad barrel chest, and his disciplined routine, translating his years of survival training into daily physical conditioning.
The years didn't soften him; they only tempered him. His pale skin grew leathery and weathered by the biting winds of patrol, and new silver scars traced along his sharp jawline, framing his unchanging golden eyes and white hair. He earned his silver discharge medal—pinned proudly to his meticulously kept black greatcoat—but his long, disciplined service felt like a hollow sentence. He had survived simply because he had been left behind.
When rumors reached him of the Ember Charter—a newly sanctioned crew backed by the Frontier Specialization Fund with the express, dangerous purpose of retracing the First Expedition's doomed path—Taras knew his time in the militia was done. And when he learned the crew was led by none other than Captain Theon, an aquaintance from his old training days, his path became clear.
He tracked down Theon, stood before him now bolstered by a lifetime of military experience—and offered a disciplined, old-soldier's salute. He didn't ask for permission; he simply stated his purpose.
