Shinwa Densetsu no Eiyuu no Isekaitan - Volume 4 - Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Fire and Ice

The fourteenth day of the eleventh month of Imperial Year 1023

In southwest Faerzen was a region known as Old Duret, which was most remarkable for its patchwork landscape of grassy plains and dry wilderness. The curious geography was not a natural phenomenon. Many royal generations prior, the king of Faerzen had attempted to transform the region into a verdant paradise wherein he could cultivate spirit stones to resist the empire. His plans had been foiled by the cold, harsh winds of the Travant Mountains, which wilted his newly planted vegetation in the ground, leaving a lifeless wasteland that no spirit would draw near. People fled the land in droves and monsters settled in their place. Soon enough, Old Duret had become a haven for all manner of beasts that would descend from their dens in the mountains to prey by night on nearby settlements.

So it was for a time, until the monsters began to roam far enough east that the nation could not ignore the severity of the issue. Its begrudging solution was Fort Mitte. In a curious twist of fate, the fortress had outlasted Faerzen, the kingdom that had erected it. Now, it was a bastion of the Grantzian Empire.

As the sun rose higher in the sky, a fierce battle was underway. The Faerzen Resistance had the fort surrounded and were attacking on all sides. Raising their shields against the bombardment of arrows raining from the walls, they hoisted ladders and began to climb.

Fortunately for its occupants, Fort Mitte had been constructed to weather monster attacks. Its walls were high and its gates were sturdy. A half-hearted offensive would be easily repelled; nothing less than an all-out assault could crack its shell. That said, one might doubt that the fort’s continued resistance could be so easily explained, and they would be right to do so. It remained standing only thanks to the genius of the commander currently occupying it.

Above the battlements of the main gate rose a small tower. In peacetime, it would have functioned as a watchtower. Now, it served as the imperial army’s impromptu command center.

“We can’t treat all our wounded! If anyone’s got spare hands, send them our way!”

“Everyone’s got their hands full! If you’re out of bandages, find some cloth to tear!”

Soldiers dashed to and fro across the chamber. Their urgency made it clear that every second counted.

A handsome young man burst into the chaos. “Lady Aura!” he cried. “The western wall has signaled for reinforcements!”

His words were addressed to a girl seated at the desk.

“Sir Spitz. You’re panicking.”

The girl’s leaden eyes speared through him. Although her emotionless expression could easily be taken for coldness, the clipped ends of her eyebrow-length fringe had an undeniably dainty quality, and with her large eyes and small frame, she inspired the same protective instincts as a kitten or a mouse. In the words of a certain knight, she was an angel. That she had retained her proportions at the age of seventeen was nothing short of miraculous.

Her name was Treya Verdan Aura von Bunadala, and her uncommon tactical acumen had earned her the position of brigadier general. In the military, she was known as Aphrodite, the Warmaiden—a modern-day War God. Out of all of House Bunadala of the five great houses, it would not be unfair to call her the most promising talent.

“Send a reserve unit to the western wall. And one to the eastern one. It’s about to fall too.”

“At once!”

Von Spitz dashed back out of the room. As he left, Aura returned her gaze to the map on the desk. The diagram detailed every nook and cranny of Fort Mitte. Several pawns stood atop it, indicating the positions of various units. From the tower’s commanding position above the front gate, she could survey the entire fortress, letting her easily see where reinforcements were most needed.

“We can still hold out,” she murmured.

If she was honest with herself, this battle was unlike any other she had fought. She could not see its course. The path contorted itself in labyrinthine curves, and darkness obscured the way ahead. Even so...

“I will stay strong.”

Her aides and soldiers were depending on her. She did not have the luxury of breaking down and giving up. Aside from anything else, she bore the title of the Warmaiden; her conduct would reflect on the War God, and she would not disgrace his name.

For a while, Aura sat in silence. At last, with a trembling hand, she reached out to the book lying on her desk: the Black Chronicle, a record of the life and times of the second emperor. It had never left her person since the moment she had received it as a birthday gift from her father at a young age. Whenever she was lost, or overwhelmed, or felt the urge to cry, she sought solace in its pages. Indeed, she probably knew the second emperor better than anybody else in Aletia, a fact in which she quietly took pride. She closed her eyes and breathed deep, feeling some of her nervousness dissipate as Emperor Schwartz’s strength bolstered her own.

“My mind is clear and my thoughts are free.”

Schwartz had repeated that same mantra to himself whenever his resolve wavered. The Black Chronicle claimed that the words had not been his, but from whom they originated, it did not say. Some claimed that they had belonged to one of Schwartz’s educators; others theorized that the first emperor had spoken the words to soothe his blood-brother’s nerves. The truth, in essence, was uncertain.

Aura herself found the question intriguing, but this was no time to ponder it. She terminated that train of thought and reopened her eyes. Her hand was no longer trembling. She had calmed considerably. Pleased, she clenched and unclenched her hand a few times, then patted herself on the chest.

“I can do this.” She nodded, as though reinforcing the sentiment to her own ears, and swept her gaze around the castle walls. Her hands began moving pawns across the map. “Sir Spitz.”

“Yes, my lady!”

“The south wall needs reinforcing. Send two units.”

“I shall tell them immediately!”

Forgotten in the chaos and confusion of the room around him, a man trembled underneath the desk. He was Buze von Krone, the administrator of Faerzen. As his rank suggested, he was the effective ruler of the nation now that it was under imperial control. Originally a vassal of the Faerzen royal family, he had defected to the empire and brought the monarchy down from within in exchange for a seat at House Krone’s table. His actions had earned him the position of administrator, but his reign had been short-lived. As the Faerzen Resistance’s activities grew fiercer, he had abandoned his duties and fled the royal capital to seek sanctuary with Aura.

At last, the man crawled out from beneath the desk and stood up, looking around cautiously as he emerged. “Lady von Bunadala, I must know what has become of our reinforcements. Will this ramshackle fort hold out until they arrive?”

Aura’s forehead creased with irritation at his questions. “Stop talking.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Such rude treatment from a girl less than half his age stunned Buze into silence. Aura ignored him. She moved a pawn from the center of the map to the east, then summoned von Spitz again.

“Send one unit to the eastern wall.”

Aura was pouring every last drop of her tactical ability into the defense, and wherever she found her own knowledge lacking, she pored over books and historical records to compensate. Such activities left no time for rest. She had not slept in two days, perhaps three. Naturally, her concerned subordinates had tried to persuade her otherwise, but their protests had fallen on deaf ears. With all of her senses devoted to observing the battle, she barely even registered their concerns.

“That should hold them off for now.”

“But for how long?! Each wave is fiercer than the last— Eek!” Buze cowered at the whistle of an enemy arrow.

“Shut up. You’ll be safer in the courtyard. Complain there instead.”

“Well. I may very well take you up on that.” The man staggered toward the door.

At that moment, a sudden chill lanced up Aura’s spine.

“Hm?”

She peered through one of the tower’s peepholes at the scene beyond the walls. The enemy had called off their attack and were pulling back from the fort. Oddly, all of them seemed to be looking upward. She followed their gazes.

“That’s not good.”

A strange wisp of black smoke swirled in the midmorning sky. It rapidly expanded as Aura watched. In moments, it had swallowed the sun. What was happening? Her chest twinged with unease, but the weather wasn’t an enemy she could defeat. For a few seconds, she stared up at the darkening sky, until a mighty clap of thunder shocked her back to her senses.

“We should use this time to prepare.”

This wasn’t the moment to be marveling at unusual phenomena. The enemy had finally withdrawn, affording her a precious opportunity to plan. It would be stupid to waste it.

She turned to return to her desk, and found that she couldn’t.

“Wha—?!”

The desk exploded into splinters. Where it had stood, an azure spear now protruded from the floor amid a swirling dust cloud. In a dazed stupor, Aura approached the weapon, cocked her head, and reached out to touch it.

“Lady Aura! Get down!”

Even as her aide’s frantic cry reached her ears, it was swallowed up by a thunderous rumble. No—to even call what followed a “sound” would be too gentle. It was a shock wave that snatched her up and battered her mercilessly.

One instant, Aura was weightless; the next, a high-pitched ringing was echoing through her head. Only then did she realize that she was lying on the ground. Through bleary eyes, she dimly registered the corpses of soldiers, impaled where they stood by spears of ice. More bodies lay on the floor, unmoving. She might have thought them stunned like her, if not for the blood gushing from gaping holes in their stomachs. Everything seemed very far away.

All of a sudden, a familiar face lurched into view. “Lady Aura! Stay with me!”

It was von Spitz. He was wounded too. Blood flowed from his shoulder. It looked like he was shouting something, but she couldn’t make it out. She couldn’t even remember where she was or what she was doing. Everything was a blurry haze.

Just as she was about to let go of consciousness, an object on the floor slid into focus: the copy of the Black Chronicle that had been her constant companion for almost as long as she could remember.

Idiot. Stupid. What are you doing?

She stretched toward it for all she was worth, as though reaching for a missing part of herself.

I have to stay strong.

At last, her fingers touched the corner of the book, and the haze seemed to lift from her mind. Screams, roars, gurgles, all manner of cries rushed into her ears, suddenly brought into sharp relief.

“Lady Aura!” von Spitz exclaimed. “Please, you must hold on!”

“I’m all right. Don’t worry.”

Aura cradled the book to her chest and rose to her feet. She staggered and almost fell, but planted her feet and braced a hand against the wall until she was stable.

“You mustn’t move, my lady. You took a blow to the head.”

Von Spitz seemed intent on making her rest, but Aura shook her head. “No time. Assess the damage. And keep an eye on the enemy.”

If the Faerzen Resistance attacked now, the fort’s fall would be guaranteed. With one hand pressed to her still-throbbing skull, she briskly set about issuing orders to von Spitz and the rest of her aides.

“Send the reserves with the fewest casualties to man the battlements. Move the injured under the walls for treatment. If there aren’t enough doctors, have the walking wounded help. And fetch me a new desk and a map.”

For a long moment, von Spitz and the rest of the aides stood stock-still, stunned by the barrage of commands. Aura clapped her hands and glared—Get to it!—and they scattered like spiders.

She looked around the room and her gaze settled on a certain figure.

“And someone move that mewling idiot somewhere I don’t have to hear him.”

Buze von Krone rolled around the floor in agony, clutching the stump of his newly severed arm.

＊＊＊＊＊

A gentle blue sky stretched from horizon to horizon, inviting one to topple into it if they would only reach out their hands. The air was so peaceful and clear, it was hard to believe that humans could be vying for supremacy on the ground below. Hiro took no comfort in the sight, however. He gazed upward, frowning.

“Something up there caught your ire?” Garda remarked.

Hiro lowered his black eyes to face his lieutenant. “Not exactly. I felt something. Something strong.”

Moments earlier, a familiar presence had abruptly flared to the northwest. He cast one last glance after it and narrowed his eyes, but the chill he had felt up his spine did not return.

“I won’t fault you for worrying,” Garda grunted. “But for all our sakes, you’d do better to focus on the enemy before us.”

Hiro cracked a self-effacing grin. “You’re right. We have a battle to win.”

A host of soldiers in intimidating armor stretched out in front of him, trampling the peaceful atmosphere beneath thousands of armored boots. These were Hiro’s own forces. In the distance, far beyond their orderly ranks, a black shadow writhed.

The Draali nobles had gathered every man they could from the surrounding settlements in a bid to slow the Crow Legion’s advance. Imperial spies put their number at seven thousand, slightly above Huginn’s estimate. They had the conscripts at the center, shielded by a vanguard of career soldiers who would lead the charge. Cavalry units waited on both flanks. The layout, called the dragon-scale formation, excelled at punching through the enemy’s center.

“Not the most surprising choice,” Hiro observed. “Probably the only one they could have picked.”

“Teaching complex tactics to green conscripts in a matter of days would be a madman’s task,” Garda agreed. “But the dragon-scale is easily understood.”

The Crow Legion had taken a slightly different tack. Its light infantry had dismounted and taken up a somewhat recessed position in the center. To the flanks waited two wings of cavalry, the core of the army’s strength, looming over the enemy like a pair of unfurling wings. This was the dragon-wing formation, designed to anticipate an enemy charge. The above collectively made up the first cohort. The second cohort, a long column of cavalry, lay concealed behind them. The two together formed what was known as the iron lure formation.

“Time to show off the fruits of your training,” Hiro said.

Garda snorted. “I’ve learned well your penchant for madcap schemes. I made certain they could perform the iron lure if you called for it, or any number of other maneuvers besides.”

“I look forward to the results.” Hiro took a deep breath and thrust his right arm out to the side, signaling the riders. “Well, then. Showtime.”

The livery of the black dragon fluttered on the wind. A horn blasted, and the soldiers began to beat their spears against their shields. The cacophonous symphony shook the air and heated the blood. The troops’ battle cries resounded through the body to invigorating effect.

“Morale seems good. I suppose I’ll go and give our enemies something to think about.”

“I’ll command this rabble until you return. Good luck—not that you’ll need it.”

Hiro’s only reply was a wave over his shoulder. He cast a meaningful glance at Huginn as he left.

“Task force, move out!” she cried, understanding him perfectly. “Order in the ranks or you’ll be on latrine duty for a week!”

Hiro urged his swiftdrake forward. The task force followed, five hundred men in total, raising a cloud of dust behind them. The enemy spotted them easily on the flat plain but ventured no response beyond watching warily, seemingly unsure of what to make of their movements.

“We’ll circle around and attack them from behind,” Hiro said to Huginn.

“Got it, Your Lordship! Only...are you certain they’ll let us? We’re awfully easy to spot.”

“We don’t have to follow through if it’s looking dangerous. We’ve already done our job.”

“Eh? What d’you mean?”

Before answering, Hiro signaled to the standard-bearer. The task force’s banner waved. The main force, led by Garda, saw the signal and ground into motion, raising their own dust cloud.

“Our job is to show them our forces splitting up. That’s all.”

That, by itself, would breed confusion in the Draali command. Should they split up too, or should they commit all their men to crushing the Crow Legion’s main force? They would be well aware that the slightest hesitation could be lethal on this battlefield. A second’s hesitation could put either side on the back foot.

“And when a mediocre commander loses the initiative,” Hiro continued, “the first thing they’ll think of to compensate for their error is to charge straight at the heart of the enemy.”

Even as the words left his mouth, the Draali forces began to advance toward the main body of the Crow Legion.

“Let’s stop here for a bit. We’ll keep an eye on their movements, consider how to respond, and pick our time to strike.”

“D’you mind if I ask you something, Your Lordship?” Huginn asked hesitantly.

“Was I unclear about anything?”

“No, no, nothing like that. It’s only, well...”

Hiro cocked his head as the woman hemmed and hawed. “You can ask me anything. I don’t mind.”

“No, it’s just, I... Argh, I’m sorry!” Apparently convinced that she had offended him, she thrust her head down into a panicked bow.

“I’m not annoyed or anything. Just tell me what’s wrong.”

He offered her a gentle smile to calm her nerves, but she couldn’t quite meet his gaze. Eventually, fiddling with her reins, she turned to him with upturned eyes.

“Right. Well, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but...”

Hiro nodded, more curious than anything else, and waited for her to continue.

“I’m just wondering...how come we’re here in Draal at all? I figured we’d be marching into Faerzen and rescuing Liz, all heroic-like. I mean, if any commander could pull that off, it’s you.”

So that was what had been bothering her. It was a natural question to have, and there was no reason to be cagey about the answer.

Hiro held up a hand with his index finger raised. “The first reason is politics. If we joined forces with Third Prince Brutahl, the western nobles would run away with all the credit.” He lifted a second finger. “The second is to compensate for Liz’s and Aura’s mistakes. Tepid results won’t satisfy the emperor. I need a victory so decisive that nobody could find fault with it.” And finally a third finger. “Lastly, invading Draal will come in useful down the road. It’s not a certain thing, but it could pay off in the long run.”

“Huh. That makes sense...I think.” Huginn scrunched up her face and fell silent, clearly making an effort to think his words over. That alone made the explanation worthwhile.

Hiro turned his attention back to the battlefield just as the armies collided. Ringing steel and battle cries drifted to their position on the wind. An enormous plume of dust rose over the fighting, flecked with red gore.

“There they go. Hopefully they’ll all be focused forward.”

“Aye.” Huginn nodded. “Looks like they’ve fallen for it hook, line, and sinker. But surely some will realize what we’re planning? Won’t they flee?”

“Some might, but thousands of charging soldiers are like a flood. They’ll have no choice but to be carried along.”

This was where the iron lure formation would truly shine. Its soft center invited the enemy deep into its heart, focusing their attention to the fore. The Draali front lines would already be experiencing the illusion that they were winning—that they could push on through to victory.

“They’ll pour into the breach, not even suspecting that they’re being guided.”

Unfortunately, it was not victory that they would find, but the Crow Legion’s second cohort. The long column of cavalry would slam through the hole that the Draali forces had worked so hard to tear, crumpling their front line utterly. The enemy would try to fall back, only to find the first cohort’s wings hemming them in on either side. More than anything else, their own momentum would work against them; the trained infantry of the vanguard would be crushed between the Crow Legion’s cavalry in front and their own conscripts in the rear.

“So what now?” Hiro asked. “Do you plan to sit and watch as the rest of our forces win the battle?”

Huginn’s eyes widened. She had been so engrossed in watching his plans unfold that she had completely forgotten herself. Her face flushed red.

“Of course not, Your Lordship! My apologies!”

The Crow Legion’s victory was already guaranteed without the task force joining the fray, but the Draali army’s death throes would be vicious. They were fighting for their homeland, for their families. They would dig in their heels to their last breaths.

“Give the signal,” Hiro commanded. “Let’s break their spirits.”

Why waste a chance to reduce the Crow Legion’s losses? The task force was, after all, perfectly positioned to strike at the enemy’s rear.

“Task force, charge!” Huginn cried. “We’ll fall on them from behind!”

She spurred her horse into a gallop. Hiro nudged his swiftdrake after her and was soon keeping pace. The rest of the task force readied their lances and followed them, burning with battle fervor.

“Look, Huginn. One of their commanders knows what they’re doing.”

Realizing that they were being surrounded, perhaps four hundred cavalry had broken away from the Draali army’s right flank. It was an astute response. Against another commander, it might have worked.

Hiro cast a sideways glance at Huginn. Embarrassment seemed to have galvanized her anger.

“I’ll teach you to stand in my way!” she shouted at the oncoming cavalry, her voice suddenly filled with authority. “Hear me, soldiers of Draal! See our black standard and tremble! The War God’s favor is with us!”

She let her reins drop and stood up in her saddle. Without wobbling an inch, she plucked several arrows from her quiver and launched them in quick succession. Each carved a perfect arc to find its place behind a soldier’s eyebrows. The rest of the task force answered her show of skill with valor of their own. Their lances glinted in the sun as they slipped deftly through Draali armor, sending men tumbling from horseback. Those of the enemy who were lucky enough to survive the onslaught were trampled beneath the horseshoes of the soldiers behind.

“Gyaah!”

The task force’s fury would not be halted. Blood sprayed in all directions. The stench of death befouled the air. Emerging from the cloud of gore, they collided with the rear of the Draali army. The trap fell shut and the massacre began.

The Crow Legion painted hell across the battlefield with a crimson brush. Unable to muster the will to resist, the enemy fled in disarray, making easy prey for imperial spears. Blades dyed the earth red as they supped on blood.

Only the enemy’s surrender could bring an end to the bloodshed, which required taking their commander captive. Hiro and his unit rode hard for the heart of the enemy army. By the time they arrived, however, a white flag was already flying.

Garda stood beneath the banner, grinning smugly. “Huginn. You’re late. Enjoying the scenery?”

Behind him, Muninn’s nostrils flared with pride. “I’ve got all the Draali nobles you could want right here, chief! Tied ’em up nice and neat!”

The Draali army’s leaders knelt in a line in front of the pair, bound with ropes.

“Losing to the boss is one thing...but to my oaf of a brother?”

Huginn looked positively stupefied to see her chance at glory snatched away. After she had fought so fiercely in the name of reclaiming her dignity, Garda had beaten her to the punch. If she had been quicker off the mark, their positions might have been reversed. Still, there was no point in bringing up might-have-beens. Hiro patted her back in consolation.

“There’s still plenty of fighting left to go,” he said. “You’ll have other chances.”

“I’ll outshine them all next time.” She pouted. “Even the boss.”

“That’s the spirit. Soon, you’ll be teaching him.”

Garda nodded in agreement. “You pick things up like a sponge, girl. You’ll surpass me in no time.”

“I-I don’t know about that!” Huginn shook her head forcefully at the unexpected praise.

“I’ll train you well once we’re back down south. You’d best be prepared.”

“I look forward to it!” The woman beamed so brightly that Garda practically had to squint against the glare.

The zlosta turned and shot Hiro a disparaging glance. “And I’ll not suffer the One-Eyed Dragon to steal my every glory. I offer no apologies for seizing this day.”

“By all means. The more you all compete with one another, the less work left for me.”

Letting Garda’s challenge wash over him, Hiro surveyed the battlefield. The enemy’s main force had put up a white flag. More and more soldiers were laying down their arms and surrendering.

As he looked around, he caught a glimpse of something odd: a standard buried in the mud. It belonged to the Draali army, but it was not the flag of the grand duchy. That was unusual. Typically, imperial armies would fly either the royal family’s crest or the livery of their own house, the Draali equivalent of which was the flag of its ruler, the grand duke, but the standard in the mud was one that Hiro did not recognize.

Why weren’t they carrying their ruler’s colors?

In search of answers, Hiro dismounted his swiftdrake and approached the captured nobles. He kept his introduction brief. “A pleasure to meet you. I am Hiro Schwartz von Grantz.”

The men’s eyes widened at his name.

He continued. “You are nobles of the Grand Duchy of Draal, is that correct?”

Making sure to watch their faces for any flicker of a reaction, he swept his gaze over their armor, but none of them bore the sigil he had seen on the flag.

“You...” one of the nobles stammered. “You are the scion of the War God.”

“Surprised? Don’t worry. People often are.”

“I hope this victory tastes sweet while it lasts. We may die here, but Lord Handhaven will avenge us.”

“Ah. The grand duke’s second son.”

“So you know of him. Even now, he rides to bring you justice at the head of twenty thousand men.”

The noble seemed to have misinterpreted Hiro’s response, but Hiro saw no need to correct him.

“Excellent,” he said, never letting his smile drop. “Then I can question him myself.”

He had considered interrogating the nobles about the first son’s activities, but if the second son was coming in person, there was no need.

“That means I don’t have a reason to interrogate you anymore. Lucky you.” He called Garda over. “We’ll take them captive. Try to get anything you can out of them regarding the grand duke’s second son, but don’t be too rough. They’re to be treated well.”

“Treated well, hm? That’s a tall order, but if I must. Will that be all?”

Garda’s implicit question was clear—did Hiro not intend to ask the nobles about Liz and the events in Faerzen?

“They’ll know what’s happening within their own borders, but much less about events farther afield. We’d only be causing ourselves needless worry. I’d rather get the full picture directly from this Handhaven.”

He directed Muninn to make camp, then turned to stare at the dark sky to the northwest. His eyes narrowed.

＊＊＊＊＊

Raindrops spattered down from the looming clouds. It was evening, and the cold wind from the Travant Mountains was bringing on a rapid chill. The soldiers assigned to tend the bonfires glared resentfully at the sky, covering their coals with treated leather to protect them from the damp. The dinner shift was in a flurry as well, scrambling to salvage what they could as their cookfires went out.

Within the large tent in the center of the Faerzen Resistance’s camp, located three sel from Fort Mitte, Culann Scáthach du Faerzen awoke with a start. Her face was gray and sickly. As she swept her vacant gaze over the tent, she caught sight of the man by the entrance. His name was Rache du Vertra. In the days that the palace of Faerzen still stood tall, he had been the captain of the royal guard.

“Your Highness,” he said, expelling a sigh of relief. “I had begun to fear that you would never wake.”

“I passed out, then.” Scáthach pressed a hand to her aching forehead, like she was recalling an unpleasant memory, and emerged from the covers.

“You must not push yourself so, Your Highness,” Rache insisted, hurrying forward to stop her. “Eat. Rest. Recover your strength.”

“I wish to breathe fresh air. And to see the fruits of my labor.”

She made her way to the entrance with uncertain steps. Rache offered her his arm, but she refused it. Her pride would not permit her to accept assistance.

At last, she emerged into the outside world and looked around, filling her lungs with crisp evening air.

“So I failed. Fort Mitte still stands.”

The fortress’s formidable silhouette rose in the distance, veiled in rain.

“We pressed the attack in the aftermath of your assault,” Rache explained, “but the enemy were unexpectedly coordinated. They offered no openings. I can only apologize, Your Highness. We squandered the opportunity that you bought us, and at such a cost to your own health.”

“Don’t belittle yourself. Praise the enemy commander. This Warmaiden is a tactician without peer. If anything, her reputation understates her capabilities.” Scáthach’s voice was bitter. Her azure spear appeared in her hand, seemingly out of thin air.

Rache’s face betrayed no flicker of surprise. He had witnessed the sight many times before. “You must not use that power again,” he insisted. Anger infused his voice as he stepped closer to his princess. “Every time, it renders you unconscious. It is surely killing you.”

“I know. But when I saw that despicable face...my rage could not be contained.”

Rache’s brows knitted apprehensively. “Who do you mean, Your Highness?”

“Buze von Krone.”

She said nothing more, but it was enough. Rache ground his teeth. Palpable bloodlust emanated from his body. His fists squeezed so tightly that blood ran down them, dropping from his knuckles to soak into the mud. His eyes flared, his breathing grew ragged, and it was clear that he was only containing himself by force of will.

“Do you see? The mere mention of his name sends you into a rage. How could you expect me to hold back after seeing the man in person?” Scáthach’s long lashes fluttered as she looked up at the black clouds. A single tear-trail traced a path down her cheek. “I thought of how he murdered my father. How he tormented my mother and brothers before killing them too. My mind went blank, and before I knew it, I had used the spear.”

Scáthach had not personally witnessed the razing of Faerzen. By royal decree, she had been studying in Six Kingdoms when the empire invaded. Several times, she had tried to hasten to her homeland’s defense, but every time, she had been stopped by her retainers. “His Majesty’s orders,” they had said as they implored her to keep herself concealed.

After Faerzen fell, Six Kingdoms had turned her out—although the two nations had once been allies, she had become too dangerous to protect. When at last she returned home, she had been greeted by a harrowing sight. The once-famed shopfronts of the royal capital stood in ruins, the houses of the residential districts were blackened and burned, the stench of rotting corpses befouled the air, and the people were abused like slaves by the imperial invaders. Her homeland had seemed condemned to a slow death beneath a conqueror’s boot—a fate that she could not and would not accept.

“If I had not chanced to meet you, I daresay I would have tried to fight the entire imperial army by myself.”

Scáthach had been hellbent on vengeance, but Rache, who had been lying low in the capital at the time, had stopped her. It was from him that she had learned of her family’s fate. Her mother, the queen consort, had given her body to Buze in exchange for her younger brothers’ lives, while her father had offered his head in exchange for the people’s safety. The future administrator had kept neither promise. He had beheaded Scáthach’s brothers in front of the queen, then abused and killed her as she wept over their bodies.

“How my brothers must have suffered. How my mother must have grieved. I hear them, Rache. Night after night. They call out to me, commanding me to avenge them. In my dreams I see their faces, and they beg me to take his head.”

The hiss of the rain washed her sobs away, but her anger remained. In the depths of her tearstained eyes raged purest hellfire.

“I will die before I show him an ounce of mercy.”

She had taken up leadership of the Faerzen Resistance to avenge her mother and younger brothers’ murders. She would expel the empire from her homeland to honor her father and older brother’s memory.

“I was impressed by your restraint when we took the sixth princess,” Rache said. “I expected you to cut off her head.”

Scáthach’s brow furrowed. “I have my family’s pride to uphold. The royal line of Faerzen does not slay women and children.” Her voice softened from a declaration to a confession. “But it does sit ill with me to leave her in Draali hands. What say you?”

“I agree. I would prefer to take her into our own care...but we cannot afford to offend our allies. Their withdrawal would drastically weaken our position.”

“This Puppchen makes my skin crawl. And even setting my personal feelings aside, our alliance with him makes me uneasy. No doubt he seeks to use us to some private end.”

“Use us, you say...” Rache stroked his chin pensively. “For something beyond securing his position in his homeland, you mean?”

“Precisely. My doubts were small enough to ignore at first, but they have only grown with time.” Scáthach extended a hand from the cover of the tent and felt the patter of rain in her palm. “Tell me, why did he lend his aid to our cause?”

“Because of his peace accord with Steissen, no? He could not very well break it with the ink barely dry. Winning glory in Faerzen was the easiest way to silence his nobles’ complaints.”

“Even if he had to attack the empire to do so? That is not a trade many would accept.”

“Perhaps so, but it’s less suspicious when one considers that he had no other option.”

“Would a man who quails at noble dissent be bold enough to risk the fall of his entire nation?”

“Hm. True enough. Which would suggest that some third party is pulling his strings.” Rache nodded, affirming the notion to himself, and turned to look directly at Scáthach. “Six Kingdoms, perhaps?”

Six Kingdoms was a coalition of nations under a single high king, situated in a region known as Klim to the west of Faerzen. The high king’s bloodline claimed dominion over the entire coalition, so competition for the crown was fierce. Cutthroat politics was a fact of life as each kingdom strove to better its station by any means necessary.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. I cannot be certain, but...”

There was no denying that everything was working to their benefit. If the Faerzen Resistance prevailed, Six Kingdoms would be the first to extend a helping hand, regardless of the fact that they had cast Scáthach out. The Resistance would be in no position to refuse, and Faerzen would be subject to occupation by yet another power. Meanwhile, if the empire proved victorious, Six Kingdoms could easily marshal its forces to drive the exhausted western nobles out of the region and back across the border. The two nations would go to war with Faerzen as their battleground, and Six Kingdoms would have the chance to ravage the imperial west without risking any of its own soil.

“Besides, the timing of Puppchen’s proposal was suspiciously convenient.”

If Scáthach was honest with herself, the Faerzen Resistance would have been routed if the Draali forces had not arrived when they had. The Warmaiden’s schemes were fearsome indeed. The girl had made herself bait, feigning isolation in Fort Mitte to draw the Resistance out of hiding and crush them in one fell swoop. Scáthach had fallen for the ruse, suspending her guerrilla warfare campaign to gather her forces and lay down a siege. By the time she had realized she’d been tricked, the sixth princess had already shut the trap.

“It was only thanks to Puppchen’s intervention that we survived the battle, let alone won it,” she said. “True, we let the Warmaiden slip through our clutches, but that was a small price to pay for our lives.”

“And that left us with no choice but to work with our benefactors,” Rache agreed. “We could not even demand custody of the sixth princess.”

“Indeed. I suspect that Puppchen intends to use her to strike a deal with Six Kingdoms. Either that or he will give them Faerzen as a token of his goodwill.” Scáthach grimaced; it would be unwise to make any rash assumptions, but it was worth keeping such possibilities in mind. “Of course, we cannot discount the possibility that the empire has foreseen even that.”

Rache sighed, pinching the furrow between his eyes. “I fear that peace for Faerzen is far off yet.”

Scáthach nodded quietly. Everything had seemed so simple in the beginning—expel the empire, reclaim her homeland. Now she was beginning to see that victory would bring no end to the strife, only the looming specter of a new war.

“It seems the future holds nothing but more of the present.”

Before she knew it, her homeland had become ensnared in all manner of plots and schemes. The web they formed was deep and dark, snarling a path that had once seemed straight into an ever more convoluted knot.

“Soon the rain will clear, but my heart remains clouded.”

Scáthach lifted her eyes to the sky, where a single shaft of light pierced the darkness. The conflict had no end in sight, but the more she worried about where it might lead, the more entangled she grew.

She gazed up at the fort where the Warmaiden still held out, her thoughts growing darker by the second. Just as she was about to succumb to despair, she slapped her cheeks to clear her mind. “I must not dwell on such things. First, I will take Buze von Krone’s head. There is no way but onward, step by step.”

“Indeed, Your Highness,” Rache said. “Leave tomorrow’s troubles for tomorrow. We still have battles to win today.”

“We must break the fort as soon as we can. At this stage, anything could happen.”

The Grantzian Empire, the Grand Duchy of Draal, and Six Kingdoms all had designs on Faerzen. Getting mired in a battle of attrition against the Warmaiden of all commanders would be disastrous.

“Soon we’ll launch an all-out assault. Until then, I want you to investigate Puppchen. If he tries anything, I want to be ready.”

“Understood, Your Highness.”

As Rache bowed his head, the sound of shouting rang out to their right.

“What’s that?” Scáthach asked. “A brawl, perhaps?”

Rache grimaced. “If so, I will see the guilty parties thoroughly disciplined. This is no time for squabbling.”

The pair set out in the direction of the jeers. A curious atmosphere hung over the camp, something complex and raw. They threaded their way through the soldiers’ tents until they came to the large, open space where the men ate their meals. Puppchen was there, as was his guard. He was announcing something to the Resistance soldiers, punctuating his speech with grandiose gestures.

“Come, come! Who will cast a stone? Or mud, if it takes your fancy! The rain’s left us with plenty! What brave man will step forward to seize this chance?!”

Behind his back stood a cage. Scáthach had seen it before and she would not soon forget it.

“I’ll do it!” a man cried. “The thrice-cursed imperials robbed me of my family!”

“Aye, and me!” shouted another. “The dogs killed my wife! Let’s see how they like losing what they love!”

A burned home. A kidnapped sister. A father tortured for trumped-up crimes. The soldiers’ grievances were many. A crowd began to form around Liz’s cage.

Puppchen cast a sly glance at Scáthach and brought his horse near. “Care to cast a stone, Your Highness? I’d wager a woman of your strength could take a finger clean off.”

“What are you doing here, Lord Puppchen?”

“Oh, don’t glare at me so. The sixth princess has been doing a wonderful job of raising my men’s spirits. I simply wondered if your soldiers might care to join in the fun.” He dismounted and picked up a rock from the ground with a childlike grin. “She has grown rather used to the pain, I’m afraid, but I’d fancy you could draw a fine scream from her yet.”

He held out the rock to Scáthach, but she knocked his hand aside with unconcealed anger.

“It is ill-becoming to make sport of a prisoner.”

“Why so angry? Your men seem pleased enough.”

“Have you not an ounce of chivalry in your body? I’ll hear no more of this.” She stalked past him and rounded on the soldiers gathered around the cage, her face twisted in fury. “What do you think you are doing?! Abusing a prisoner? Is this how the proud defenders of Faerzen conduct themselves?!”

Her voice was loud enough to send a tremor through the air. The soldiers sprang away from the cage as though repelled, revealing its contents. Scáthach’s jaw fell slack as she finally saw what lay within.

“What in the world?”

At first, she doubted her eyes. The cage was so full of broken bottles and stones of various sizes, she didn’t immediately realize that there was anybody inside at all. Only after a moment did she see Liz kneeling buried in the debris.

“How awful...”

Rache joined her. His eyes widened and his hands flew to his mouth as he caught sight of the cage.

Liz’s uniform was in tatters, sporting ragged tears all over, and the exposed skin of her back was scored with deep lacerations. The cuts were too numerous to be anomalies. Most likely, her whole body was covered in similar injuries.

Only when Scáthach came closer did she realize how poor a state Liz was truly in. The princess was curled up, hugging her knees, but what was visible of her cheeks was drawn and sunken, as though she hadn’t eaten in days. From her ragged breathing and heaving shoulders, she looked to be running a fever, most likely from an infected wound. Any ordinary woman would have been dead. The sheer extent of her maltreatment struck Scáthach dumb.

“Remarkable, is she not?” Puppchen chimed in. “How tenaciously she clings to life. Spiritblade wielders are monstrous indeed!”

“What possessed you to let her deteriorate like this?”

“Stripping away her Spiritblade’s defenses requires breaking her will—a will which has proven frustratingly stubborn. So I have been wearing her down as best I can, to the extent that her blessing will allow.” Puppchen’s voice took on a gleeful edge. “And yet its power still persists! Astonishing. Even in this hideous state, she won’t let me lay a finger on her. But there is only so long that will last.”

A grin spread across his face.

“Her blessing is more powerful than I had anticipated, but its protection appears to exact a heavy toll on the body. Some of my soldiers had outlived their usefulness, so I ran some experiments. Its decline is clear. It is no longer potent enough to kill.”

Puppchen’s grin became an obscene leer. Scáthach’s regard of him escalated beyond loathing and into fear.

“Your lips move,” she said, “and yet I can make no sense of your words.”

“Is that so? And here I thought I’d made it so simple for you. Well, no matter. I’d give her two more days before her Spiritblade rescinds its protection so as not to endanger her life. Once I’ve had my fun, she’s yours to do with as you like. Lop off her head if it pleases you.”

“I...” Scáthach paused to collect herself. “I do not recall you having such a grudge against her.”

“Oh, but I do. Very much so. Do you not feel the same?”

“Do I what?”

“Please. You know very well what I mean. That spoiled brat never wanted for anything in her life, yet because she had the fortune, the sheer dumb luck, to be chosen by a Spiritblade, now the entire continent calls her hero! Doesn’t it just make you sick?! No brains, no talent, a cozy life served to her on a silver platter, and still she saunters about the field lecturing the rest of us from on high, all while the first emperor’s own sword wins her glories and accolades with naught but a flick of the wrist! Bah! I did only what the rest of the world wishes it could do!”

“That is jealousy, nothing more. You have lost your mind.”

“Oh, no. I’m quite sane. Hee hee... Ha ha ha ha ha! Quite sane! Rest assured, I’ll toy with her until I’ve had my fill!” He cast a lecherous gaze at Liz, his smile widening maniacally. “And once I have...oh, then the fun will truly begin. I can’t wait to see how she’ll weep!”

Monstrous, Puppchen had called the wielders of the Spiritblades.

Then what does that make you?

Scáthach could only watch in silence, astounded that a human being could be so vile.

＊＊＊＊＊

Darkness lurked in the corners of the tent. The shroud of night had fallen, cold enough to chill flesh to the bone. An eerie wind howled outside.

Sleep had not come easily for the past few nights. Tiredness had failed to take him. His own body was rejecting the proposition, and he knew why. He was scared that if he did close his eyes, he would cease to be himself.

“Or maybe I just don’t want to face that dream again.”

He smiled ruefully as he gazed down at the map on the table, then retrieved a pen and ink and set about writing a letter by candlelight. The brisk clack of the pen settling down once he was done hung in the night air.

While the ink dried, he settled down and closed his eyes to meditate, breathing deeply as though forcing back the madness rising up from his stomach.

The candle’s flame guttered out.

All of a sudden, the tent fell into the grasp of darkness, leaving only the whistling of the wind. A sudden gust sent the flap fluttering. Through that slight gap slipped a sliver of moonlight. Hiro spotted something as the light fell on the table, and his fingers rose to his eyepatch. The stiff card he had received from Artheus was lying on the wood, where it had not been before.

A little of the card was still its original white. The rest had turned pitch black, as though it had been dipped in ink. A strange air swirled about it. Artheus had claimed that it was some kind of spirit seal, but Hiro was still none the wiser as to its function. He had searched through all manner of documents for clues but come away empty-handed.

After he had regained command of Excalibur’s power at Berg Fortress, Artheus had appeared before him in a dream and explained that a “singular spirit” resided within the seal. If that spirit was now manifesting of its own accord, it clearly had a will of its own.

“It’s more than just some lucky charm, that’s for certain,” he murmured to himself. “Not that Artheus would ever give me one of those.”

Without knowing how it worked, his options were limited. At the very least, he had an idea of what was prompting its change in color. The big question was what would happen once it turned entirely black.

“I wonder whether you’ve handed me a blessing or a curse.”

He gave a wry smile as Artheus’s face flitted across his mind and tucked the card back into his pocket. For a long while after, he sat still, staring into the darkness.

＊＊＊＊＊

The sky wept black rain. Ceaseless thunder shook the world, alongside something else between the peals—something like a wail of pain. Bodies lay sprawled on the ground in sickening abundance, and the earth was sown with broken swords.

Once, the castle had been as beautiful as it had been indomitable. Now, it no longer deserved either honor. Its front gate hung shattered. Its walls were crumbling. Flames wreathed the keep that had once been its pride and joy, a crackling symphony that set the hairs on end to hear.

Amidst the desolation stood Liz, looking around in confusion.

“Where...am I...?”

The last thing she remembered was being held captive by a cruel man named Puppchen. She looked down, and her eyes widened in surprise to see that her skin was unblemished. The wounds that she had received at his hands were nowhere to be seen.

“Is this...a dream?”

Yet the world around her seemed too vivid for that. The disquieting squelch of the mud beneath her feet, the cold wind tickling her skin, the stench of blood in her nostrils, the heat radiating from the blaze before her eyes—all of it felt too real. Unable to make sense of what was happening, she was left at a loss for what to do. The part of her convinced that everything was a dream clashed with the part certain it was reality, turning her mind into a confused mess—a state of affairs only worsened by the war-torn landscape, which assaulted her concentration and prevented her from consolidating her thoughts.

As she sank into desperation, the sword on her hip began to thrum. She looked down in surprise to see Lævateinn at her side. Its blade shone with crimson fire, as though urging her to pull herself together. A moment later, the glow transformed into a line of light, which extended toward the castle like a guiding finger.

“So I’m supposed to go in there?” she asked.

The Flame Sovereign didn’t respond.

“Fine. If you want me to go, I’ll go.”

With a shrug of resignation, she set out along the path indicated by the crimson light. Oddly, she felt no apprehension. Perhaps she had succeeded in convincing herself that she was only dreaming...or perhaps a part of her already sensed what lay in wait.

The doors to the white stone keep came into view as she passed through the burned-out gate. The courtyard was awash with blood. Scarlet droplets spattered the foliage. The flames from the keep had spread to the trees, setting them alight as well. Behind it all played the crash of collapsing masonry. It was, Liz thought, like looking into the mouth of hell.

Corpses lay scattered across the ground, reaching resentfully for the sky. No living lay among them. Questions abounded, but the most notable oddity was that there was no trace of the massacre’s perpetrators. This was a world with no survivors. Some merciless onslaught had scoured it clean, bringing death indiscriminately to all things.

That truth remained as Liz ventured deeper into the keep, picking her way around piles of rubble. At last, she arrived at what looked like it had once been a throne room.

“Ah...”

She gulped at the sight. There was one survivor in this world after all, and he wore a familiar face.

Black hair as soft as silk. Black eyes as beautiful as obsidian. Features so gentle that one would think he would never hurt a fly. There was no mistaking it. He was identical to the boy she knew, down to his outdated military attire, right down to the amiable smile that he wore to conceal his thoughts.

“Hiro?”

Liz’s pace unconsciously quickened. She had to see whether it was really him.

“What are you doing here? I don’t understand...”

But she slowed to a halt as she grew closer, sensing a wrongness about him.

“Hiro?”

She fell silent. Her throat produced no sound. Her mind forgot to breathe. With eyes wide in trepidation, she looked down at the object in his hand.

It was a human head.

There was no telling who it had belonged to, but its expression was twisted in pain.

At last, Liz registered the unsettling noise that had been filling the chamber ever since her arrival. Her gaze lowered to its source, drawn by a dreadful inevitability. A pool of blood spread at the boy’s feet. Drip, drip, drip, went the crimson droplets as they trickled down from the head’s severed stump.

So quiet was the noise, she should never have heard it at all. A discordant roar filled the castle like the crackling of charcoal in the grate. Yet all sound seemed to fade away except that which issued from the boy, as though he and she were cut off from the rest of the world.

His lips parted and a laugh slipped forth. “Ha ha...ha...ha ha.”

Despite his smile, his voice harbored a dreadful sadness. So painful was the sight that Liz felt compelled to comfort him; so violently did he shiver that she could not help but want to hold him. Yet, as the thought crossed her mind—

“Eh?!”

The boy’s eyes swung up to meet hers, seizing her heart in a viselike grip.

“Took you long enough.”

His voice was deathly cold. Its weight echoed in the pit of her stomach.

“I could topple countless castles...and I could cut down countless men...”

He wept as though expelling some vast inner pain.

“But never again will my heart run over.”

The light had left his gaze. His heart was truly withered.

“I knew this wouldn’t bring me any relief. I knew it only too well.”

Only darkness swirled within the tearstained onyx of his eyes.

“But then...what am I supposed to do?”

He was so close to the edge, the slightest touch might push him over. Liz could not guess at what he might have suffered. All she knew was that, if she could help him in no other way, she at least wanted to offer him words of comfort.

“Don’t you worry,” she said. “I’ll grow strong. Strong enough for you to depend on.”

Strong enough that you won’t have to cry anymore—or so she tried to say, but the castle shuddered violently before she could continue. Impacts rocked her body almost hard enough to knock her flat.

The world was coming down.

Rubble fell from the crumbled ceiling, raising clouds of white dust where it landed. Embers swirled like a blizzard, filling the air. As the castle fell apart around them, Liz hurriedly reached out to take the boy’s hand.

“It’ll be all right! I’ll protect you! Just take my— Agh!”

Alas, her fingers grasped only empty air. More falling stone shook the castle, knocking her off-balance. For a moment, her eyes pitched down to the ground, and by the time she looked back up, an ocean of fire had erupted between them.

“Come back!”

She could feel the boy’s presence receding.

“Hiro!”

The name sprang to her lips, but in truth, she could not even be certain that it was really him.

“Get back here!”

She willed herself to follow him, but her legs seemed to be rooted to the spot. She stretched out a desperate hand, but he was already far out of reach.

“Why won’t you move?!” she snapped, staring down resentfully at her legs. “Of all the times... Hiro, wait!”

Over and over she called his name, refusing to give up hope, but the boy vanished into the sea of fire without a backward glance. She thumped her leg in frustration and looked around, racking her brains frantically. There had to be something she could do, some way to help him...

“Giving up so easily?”

An unfamiliar voice rang out from behind her. Its lofty timbre stood out in stark relief against this world glutted with death.

Slowly, fearfully, Liz turned around. There stood a young man. Haughty and imperious, arrogant and glorious, calm and collected—no word seemed quite enough to contain him. The gaudy silver and gold embroidery sewn into his old imperial military uniform was in hideous taste but, aggravatingly, it somehow suited him perfectly.

“A pity,” the young man continued. “I did not.”

“Who are you?” Liz asked.

He grinned, spreading his arms wide as though to emphasize his presence. “I am Leon Welt Artheus von Grantz, founder of the empire that will conquer the heavens themselves.”

It was a ridiculous claim, and yet it rang true. His voice, his manner, his bearing... All marked him as a ruler. Here was a true lion, a king among kings.

“Pick up your jaw, little lady. We have not much time.”

“B-But... You’re the first emperor?”

“Listen well, little lady. That boy you saw—”

“Hiro, right? I saw! He was just here, and he was so sad!”

All of a sudden, Liz realized that she could move again. She dashed up to Artheus, seized him by the shoulders, and shook him—or at least, she tried. The man did not move an inch except for the lips of his handsome face, which twitched into a crooked smile.

“Ha ha ha. You are an amusing one.”

“This is no time to be standing around laughing! We have to go and help him!”

“That I know all too well. But first, you must calm yourself.” Artheus laid a chastising hand on her head. “There is something I would ask of you. I shall only say it once, so listen well.”

“What?”

“You must save him.”

Beneath those four short words, Liz sensed a fathomless ocean. A flood of regret crashed over her heart, so forceful that she thought her chest might split in two.

“To my shame,” Artheus continued, “I could not.”

“But how?” she asked.

“You will catch up to him someday. I know you have it in you. When that day comes, you will know what to do.” He ruffled her hair and stepped back with a smile. “And now I must bid you farewell.”

His lips curled into an impish grin, as though there was nothing more to be said.

“Hey! Wait!” Liz shouted after him. “You can’t just say your piece and leave!”

Artheus’s earnest eyes looked straight into her own. “It is a presumptuous thing I ask of you, this I know. But I must ask even so.”

His smile never faltered, but his expression seemed somehow desperately sad. On some instinctual level, Liz understood that he was lamenting his own powerlessness, that he wept for the fact that he could no longer save his friend.

“He is my brother, after all.”

He was just like Hiro, Liz realized with a start. He was suppressing his own emotions to maintain a veneer of calm.

The strange world she had found herself in gave her no time to dwell on that observation. She felt a surge of power swelling at her hip and looked down.

“Lævateinn? What are you—?”

A heartbeat later, a torrent of flame erupted from the crimson blade. The firestorm spread, rapidly engulfing Liz’s surroundings. The Spiritblade was trying to extract her from this world before it crumbled, she could tell, but she could not leave yet. She still had things left to accomplish.

“Don’t just stand there, do somethi— Hey, where’d you go?!”

She swung around, but the young man had disappeared. The space where he had been standing was covered in rubble. Apparently, leaving without so much as a goodbye was simply how things were done in this world.

She glared down at Lævateinn in frustration. “Stop that! I can’t leave yet! I have to go after Hiro!”

But her protests were in vain. The blade only flared brighter.

“Agh—”

Liz crossed her arms to shield her eyes from the glare, but it only grew. Soon, even her arms were no shield. It pierced her eyelids and scorched her eyeballs.

All of a sudden, the light receded. Liz gingerly opened her eyes. Darkness spread out before her, a world dyed as black as the abyss. For a moment, she wondered if her eyes might still be shut. The roar of the burning castle had faded away, leaving only the muted chirping of insects.

“Was that all...just a dream?”

It was hard to believe that it could have been real—but the grief in the black-haired boy’s face still lingered in her mind’s eye, and his whispered words still held her chest in that viselike grip. In the first place, it was unclear whether she was currently anywhere more real. She tried to raise herself to her feet to check, but—

“Ouch!”

Agony lanced through her fingers. She gritted her teeth and bore it. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes. The pain seemed to pull her back to reality; the slightest motion was enough to send her body into protest.

“Oww...”

She glanced down at her hand. The light was faint and flickering, but she could tell that her fingers were wrapped in bandages. Certainty that she was awake flooded through her as she saw the bloodstains on her fingertips. Those were the spots where Puppchen had pulled out her nails.

“Nnn...”

For a while she lay groaning as pain wracked her body.

“I see you’re awake,” said a voice from above.

Liz flinched at the sound. Her breath caught in her throat. The thought of being tortured again made her mind swim, but she could not let him win. Resolving not to break, she raised her head.

“Eh?”

What she saw left her blinking in surprise. It was not the man she had feared looking down at her, but somebody else.

“Rest assured, I am not Lord Puppchen. You need not stare at me with such terror.”

The lamplight hovered closer, picking the face of a young woman out of the darkness. Distantly, Liz supposed that her captor must be trying to see her better. She knew who this was, she realized: Culann Scáthach du Faerzen, the last surviving member of the Faerzen royal line. The woman’s face still had its usual cool composure, but it was oddly drawn, as though she had not slept.

“What do you want?” Mistrust flared in Liz’s eyes. She adopted a haughty demeanor, wary of letting any weakness show.

Scáthach, in contrast, only smiled wearily. “The night is chill. I thought you could make use of this.”

She extended a hand into the cage and passed Liz a thick woolen blanket.

“Is there something you want? Is that it?”

Liz scrutinized Scáthach’s face for any hint of an ulterior motive, but no matter how hard she stared, she could detect nothing more beneath the woman’s smile. The act of charity appeared to have been just that. Her eyes widened in surprise.

“Why would you be so kind to me?”

The last time the pair had met, Liz would have thought nothing of accepting Scáthach’s kindness. Now that she knew the woman’s true identity, however, she could not help but doubt the authenticity of the gesture. She was all too aware of Faerzen’s ill treatment at imperial hands, as well as the cruel fate of Scáthach’s family.

“This is no act of special kindness. I would offer the same to any prisoner, imperial princess or not.” Scáthach’s brow furrowed as she cocked her head at Liz. “Although I see that answer does not satisfy you.”

“Puppchen told me about you.”

“I see. Then I cannot fault your suspicions, I suppose.”

“Well, why wouldn’t I be suspicious? You have every reason to hate the empire.”

“You’re skirting the point. If you mean to say something, say it plain. I’ll listen.”

With a sigh, Scáthach stepped away from the cage. She returned a few moments later holding a chair, upon which she took a seat. She leveled her turquoise eyes at Liz, prompting her to continue.

There was no point in trying to feel one another out. Liz cut directly to the point. “I’m a princess of the empire. Shouldn’t you hate my guts?”

“I do hate you, if I am quite honest. More than a little. But I could never forgive myself if I took my anger out on a prisoner.”

Scáthach was evidently a woman of honor. There was no hint of falsehood in her words. At the very least, she appeared willing to engage with Liz honestly.

“Besides, tormenting you would bring me no relief. You are not an object of my vengeance.”

“Then who is?”

“What would you do if I gave you their names? Would you see justice done in my stead?”

“I’d want to help you. Insofar as I could.”

That claim held little weight coming from a prisoner, but it was true nonetheless. If Liz were freed, she intended to conduct an investigation into what she had learned and support Faerzen to the best of her ability. If that meant punishing soldiers who had failed to uphold military protocol—or their commanders—then they would be punished.

“You are kind, and your heart is pure. Qualities wasted on the name of von Grantz.” Something glimmered in Scáthach’s eyes that might have been admiration before she shook her head as though to refute it. “But that alone is not enough. You lack for station. If you truly wish to punish these fiends for their depravity, you must ascend to the highest echelons of power and bring about change from above.”

“Are your enemies really that powerful?”

If rising to the very top of the empire was truly the only way to thwart them, it was not hard to guess the final goal of Scáthach’s vendetta.

“Unless, of course,” the woman continued, “you were to renounce your titles and take up arms against your homeland. Do you have that resolve?”

“I...” Liz searched for an answer and fell silent as she realized that she did not have one.

“Many things can be solved through kindness alone, but for some, only violence will suffice. If you have not the will to use it, you ought not offer your allegiance so readily.”

Scáthach’s words struck home like hammer blows. If Liz had surmised correctly where the woman’s spear was pointed, there truly was no way but rebellion—but that would destroy everything that she had worked so hard to build. It would be a harsh road, and those she cared about would not be shielded from harm. With neither the power to bring change from within nor the resolve to forsake Hiro and the rest of her allies, she was helpless to bring the guilty to justice. Her bold words had been just that—words. She ground her teeth and looked down in shame.

“Sixth Princess Celia Estrella Elizabeth von Grantz of the Grantzian Empire.”

Her own name rang in the silence like a small pebble falling into a still pool. She looked up. Scáthach had fallen to one knee before the cage and bowed her head.

“I apologize if my words have offended you. You are the bearer of a pure and noble heart, and I would not see it tarnished.” The woman’s lips pulled into the faintest of smiles, as alluring and beautiful as a wildflower blooming on a vast plain. “Lend not your hand to a vagabond such as I, lest you find it stained with blood. My vengeance is mine to deliver.”

The expression was gone so quickly that Liz doubted her eyes. Even as she questioned what she had seen, Scáthach reasserted her usual stoic mask.

“Even if you were empress, I would still have turned you down.” Scáthach closed her eyes, walked over to a nearby table, and returned with a wooden bowl. “I have nothing more to say, and I would ask nothing more of you,” she said, offering the bowl through the bars. “Here. Eat. It’s grown a little cold, but you must be hungry.”

Liz said nothing. Scáthach’s unexpected apology and the abrupt end to the conversation had left her uncertain what to say.

“It’s not poisoned, if that’s what you fear. Although I would not fault you if you did not believe me.” Scáthach glanced at the spoon and her shoulders slumped. “I only offer you wood for want of silver, I assure you, but I understand your trepidation.”

Having completely misinterpreted Liz’s silence, she scratched her head awkwardly, clearly at a loss.

“It’s all right. I believe you.” Liz all but swiped the bowl away and gulped the soup down. She grimaced in pain as it touched the cuts inside her mouth.

Scáthach laughed. “You are an amusing one. But there’s no need to eat quite so quickly. Nobody is going to take it away from you.”

She took a seat on the chair and watched affectionately as Liz ate. “I had a sister your age, you know. She was kind, like you. And like you, she was out to prove that anything a man could do, she could do better.”

The woman’s eyes softened as they turned toward bygone days.

Liz could not bring herself to reply. Scáthach’s sister had returned to her as a corpse, she knew, having died the most horrific of deaths. Just how deep must the woman’s anger run? Could Liz have endured the horrors she had suffered? The minutes passed in silence, with Liz poring over questions and finding no answers.

“Thank you,” she said at last as she set down her empty bowl.

“You can have another helping if you’d like.”

“I’m quite full. But I appreciate it.”

She passed the bowl back through the bars. Silence fell over the tent as the conversation came to a halt. For a long while, neither spoke, but Scáthach made no move to leave. She remained in the chair, staring listlessly at Liz.

“I have one last question for you,” she said at last.

“Go ahead.”

“What was it that you were dreaming about?”

Liz’s first instinct was to lie. Why Scáthach had asked that, she did not know, but the subject of her Spiritblade was best not raised lightly. Lævateinn’s rarity made it particularly attractive to a large number of people—not least, would-be “researchers” like Puppchen.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t remember.”

“If you do not wish to say, I will not force you.” Scáthach didn’t seem offended by the attempt to avoid the question. She continued evenly. “But allow me to offer you one warning: do not delve too deep or you will find yourself unable to return.”

Liz blinked. “How did you know?”

“I suppose I’ll tell you plain. Hiding the truth would only make matters more confusing. I too wield a Spiritblade.”

Scáthach curled her right hand in empty air. Fine motes of light swirled around her fingers before flaring with a sudden light. A spear appeared in her grasp. It was an exquisite weapon, with a haft of clear azure and an iridescent head that shone as though it were encrusted with jewels.

“Gáe Bolg,” Liz breathed. “The Boreal Sovereign. I thought I sensed something, but I couldn’t be sure...”

She gazed at the spear with no small amount of surprise. Never once in history had a Spiritblade Sovereign chosen a master from outside the empire. While it was possible that such individuals had existed and simply never been recorded, at the very least, when one opened a textbook they would find only the names of Grantzian royalty.

“As for why it chose me, I could not say...but that is a matter for another time. We were talking about your dream. Although...” Scáthach pursed her lips, having seemingly remembered something. She set a hand to her chin as she looked between Lævateinn and Liz. “Before we do, tell me. Are you aware that the Spiritblades possess wills of their own?”

Liz agonized over whether to respond, but at last, with a sigh, she gave up on her facade. There wasn’t much point trying to keep secrets from a fellow Spiritblade wielder.

“I am. Enough to know that Lævateinn’s a cheeky little rascal.”

The Spiritblade Sovereigns had originally been fashioned by Emperor Artheus from power gifted to him by the Spirit King. As their name suggested, each harbored a spirit’s consciousness.

“Still,” Liz continued, “I can only sense what she’s thinking. I can’t speak to her. Yet, anyway.”

The Spiritblades only appeared to the individuals they acknowledged as their masters. Should anybody attempt to manifest them by force, they would retaliate with a terrible curse, but to their rightful wielders, they conferred great power. For that reason, they were also called the regalo—or “gift”—of the Spirit King.

“I see,” Scáthach replied. “Gáe Bolg is...willful. Quick to sulk and difficult to command.”

The stronger the wielder’s desires, it was said, the more power their Spiritblade would concede. Uncommonly fervent convictions could push the weapons to even greater heights. The key, however, lay in how closely the wielder’s heart resonated with the weapon. Strong conviction alone would not suffice—one also had to deeply understand their weapon and gain its trust.

“The Spiritblades can bestow tremendous power, but their wielders must be able to withstand it. Their might is more than human bodies were ever meant to bear. To call upon it even once exacts a heavy toll.” Scáthach paused, noticing that Liz was frowning. “Do you understand so far?”

“I’m fine. I think I’m following.”

“To the matter at hand, then. I shall say it plain: you must not delve too deep.”

“Are you saying you’ve gone further than I have?”

“So I suspect. Hence my warning. The deeper you delve into a Spiritblade’s domain, the more frequently it will show you memories of its previous wielders. Such memories provide invaluable insights into its nature, but spend too long among them and you risk losing yourself, becoming nothing more than an empty shell.”

“You’ve seen them too?”

“I have. To glean insights from the minds of a Spiritblade’s former wielders is the most effective way to master its power. But Gáe Bolg has had several masters, so it flits easily between them. The strain of each individual recollection is not so great. Your Spiritblade, however, has known only one other.”

“Emperor Artheus?”

“Precisely. Hence, I fear for your well-being. To glimpse such memories is to understand them and make them a part of yourself, but the memories of Emperor Artheus are likely beyond an ordinary human’s comprehension. To witness them may very well destroy your mind.”

“But wasn’t every Spiritblade originally wielded by Artheus? Can’t you see his memories too?”

“No. Or, to speak more precisely, I cannot yet delve that deep.”

With the exception of Lævateinn, which had only ever chosen Artheus, and Excalibur, which was lost, the Spiritblades had all taken multiple masters over their thousand years of existence. The older the master, it seemed, the deeper within its domain their memories could be found.

“Yet in your case, Emperor Artheus was your direct predecessor—so you face the lord of the labyrinth from your very first step. For that reason, I suspect Lævateinn to be the most trying of the Spiritblades to master.”

If Scáthach’s words were to be believed, the mirror image of Hiro that Liz had seen could only have been Emperor Schwartz himself. Moreover, she must have been looking through Artheus’s eyes. It had not seemed as though she was witnessing a parting—but then, what had happened between them?

“In any case,” Scáthach concluded, “consider yourself warned. And take better care in future.”

Liz’s ears pricked up at that. “Can I ask you something? How did you know I was dreaming?”

“Because when I came in, Lævateinn was on the point of running wild.”

“What?”

“I had to use Gáe Bolg to wake you.”

Liz’s eyes went wide with astonishment at that, but she had no time to dwell on it. At that moment, she sensed somebody approaching the tent and tensed defensively.

Scáthach had noticed the same thing. Her fingers tightened around Gáe Bolg. “Who’s there?” she called with more than a trace of hostility.

Outside, footsteps shifted on gravel. “Rache du Vertra, Your Highness. Lord Puppchen requests your presence.”

“Understood. I’ll be there forthwith.”

Although the tension instantly dissipated, the mention of Puppchen’s name left Liz staring at the tent flap with a new kind of apprehension.

Scáthach turned to face her with a comforting smile. “Worry not. On my pride as a knight, he will not torment you again.” She tossed Liz the blanket. “Rest and recover. You shall not be disturbed.”

She excused herself and left the tent at a half-run. Liz wrapped the blanket around herself and closed her eyes.

Hiro...

How worried he must be. She felt awful for the trouble she must be causing him. The next time they met, she swore, it would be with a smile, and she would throw her arms around him with no care for the pain of her wounds. Never again did she want him to wear the sorrowful expression he had in her dream. No more did she want him to be ruled by grief.

She had to be stronger. She had to better herself, thoroughly, so that she would never trouble him again. As Artheus had once fought by Schwartz’s side, so she would fight by his, as a comrade and an equal.

Cerberus will be in such need of a bath...

The white wolf hated water with a vengeance, so she would not be bathing of her own accord. Tris could not be trusted either; Cerberus had him wrapped around her little paw.

I hope they’re both all right...

Liz had sent them both away from the battlefield, so they should have been. Knowing that Tris had a strong sense of duty, she had entrusted him with Cerberus, directed him to command a unit with a significant number of wounded, and instructed him explicitly to join forces with Third Prince Brutahl.

Once we’re all back together, we can work on righting the situation in Faerzen.

Her capture had taught her things she might otherwise never have learned. Perhaps the Spirit King himself had guided Draal to take her prisoner, all to teach her about the darkness that lurked within the empire. Now, it was up to her to do the right thing with the knowledge she had gained.

I will right this wrong...even if it means confronting Father.

Her resolve had faltered earlier in the face of Scáthach’s question, but now her heart was set. She sank into slumber, knowing that tonight, she would sleep a little more peacefully.