“Currently, there are six nations that claim to hold dominion over this poor, divided world of ours.

“The land of wing and tradition: the Polus Monarchy.

“The center of mechanical innovation: the Nox Caelum Empire.

“The haven of all that is arcane: the Augurium Thaumaturgy.

“The savage plain of conquest: the Steppe.

“The united alliance of gold: the Ishmahab Federation.

“And finally, the wilds of humanity’s origin: the Antiqua.

“Power naturally attracts the populace. It brings promise of safety, of protection, but one must be careful who they pledge allegiance to. Whether they be a despot or a savior… that is for you to decide.”

- Navigating the Current Political Sphere: Penned by Arch Magus Faust, Ruler of the Augurium Thaumaturgy

———

The Knight

The pair’s march through the forest is uneventful. With no life nor color - save for a sickly grey - to be seen, complications have begun to rise in the form of an impetuous little infant: Aegis will not stop squirming. Despite the Knight’s efforts, every moment is plagued by a rancorous cry or a spiteful mutter. He is bored.

“You will only tire yourself out in vain, child,” it says, attempting to satiate Aegis’s restless body.

But he only looks at it with an expression the Knight can only identify as scoffing. Aegis screams again. Louder this time.

“What will it take for you to cease this tantrum?”

A loud grumble erupts from the child’s stomach.

Ah, that is right. The kin of Cosmos require sustenance to maintain their bodily functions.

“Very well. Perhaps some food is in order.”

However, everything in the forest has been corrupted by the miasmic grasp. Rivers spew a constant stream of umbral gunk, and the only vegetation unwithered are the fungal vestiges of nature’s groundskeepers. Their color is of concerning note, but the surrounding Creation reacts not to its plucking. It should be safe for the child to eat.

Alas, Aegis refuses.

“You will starve.”

He doesn’t react.

“It will hurt.”

He turns his head away.

“Must you really act this way? Here, I shall demonstrate.”

The Knight takes off its helm and forms a mouth on its featureless visage. Teeth spout out with a gush from the pulpous flesh, and a pink mass shapes itself into a wriggling tongue. It takes a bite of the mushroom.

…It is edible, at the very least.

“See? Now you try.”

Aegis looks up at the being in annoyance and opens his mouth.

“Ah. You have no teeth. How about this then?”

The Knight pulverizes the mushrooms into a fine dust.

“Is this adequate?”

The baby sighs, but he agrees and waits to be fed. The moment the dust enters his throat, however, he descends into a coughing fit and spits the rest of the food onto the ground.

“Now what is the matter?”

Before it can torture itself with frustration any longer, Creation begins to gather and condense in front of it. It swirls, taking on an opaque blue hue, before transforming into a floating orb of water. Aegis excitedly latches on to the sudden manifestation and gorges himself on the liquid. Meanwhile, the Knight is baffled.

The child can already beckon for Creation’s assistance? No. Rather, it is as if the force is acting upon its own free will. How curious.

“Hm. Now that you are content, let us continue in silence.”

If the child can already receive such boon, then perhaps masking itself as a winged one is not out of the realm of possibility. Regardless, their first priority is to escape this ashen land. What comes after shall be left to fate. The two march on.

Through charcoal hills,

Under blackened skies,

And across surging ravines.

Until eventually, they arrive at the forest’s edge. The trees come to a halt, and across the border’s line is a field of sprawling green.

Finally. Perhaps now Aegis will stay still—

“Wolukaedi?”

“Maka. Gioh kotu.”

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

The Knight drops to the dirt and veils itself in a brush. Aegis attempts to babble out in surprise, but he is quickly silenced with a swift hand.

“Do not speak,” it commands with a whisper. Fortunately, the child is obedient for once. It is likely he can sense its alarm.

“Haelum… eto days va debu no sightings.”

A foreign language. Two Polus guards. The structure and wording of the sound is similar to the common tongue of the previous age, but the intonation itself is of changed form.

“Thei King esu zill loovking fahu her?”

“Yes. Throne important.”

There are some peculiarities, but transcribing the new tongue is no hard task. Eventually, it is able to obtain a rough translation of the language’s alphabet. Now, how shall I proceed? Killing the knights will only draw suspicion towards the area. It needs to obtain a way into the kingdom legitimately if it is to blend in and pursue information out in the open.

“Survivor find?”

“Still no. Yes… screams alert.”

“Pity. Lookout continue.”

“Yes sir.”

And there it is: a most convenient path.

“Aegis, no matter what happens from now on, you must stay quiet. Am I clear?”

The child, seemingly unable to understand a single thing the Knight is saying, comprehends the message anyway.

“Good.”

It pries open a small gap in its plate and begins to mold its abdomen. With a groan, the bones are pushed upwards and the skin lurches back—creating a small, hidden crevice for Aegis to fit into. The Knight tucks him in and closes the gap with its undulating flesh. He is safe. There is but one thing left to do.

It takes a deep breath in and releases a bloodcurdling scream.

———

Dariel

Life out on the meadow has been a rather eye-opening experience for the young officer Dariel. It is much more rugged, and exhausting, than back at the capital, but he does not regret bidding his grandfather leave to participate in the retrieval force.

“Are you positively mad, boy!?” he remembers Grandpa Gadreel shouting to him at the time. “No. I forbid it! You have spent longer wielding a pen than a sword, much less experience a true deployment.”

Dariel understands; he truly does. However, there is not much the elder can do if he runs away.

I cannot allow myself to be coddled in the palace forever. If I am to become a truly dependable official, then I must see the hardships of our army first hand!

And so, here he is, approving documents and organizing supplies whilst nestled away in a tiny, tiny makeshift tent at the Aeternum’s border. A camp has been erected here for the latter part of the week, yet there’s been not a whisper nor sign of Lorelai or her expedition. Their fate is grim, to say the least. However, Dariel remains optimistic. Only in resignation will the Heaven’s Throne truly be lost to the decaying woods. As long as he has hope, then someone will eventually arrive. Anyone. They have to.

Or else the nation will plunge into despair.

Ugh… I don’t know how long we can stay like this. Another week? Two? The knights are becoming crestfallen. Soon, they’ll begin to request for our return home. But if we do that, then… then…

He must hold on for a little bit longer.

No use in thinking such depressive thoughts now. Let’s get back to—

An unearthly howl nearly sends the frightened officer tumbling onto the ground. Footsteps thunder outside his tent, and a chorus of excited yells begin to flood the air.

Could it be?

He dashes out into the mid-day sun and joins the others as they gather at the forest’s edge. It is a survivor. A Polus knight. Though it appears the poor bastard is in an agonizing state of frenzy.

“O-Officer Dariel!” One of the guards runs up to him with a face full of worry. “How should we proceed?”

Despite Dariel’s inexperience with actual fieldwork, he is technically of the highest rank amongst the camp due to some… connections. It is his responsibility, and his alone, to lead them.

“Ehm, for now, organize a retrieval squad and prepare the medical tent for operation. The miasma will not affect the knights immediately, but if they linger there for even just a minute... well, it's not going to be good. The shorter the exposure, the better.”

“By your word. I’ll gather our best.”

“Thank you.”

The guard runs off, and Dariel is left to wander amidst the crowd. The scream is getting louder, more frantic, and unnerving all in attendance—especially for the young officer who has never borne witness to a speck of violence in his life.

Pain. Unceasing torment. The voice exudes it all to harrowing degrees. He cannot bear it any longer.

N-No. I have to remain strong. To let myself falter here means to go against the very purpose of my escape. I will listen, and through their pain will I learn to understand the knights’ plight.

Still, it is a gut-wrenching experience. He prays to Cosmos that she saves the poor soul from their suffering, and as he does, a squadron brushes past as they bolt with nary a hint of hesitation into the Aeternum. Their steps appear to slow, voice grunting under duress just from the split second of contact with the mist, but they manage to arrive at the survivor with nary an incident.

The lone knight shuffles towards them, twitching and jerking with violent movements. They cry out at the sight of the squadron and attempt to reach out to them before collapsing onto their knees.

“We’ve got them!” the squad leader shouts, hoisting the survivor onto their back.

“Acknowledged! Return as quickly as you can!” Dariel shouts.

After a disquieting moment, the squadron breaks through the border. He rushes alongside them to the medical tent and a bewildered healer quickly sets the survivor onto a cot.

“How do they look?”

“I can’t say for sure,” they mumble. “There’s not much known about the miasma’s effects. Stars… why would we? You’d have to be either a fool or completely insane to mess around with such malevolence. I can try to treat the body, but there’s not much I can do for the mind.”

“Well, the body is better than nothing. Do you need any help?”

“Gladly. Help me yank off this armor. It’s stuck on really—”

Dariel forcefully grabs onto the healer and tosses them away from the survivor. “No! Get away!”

“Ow, why did you—”

But their question is soon answered. A hazy, blackened mist seeps out from the cracks of the survivor’s armor before eventually returning to torture its host; the Polus knight may have left the forest, but they have yet to escape the miasma. It is still there, submerging them in a never-ending cycle of agony. And there is nothing Dariel can do. He can feel it: his instincts screaming of danger. If he fully pries off that armor, then the entire camp will become subject to the mist’s enfeeblement.

Damnit. Damnit!

He slams his fist on the table, blood trickling down his arm. There is nothing he despises more than the feeling of worthlessness, but what then? Even if he clears the area, someone must remain to do the deed. He will not condemn one just to save another.

Oh, grandpa… being a leader is much harder than I thought it’d be.

“…For now, continue to monitor the survivor’s condition. We will have to leave them in their current state.”

“I-I understand.”

“Good. If you need me, or their condition starts to worsen, I’ll be at my tent.”

Dariel sighs and leaves the medical area with a heavy heart. Is this truly the right way? He shall find out with time.

The officer returns to his hovel and writes a letter summarizing the recent events. With a swift signature and a stamp, the report is finished. The capital must be alerted with haste of the survivor’s presence. Their statement may just yet be the hope they need to determine Lorelai’s survival. Or it may be sorrow’s harbinger. Nonetheless, the nation needs to know. And when the truth is revealed, perhaps the King will finally receive some closure.