The apprentice

VIIIth Century, year 63, Brumáire. Day 16. Dusselmoth Confederate.

In the Department of Homeland Security, a room crammed with documents awaited its master. General Pierre, adorned in a classic military suit with gold buttons, his face etched with the wisdom of his forties, surveyed the scene. He was type 3 uniform in the Dusselmoth clothes, his uniform bearing the insignia of the head of national security. Few held such autonomy within the Confederation.

His face was slightly wrinkled, and he had a huge white beard, probably in his forties. In that room there was also another man, but this one was wearing civilian clothes, long dark hair and a round glasses, in his hand there were more piles of papers.

Among the piles of papers, one bearing the Government Seal caught his eye. Its urgency demanded immediate attention.

“You understand what this means, Kevin?” Pierre inquired, his voice laced with a hint of apprehension. “Promotion, even after the last battle’s failure?”

Kevin, his secretary, clad in civilian attire, pushed his spectacles up his nose and replied,

“Sir, your strategies have borne fruit for the Confederation. Even a few lost battles cannot diminish your achievements.” 

There was no tension, no awkwardness in their exchange. Though Kevin’s response wasn’t the balm Pierre sought, it resonated with his own internal conflict. He knew the Confederation had suffered losses, yet his victories held greater strategic value.

“An officer of such rank shouldn’t be burdened by negativity,”

Kevin affirmed, placing the papers on his desk.

“It could snowball among the troops.”

Pierre inhaled deeply, acknowledging the truth. He demanded much of himself, allowing room for no flaws. This, and the unpredictable war, constantly weighed on him. He’d give anything to find solutions.

Kevin, seemingly sensing his turmoil, offered a cup of steaming dark wine.

“There will be better news yet, sir.”

Taking a sip, Pierre found a moment of solace.

“Perhaps promotion isn’t what I need, Kevin. I cherish the autonomy in this department.”

Kevin nodded, acknowledging his superior’s decision. Their long friendship prevented him from delving deeper, and he respected Pierre’s space.

Suddenly, a report about a spy in the Kingdom of Florence captured Pierre’s attention. 

“That King,” he muttered, “finally showing her teeth?”

“Jürgen of Austrelia, you mean?” Kevin clarified.

“Yes, Jürgen. A box of surprises. Her greenish eyes held a glint… could it be a trace of the Zonais dynasty?”

The report revealed Austrelia’s sudden war against Florence, fueled by a small old dispute of possessions of the Silesia valley region. A mountainous region that had no economic or military value.

“A casus belli,” Pierre mused. “Florence was ripe for conquest, plagued by internal troubles.”

“A risky move, wouldn’t you say, sir?” Kevin inquired.

“Indeed. With three generals and 80,000 men against a single general and 30,000, they seem desperate. A swift victory is their only hope.”

“Nation protocol dictates caution, wouldn’t it?”

Kevin pressed, curious about Pierre’s perspective. Pierre chuckled, a deep rumble in his chest. “Protocol is one thing, Kevin, but beneath it lies the true game. The Astro Federation’s interest in this war isn’t about protecting protocol, it’s about trade routes.”

“And the vassalage of the Kingdom of Florenz to the Western Kingdom?” questioned Kevin

“Maybe… they are both Kingdoms so there is no reason to worry about a possible threat, but this war… Is keeping me goosebumps, like snowball you know something changed” 

He paused, then leaned forward, his gaze intense. “But there’s more to this than meets the eye. I need a meeting with the Chief of the diplomacy cabinet.”

This request surprised Kevin. The Department and the Cabinet rarely saw eye to eye. That wouldn’t happen so easily, even with all of Pierre’s privilege. The Cabinet did not have a good relationship with The Department due to ideological conflicts.

“There’s a saying, Kevin..” Pierre said, looking up at the ceiling.

“War is just politics by other means.’ Perhaps there’s truth to it.”

Well, there was once a time in Pierre’s life when he had argued tooth and nail that war was the only option for a Nation to prosper, but that was many years ago…

Once a staunch war advocate, Pierre had evolved. Kevin, sensing this shift, readily agreed to arrange the meeting.

“Is tomorrow okay with you sir?”

“As soon as possible”

VIIIth Century, year 63, Brumáire. Day 18. Kingdom of Florenz.

A man, he could see a light shining from a small opening at the top. He looked over his shoulder, and saw that the trap door had been opened after so many years locked in the prision. A warrior in well polished armor and with a very long sword opened it, this armor dentified him as a first class warrior of the Kingdom of Florenz. The warrior took the first steps towards the stairs, the humidity was gigantic and bothered the warrior's nose.

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"Argh, why the hell do I have to follow these stupid orders"

As he walked further down the stairs, lighting the way with a torch, the more the cries for mercy could be heard.

"Please your knight, Please have mercy"

"Oh holy light, our god has come for us!"

"Silence!" Proferred the angry warrior.

After the warrior increased the tone, everyone immediately fell silent.

So finally the warrior cloud uttered a name that had not been heard in this Kingdom in years.

"Archemis Ieda!"

No one responded to the name requested by the warrior. Then again he pronounced the name 

This time in a deep voice

"Archemis Ieda, answer immediately!

And again silence filled the dungeon

"Tsk, you'd think she'd be dead by now. What should I tell to that bastar-, Majesty?

When the warrior turned around, going back to the stairs, soft whispers began to echo under one room deep in the prision.

"Can be you, yes, this can be you. They're talking about your..."

"Answer him, maybe it's your chance to get out of this miserable jail"

But even so, the warrior received no answer for his call.

Until at the last moment, with only two steps left for the warrior to return, and that trap door closed again forever.

"W-wait!"

The warrior stopped, his body went cold, that voice sounded more like the whisper of a spirit. Could that soccer's be alive?

"B-but what, you're still alive?" Answered the warrior, returning to the bottom of the prison.

"N-no, well, Archemis, are definitely dead... b-but I was your apprentice in your last years of life." Said that gosthly voice.

The warrior scratched his head in a sign of doubt, would his apprentice be enough.

"Tsk, So she really was dead."

The warrior seemed indifferent about the girl.

"That was an order from the majesty, You can read rune?" Interrupted the warrior.

The girl felt that her life depended on his answer, so without hesitation she answered.

"Y-yes!"

The warrior looked around again, waiting for someone to answer by the name he had mentioned. Or tell that that kid has nothing to do with Archemis...

Even though he didn't like to obey the order of a bastard son, he also didn't want to disappoint the royal court, and in the end even though he was a bastard at that moment he was the son in the first line at the throne.

"Command those who can, obey those who have sense". Said my grandmother everytime to me.

But if this girl tried to take advantage of her ignorance of who this Sorceress was, she would probably never see the light again. 

"Fuuuuuuuuuu" The warrior sighed deeply.

Meanwhile, the girl's eyes were shining. She was so excited, it was obvious that her never looked outside of this jail, her mother had been put in captivity already pregnant. In her cell there was always a lady called Ieda, this lady loved to teach there about ancient magic but could not complete her teaching, passing away long before the girl came an age appropriate for your mana core responds to magic.

This lady was one of his joys, his only time killer and his only teacher.

"Enough with those shining eyes, beginning to be release... Come with me now."

The guard took his keys from his waist, slowly checked which one was the right one and unlocked the grid that separated the main corridor from the damp and smelly room the girl was in, no one dared to run away, quite the contrary everyone kept in their place waiting for that grid to be closed again, they were slightly happy to know that the girl would be set free.

"Come, your majesty wants to speak to you"

In small steps, between puddles of water being vaguely lit by the warrior's torch they made it to the stairs. When they finally climbed all the steps that trap door would be closed again and everyone present there was doomed again to darkness.

VIIIth Century, year 63, Brumáire. Day 19. In the Florenz Royal Place.

A suffocating weight pressed down on Ashkan. Days bled into each other, a tapestry woven with the blood of fallen soldiers and the ink of unread battle reports that piled like accusing corpses outside his door. Each report, a dagger twisting in his gut, each unanswered hour, a slow bleed of hope.

He was a ghost king, haunting his own tomb. His father, along with the court and most of the nobility, had fled like rats from a sinking ship, leaving him adrift in a sea of despair. Was this his legacy? To preside over the kingdom’s demise, a hollow echo of a ruler never meant to be?

He slammed his fist onto the table, scattering scrolls and sending a quill skittering across the floor. “Damn them all!” he roared, the sound bouncing off the cold stone walls. “Damn their cowardice, damn their deceit!”

But rage offered no solace, no solution. The answer to the enemy’s rune-based inscription, a cryptic riddle forged in ancient magic, remained as elusive as his father’s spine. Days turned into nights, filled with frantic scribbling, whispered curses, and the gnawing loneliness that gnawed at him worse than any famine.

Then, a fragile knock cut through the oppressive silence. It was a sound almost forgotten, a flicker of life in the tomb of his despair. But before he could answer, the knock stopped, replaced by a muffled sob.

He crept to the door, his heart a hammering drum against his ribs. He recognized the soft voice on the other side, the voice of Anya, a young knight of the Bronze Order, renowned for her unwavering loyalty and fierce spirit. What brought her here, to the king’s abandoned chamber?

He threw open the door to find Anya hunched against the frame, her armor a dull reflection of his own tarnished crown. Tears stained her weathered cheeks, her usual fire dimmed to embers.

“Your Majesty,” she rasped, her voice thick with choked emotion. “While your men bleed on the battlefield, you hide behind these walls, drowning in self-pity. Have you no shame?”

His face burned with a mixture of anger and guilt. “What would you have me do, Anya? I am no mage, no strategist. I am a puppet king, crowned with thorns.”

“We don’t need grand pronouncements or strategic brilliance,” Anya countered, her voice rising with each word. “We need your heart, your will! Lead us, even if it’s into the jaws of defeat. Give us something to fight for, something to die for besides your apathy!”

Her words, raw and desperate, pierced through the fog of his self-doubt. He saw their reflection in the eyes of the terrified servants peeking from the hall, in the haunted gaze of the lone guard patrolling the empty corridors. His people, abandoned by their supposed leaders, hung on the precipice of despair, clinging to the faintest ember of hope.

And that ember, he realized with a jolt, burned within him. It flickered in the anger that boiled in his veins, in the fierce love for his kingdom that thrummed beneath the carapace of fear.

Suddenly, the runes, the riddles, the impending doom faded into the background. All that remained was the burning need to fight, to protect, to be the king they needed, even if it meant defying his own despair. 

“Make way!”

he bellowed, his voice echoing through the silent halls. “Urgent report from Masmahati’s prison!”

The messenger’s reply arrived like a slap of cold water.

“Archemis Ieda is dead, your Majesty.”

Hope choked in his throat. Dead? The only mage capable of deciphering the runes, gone? Was this truly the end, the final, cruel twist of fate?

But then, another nugget of information, seemingly inconsequential, sparked a flicker in his eyes. “There is a girl inside the prison,” the messenger continued, “who claims to be your apprentice.”

He didn’t hesitate. With a newfound urgency, he strode towards the waiting room, his legs driven by a desperate hope. In the shadows of that room, perhaps, a flicker of salvation awaited.

“Hey!” he called out, his voice hoarse but strong. “Anya, vice leader of the Bronze Order! Trust me, just once, trust me!”

His words resonated through the halls, a declaration of defiance against the tide of despair. Even the guards and servants, hardened by fear and loss, felt a spark ignite within them. This was their king, not a cowering ghost, but a man ready to fight for his crown and his people.

Anya, eyes wide with surprise, watched him stride towards them. For the first time since his ascension.