Individual Surrender

Soldier after soldier after soldier, Xiv slipped his way through ranks of meiyal archers and shield-bearers as though he was a shadow. He wasn’t proud of his stealth skills, but he had to rely on it to avoid getting bombarded by all the angry Iristan soldiers around him.

He ducked from one supply pile to the next, or leaned from one corner to another, and only rendering someone unconscious if he absolutely had to. It was harder to do than just killing all of them at once.

Xiv didn’t come for the war. He came for another purpose.

The vision of the burning phoenix and the devastation it committed flashed through his mind like a threat. He knew he was in shock. As a former Lord Knight, he had been trained under the most rigorous and torturous regimens—in physical, mental, and meiyal—known to mankind and had attained the enlightened awareness to identify his current state of mind even if he turned hysterical.

This mental fortitude allowed him to carry out his lone operation while brushing off his paranoia like dust in the wind.

He had to incapacitate another soldier. They were trained and experienced, better than the ones Vyndival forced to arms.

His trance finally gave way and exhaustion came after him in a matter of seconds. He gasped for breath and fell behind one of the corners that hid him efficiently from the upper walls.

Xiv held onto Benovrymm—a pair of short swords chained into sledgehammers for a sheath—with trust as he focused on regaining his stamina. He tried to think of a way on how to reach the throne room without alerting the beauty of fiery death.

He couldn’t think of any.

“I think I’m going to die here today,” Xiv muttered under his exasperated breath.

A prickling pain seared on his neck.

“Not if you surrender.”

A blade threatened his life. He couldn’t see who it was, or how his senses didn’t fire at the sign of threat. But the voice was loud and clear.

A woman’s voice.

An encumbering pressure, so strong and familiar, enveloped him once again. Even without looking, he could tell who it was.

He reluctantly released Benovrymm.

“Stand up.”

He did as he was told, as slowly and as calmly as possible. He controlled his emotions perfectly, not letting any hint of hostility or desperation to pass through.

“Turn around.”

Xiv felt his heart melt into a mush.

Not because of the crushing pressure of condensed meiyal rendering him immobile, but because of the pristine beauty standing next to him.

The radiant crimson strands and the frilly battle gear waving in rhythmic pulses exemplified her grace. Her stoic, purple eyes looked like polished amethyst adorned with her scarlet meiyal marks.

Even when under threat, Xiv knew due to his ever strong fortitude, he was falling helplessly for this battle-maiden.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

He had never once considered himself so shallow as to be captivated simply by one’s beauty, but he had never seen anyone like her. No matter how aware he was about it, his heart wouldn’t stop beating loudly.

It was maddening. Ridiculous. Crazy. And yet, it was the truth.

It was an agonizing battle between his heart and mind, rationality versus emotion. He was in the middle of the storm, torn to shreds for what felt like an eternity in a matter of seconds. His heart, now less than mush, wouldn’t stop sending nervous beats throughout his body.

There was no understanding the situation.

Her eyes swayed at the bodies behind him, then returned to him with a narrower and viler look.

“They’re not dead,” Xiv said in defense.

“I know they’re not.”

“I surrender,” his words escaped him even before he could process. Would he be simply willing to forget his nation over something like this? There was no possible way this woman would even consider looking at him as a man.

To her, he was just another enemy.

“Good move. Now Doff.”

“At least leave me with protection,” Xiv retaliated. It was answered by a meiyal blade straightening further towards his neck.

“I’m not going to ask again.”

Xiv hesitated once more, but he had to trust his instincts, and he had to gain hers as well. He Doffed his armor, Cordralym, reducing it to the form his family pendant. With a flick of his mind, he reduced Benovrymm into a wristband and summoned it towards him.

The wristband flew into the air, aiming for his hand, but the lady in red caught it. She turned the open hand towards him, asking for the pendant.

“You have more Forged Meiyal in there?” she asked.

“You have Meiyal Arts for that,” Xiv replied in resignation, passing his pendant. “It’s a family heirloom, please don’t destroy it.”

“I thought Forged Meiyal have signature locks?” The maiden observed the two items. She opened a small pocket of reality in space and deposited both of them with enough caution.

Spatiera, Xiv thought. So useful. Guess I’m not seeing those for a while.

“We do. Heirlooms can make adjustments,” he replied.

“Expensive?”

“More than my life.”

“Alright, I’ll hold on to it for now. One hand on your chest, another on your back.”

The maiden surrounded him with a binding Meiyal Art, engulfing his whole upper body—save his head—with meiyal. Xiv instinctively resisted, but even with his insane resistance to harmful meiyal—reduced significantly by the lack of armor—restrictive Meiyal Arts could easily work around it.

This was no ordinary battle-maiden. Her way of fighting showed much of her experience.

In fact, her strength would make sense if she was the Princess. Xiv’s heart reduced further from less than mush, to utterly disintegrated ash.

“Are you the Princess?” he asked, prepared to sink his first and eternal love into the depths of his soul.

“No,” she replied nonchalantly while administering first aid to the unconscious soldiers.

Xiv’s ashen heart burst to life with sudden hope until he obliterated it again with the harsh reality of the situation. With that out of the equation, it was time to focus on the actual problem.

“I have a message for the Princess,” he began, now with a more assured, confident voice. “This war is unnecessary; we need to stop it.”

The woman’s face snapped and burned with anger, the meiyal around her sparked to life. “You started this war, Vyndivalian. You have no right for such demands!”

They didn’t care about the roaring explosions of the current battle.

Xiv and his captor stared at each other. He couldn’t blame her. To her, he was the invader, he was at fault. She didn’t know the whole story.

“I know,” Xiv admitted. “But I didn’t come here to fight. These men have been turned blind by our King with the promise of a better future and rest in the afterlife.”

His mind raced back to the exact hour before they set out for the Desolate Lands. The voice of their King, Urzic Lasterfol, echoed with a disgusting tone.

“Today, we fight!” said their King. “Today, we shall regain our glory!” Xiv saw the man throwing a victorious fist in the air as he incited rage and bloodlust through the disguise of honor. The crowds roared in manic flare.

“From the ashes of our enemies, we shall rebuild our nation!”

Xiv saw the Nightmare they captured beside the stage displayed like a trophy of prowess, convincing the audience of their assured victory.

“Today, we shall die for the greater good of our nation! For Vyndival or death! We fight or die trying!”

“They know nothing else,” Xiv said. He wanted to apologize. But no amount of apology could repent for the lives lost because of the war.

The battle-maiden sighed.

“We already know about that. It doesn’t matter,” she said. She turned and stared at the massive army still pouring from the Flat Lands. “It’ll end soon.”

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