My senses return to me, along with the uncomfortable truth. I am to be of no use once again. There are no witches out there amongst the heretical enemy. The purpose I arrived here with is, once again, to be unfulfilled. It's always like this. I'm little more than an ornament for the troops I am supposed to defend.

"So I walk back out into the open, to observe yet another day of the great siege... The Siege of... Oh, who am I convincing here, not myself, that's for sure." I mutter quietly. No miserable humour to be found in my exaggeration. Just one more failure to be tallied into the bricks with a dull dagger. I do not even know why I am here these cycles, the enemy is not committing enough.

I'm a Valkinvar of the Ordoar Imdvarce, one of Waionr's future wives, a great witch of much power!

So great and so powerful I am posted to a city of no strategic consequence...! Observing battles that no songs will ever record. The walls are holding as they always do... They have been without my involvement as well. How am I supposed to prove myself in a place like this? I can't, I cannot ever escape the rumours and accusations of inadequacy. Not here, most certainly not.

Grasping the door out of the tower, I sigh and step back into the open, exiting my head in turn.

The guns of the city wall volley and thunder beneath my steps. Out between the desolated mountain landscape, men die in fiery flashes of black smoke. No semblance of prayer appears on my lips for anyone in this chaotic killing field. I only watch the results as those I will pray for shoot them down with righteous fury.

Coming to a stop, I lightly put my hands on the battlements and lean into the motion. Despite the roar of the guns warning me of what is happening below, I remain detached. My strength, the complexity of the design and the walls keep me still. The men stumble and shake as the deafening booms force tremors into the stone.

My duty is to these men, my fellow soldiers. However, my eyes stay on the heretics. But my focus is wavering and I'm struggling to keep it in the face of this blatant victory. This same as usual conclusion. The heretics, with their relentless, shortsighted charges, have made it near-effortless. Unfortunately, many die quick deaths and it's detestable. Yet, the God of Death and the God of War, my beloved, do not see it this way.

It is more than their unbelieving hides deserve, frankly.

These men... These soldiers... If I can truly call them that, this Royal Army of the Jhermonikra is a distasteful lot. I resent them and everything they were, are, and will ever be. They march for a vast, storied nation, yet they do not seem to respect that fact. Looking down, I can see the pride for my country, its faithful people and my future husband on my armour.

Fine etchings and artistic passion and these heretics have none of it, there is nothing.

They are little more than a featureless horde because of it. Tearing grey cloth and dull steel, that is all they have. Yet, as a bride-to-be of Honourable War, Lord Waionr, I make my pride in him and myself apparent. His visage, word and glory decorate my steel plate, finely polished without flaw.

They have nothing. Their only custom is to die en masse!

Ever since I first arrived at the front, it has always been like this. A pitiful waste of life that is yet to be large enough to pay for even this lone wall, let alone one brick of it. I wonder what these armoured giants with towering shields in the distance hope to achieve. The heretics are begging them to do something, but with heavy blows from club and mace, they are driven back towards us.

I can only presume the details of what is going on out there. As for all my power as a member of the Ordoar Imdvarce, I cannot hear them. The sounds of war are far too boisterous to ignore. All I can do is rely on my eyes to reveal the incomplete story this battle so bloodily assails.

Though, it's enough to make out the signs of imminent devastation. Scaring one man into fleeing doesn't mean much, but when he runs into another, their eyes meet... Terror starts, and it cascades. The so-called army devolves into a howling horde of boys. Mother is a bullet away for some, too far for the rest.

However, up here, it couldn't be any more different if the good men of my country try. They sing of victory and their weapons shrivel. Cold and quiet. The wall's interior follows suit, the smoke in the air clears away, as does our cautious awareness. Some try to argue for further bloodshed, and they turn to me for encouragement. I offer no answer.

Considering my departure at first, I spot an odd sight in the corner of my eye.

Tens of thousands of heretics are retreating to safety further down the dangerously straight valley. In the middle of them, a thousand others defy the consensus and keep on marching for us. Like the officers being swarmed, this sturdy-hearted thousand cut down any who stumble too close. Sabres flash bare with blood in their shimmering images.

They grab my attention to the fullest and murmurs sound off either side of my womanly person. These men remind me of the defiant mountains from long ago, in the once flooded lands. No matter what happened around nature's monolith, it stayed tall and strong. Like them, the men keep marching on, failing to blend in with their kin.

Slashing their way into the open, they become all the more distinct!

No tatty cloth with sporadic pieces of rusty plating. Only near-full suits of well-polished armour with tidy, bright green uniforms underneath. Defining themselves further against those who flee, I feel magic come to the fore. With the sound of whipped cloth, a vibrant display of similar colours comes out like a ship's sails.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

It's nearly enough to amaze me, but, realising the sinister implications of the far-flung visage, my mind turns hectic. With their pride in front of them, we are bound by honour and piety not to attack them directly. Nowhere in the walls are our guns firing in fear of Waionr's wrath or mine. Our gun crews are alive but paralyzed.

"To intentionally strike at the pride of your opponent when he only leads his fellows is to invite defeat upon your army if you command it. Death, if you only serve it." I partially recite, quietly, as the top of the wall comes back to life.

Informal troops rush up to man the far away battlements with their toplocks. Pop-like sounds fill the air rapidly and heretics return to falling dead once more. To my shock, the answer is not always one viciously frail ball. Many of these strange soldiers keep marching on. Their pierced armour staggering them back only slightly. Very few take less than three shots to fall.

Thankfully, it is just a delay before the inevitable catches up for the rest of them.

The initial rush of this strange occurrence passes me by, and I calm down. My departure tempts me again. And, I start to, taking one step towards the stairs as alien light erupts on my left. A soldier screams in pain and turns silent as the warbling glowing trails he becomes turn into a strange, periwinkle mist. Snapping back to my position, I lean over the walls, something stranger tingling my senses.

The amount is decreasing, but clear gulps of magic are being expunged right after to lethal effect!

"Impossible..." I utter as my hand shoots towards the grip of my sword. I do not move any further and inaction grips me. My bewildering curiosity keeps me in place, and I stare.

They have pride in what they are and have weapons, unlike anything I have ever seen before. To my knowledge, nothing like this should even exist, not even in my home nation. Powerful quantities of magic enchant my armour, as is my great runed sword. The troops I serve with are similar, if much weaker.

But these hereti- these soldiers, they have magic-fed weapons, actual magic weaponry!

This should be beyond them, as it is nothing like what they came at us with before. All across the cratered land are cheap swords, spears, pikes, axes and other things. Everywhere in the bloody churn is proof. Further up the valley are their abandoned siege guns. A collection of assorted but universally crude and simple designs.

Nothing like this, nothing as terrifying as this... Shaking my head clear of doubt and inaction, I prepare to leap for the enemy.

Stopping again, a calming presence overtakes the battlefield high above. Soft, jingling decorations alert us to where to look. My eyes widen as a beautiful woman floats by on a chariot of her breezing power. All from an ornate staff glowing so brilliantly!

"Valkinvar-Imdvarce, allow me," the Valkinvar of the True-Emerald Wind of all people tells me as she heads towards the enemy. My eyes widen and tremble to the breaking point.

Sweeping her free arm along her side, a gust of sparkling wind magic comes for the soldiers. Power so pure and precise that a wrist flick is all she needs to wipe them out. A thousand men die. Sighing in relief, I release the stagnant grip on my sword and watch the blood pool up. Once clean and proud Unondsburic emerald and lunar gold colours drape over the fallen soldiers.

Red creeps into the carefully woven fabric, giving it a corrupted sense of purpose...

Worries turn to awe and my focus returns to her. In the sky just ahead, she floats on a visible lift. Turning our way, she comes towards us. As she does so, I can't help but ponder as I take a last glance at the dead.

They had to have been mercenaries of some kind, surely?

Once my superior lands on the edges of the wall, my priorities change, "Zaphadren-Valkinvar Gemorli, can I help you?"

"You may, Valkinvar-Imdvarce," she answers, and she offers me her arm halfway through her next step.

With great eagerness, I take her soft, bejewelled hand and gently guide her down in her last steps. In the moment of quiet that follows, I enviously look over her beauty, which is only more apparent near the expressions of men. I do not need my trained eyes to appreciate her looks. But, to respect that which truly matters, her most iconic feature, someone might need eyes like mine.

Her long and flowing hair.

Divided into four tails with the help of ornate bands, each one is more than simply a different colour. It is a prideful display, with our native colour of emerald, the shade of a breezing star, a first amongst equals consisting of sapphire blue, lightning gold and ruby red. Wind magic, water, lightning and fire. A scarce talent with mastery of our land's power and three foreign ones!

"Will you walk with me, Valkinvar-Imdvarce?" she asks, much to my shock. I am not worthy of this honour... Me, a mere Valkinvar of the Ordoar Imdvarce, not even blessed with the right to be a part of a full wing. I am a shamefully lone fighter of our esteemed people, I-

"O-Of course, Zaphadren-Valkinvar Gemorli," I answer with a quick but clear display of respect. I can't help myself, I'm trembling ever so slightly next to her and those glowing iris' notice. Her great power oppresses unintentionally, as is its right for being so immense.

"Please, we are both Valkinvar," she tells me with a subdued giggle as she dismisses my gesture before heading for the stairs.

The distinct sounds of her staff and attire dive into my ears as she moves forward with peerless grace. The decorations of it and her staff jingle and rattle whilst the main body makes unique, lingering thuds. This heavier sound of my armour might as well be a blunt instrument. Nowhere is this difference more noticeable than at our feet where her sandals leave behind taps and my sabatons bang on the stone.

I closely inspect what she is wearing from the top of the stairs as she walks down them. Unlike my equally decorated, heavy plate, she is wearing flowing robes coloured white and shades of silver. Pieces of thin armour are also about it in key places and purely decorative installations in others. To top it all off, the mastery of her magic is such that she can create an almost ethereal quality about herself.

Something I lack as I am both young and feeble for what we both are... Valkinvar.

Still, given who she is, I am delighted to be allowed to spend even a brief moment with her. Though I do not find myself able to smile, regardless of how joyous I am to be near. Instead, I'm doubting myself and my right to be here because I am nothing. Her steps are precise and her clothes are flowing, mine are heavy, noisy, stiff and clunky.

It's all by intentional design, but I can't help but feel inadequate, regardless.

"So tell me, what is your name, Valkinvar-Imdvarce?" she asks once I reach the bottom of the stairs. Clearing my head, I prepare to answer the strangely daunting question. I try to blink the worries away.

"... Vapooliar, Zaphadren-Valkinavr Gemorli. My name is Vapooliar." I come too close to mumbling as shakes strike me deep. Even I can hear my armour. But, I guess it does not matter if I am quiet or not. With that much power, she can easily hear a whisper a mountain range away. However strong she truly is, my answer leaves her pondering with a finger near her glossy lips. She smirks, and my paranoia can only speculate.