Mid-spring, year of the Shadowed Fox.

The war room was cold, I could feel the warmth radiating from my second close behind me. Smells of flowers and dirt were carried on the northern wind, along with a hint of steel. Four other lieutenants were gathered around the war table, flanked by their seconds, with our captain at the head.

I stood silently as each lieutenant gave their report. When the southern wind flowed, the smells of the filth below hardly carried up to the tower. Clean air was something I appreciated about the war room, tainted only by the scent of the gore-stained steel adorning the soldiers. The captain’s armour, it shined as though newly polished. His sword gleamed, the ruby eye glittering in the afternoon light. Clean. Pristine.

Lieutenant Fallon was not present in this meeting, nor Lieutenant Derrin; likely injured or dead as a result of the latest engagement.

“Lieutenant Rhys, report.”

“We’ve run low on antiseptics and infection is running rampant. Our food supplies are yet to arrive,” I repeated back the information fed to me earlier by my second. “I’ll send out two squadrons tomorrow, one to Caltirth, one to Z’Narahn. Find the supply chains and collect emergency supplies,” I proposed. Fighting on multiple fronts was draining on resources, and many supply shipments were going towards the worst of the fighting at the southern front.

The captain nodded. “Focus your manpower on repairing aerial and ranged equipment. After the skirmish today the enemy will need time to recuperate.”

As do we, I thought bitterly.

“Yes, Sir,” echoed around the room.

We followed the captain out onto the ramparts.

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“If we are with fortune, this war will be over before the winter frost seeps in,” The captain said offhandedly, as he mounted his spotted wyvern.

I hid my disdain. It was folly to think this war will end before we leave for the ethereal plane. To hope for the end was a waste of energy and concentration; that which could be spent towards one day ending the eternal conflict.

“Have your squadrons ready to fight,” The captain said from above, his wyvern starting to stretch out their wings. I do not have a wyvern anymore. “We should not underestimate our enemy.” My Keelie died in late autumn, shot down by filthy weapons and collapsing into leaves as red as her scales. It was a mercy to end her life, lest the infection set in. “I wish you honour in the upcoming battles,” the captain said. His gold wyvern leapt from its perch, its screech a war cry.

I nodded vacantly. Honour. What honour? Honour to die for my country? To die for those already dead?

I focused my gaze on the field of forget me nots covering the hills. I would very much like to scream that when I die. Forget me not.

The air was rancid with the stench of burnt flesh and hair. The smell was still a shock. The pyres had been burning since summer when disease began running rampant with the rotting corpses of allies and enemies alike. The decision was put off for so long, as many wished to preserve the bodies to provide a proper burial and allow their spirits to peacefully ascend. Forget me nots flourished.

“We should head up to our aerie before we go down into the hall,” Halla suggested. “Least the blood be forever stuck to us.”

I could still feel gore clinging to me; after the battle, we were immediately summoned to the tower. My black hair was still clumped with invisible blood.

“We’ll update the squad if they’re in the aerie, else we’ll tell them at supper,” I said monotonously.

Halla was quiet. “Did you hear about the choosing ceremony in N’Zrath? They’ve decided to bring it forward to early autumn instead of winter,” Halla commented offhandedly, though her eyes were expectant.

I paused. The wyvern choosing ceremony, where beast and rider are bound. “Perhaps I’ll see if we can make it to the festivals.” I did not mind letting the smallest kindle of hope burn. Perhaps these new riders could take the charge, and I could finally return home. Or rather, they could see to it that we are not forgotten. That I am not forgotten.

The soldiers. The healers. The dead. The alive.

I cannot say what I would prefer to be.

Forget me not.