Lunar awoke many hours later in the torrential downpour that the trees could not save her from. Her prone figure was unceremoniously sprawled against the earth, mud and dirt coating her face and a headache bashing at her mind.
The leaves of the canopy above had long since given way to the showers of the sky, leaving her soaked to the skin and her clothes drenched. She rolled, drenching herself in more mud with a muted gasp as she struggled to her feet, though her legs refused to obey. So she sat upon her knees, heaving a breath as she tried to recall the events leading to her waking here. Her head throbbed, attempting near futile, as she struggled to think through the journey. She had been walking from Govenheg, aiming to reach home to prepare for whatever came next. Maybe a journey to Kairon District or a trip to Covenhaven first to see what information she could find. She, Amelia, and Michael would embark on another adventure to try and determine what to do next in the Kingdom.
The Kingdom, she remembered. Her Kingdom. Now thrown into civil war, the armies of the King were challenged by the armies of the Northern Districts. With her the only heir left, with her sister’s departure and her brother’s death, she was the last one with any rightful ties to the throne. And she had nothing to back her if her father did fall. But she had even less to gain if he did not. She had her friends. That was all. She had no core group of advisors save for the two of them.
Then she remembered.
Her horrified gaze snapped over to Michael. She could recall vague titbits of the fight that had ensued. She had been out cold, yet she knew about her lingering memories of the events that followed. There always were memories. Forceful or not, sleep never saved her from reality. And she could recall the clash of steel, the hiss of arrows, and…
Her heart sank.
“She’s…. Gone…” she whispered, almost to herself. She could still hear Amelia’s last, desperate scream, meant for Michael before she was hauled onto his shoulders and carted away. Her final words. She struggled to process them, repeating them and silently mouthing them as if it would bring her back. But the longer she thought, the more the uncaring truth set in. Amelia was gone. She was killed, and it was Lunar’s fault.
Her tears fell as she knelt there, her fingernails dug into her thighs as a wave of deep, bottomless anger emerged. Anger at herself. Anger at the Kingdom. Anger at the life she had led resulting in Amelia’s death. And above all, anger at those who had taken Amelia’s life, her father chief among them.
Her heart, once blubbering in agony, screamed. It was enraged. Furious. And she was its vessel. Her tears fell with the rain as the grief ebbed, only to make way for a primal, agonised shriek to tear free from her body. The cry tore her throat, but she did not care. Her scream rang through the night, thundering through the trees and seemingly echoed by the forest around her. As if the sky wept for her, the rain poured around and upon her, and as she cried into the night, her eyes shut beneath the weight of the situation.
Lunar’s scream rang out through the night as it rose, the wail of pain and rage mixed into one terribly harmonious note. Her grip tightened, fingernails drawing blood from her thighs, as her heart finally began an agonising beat until a groan interrupted her scream. And her eyes lit upon her friend, lying motionless upon the grass and caked in mud. And the tears welled up again as she saw his chest rise and fall, and she hurried to his side and began patting him down for injuries. And her relieved breath filled the air as she felt none, before embracing him.
Amelia was gone. But Michael was still here. And Amelia’s final words, she realised, would live with them both for eternity. Words that would echo through Lunar’s mind until the day she died. The last cry of her friend, for them to avenge her. And she would. No matter what it took. Never again would a wound keep her from a fight.
She paused, and her hand flew to her stomach before her eyes widened. She felt the throbbing headache, a reminder of the spear’s impact against her head. But she had been impaled through the chest, and she lifted her shirt to gawk at what remained, only to find nothing but a faded scar. Neither a scab nor a bleeding wound. It was a scar, one that was no worse than the ones she had suffered in prior battles. It should have killed her, bleeding out for this long, but something — or someone — had stitched her back together. And even as her hand trailed the shape of the wound, there was no indication of how this was achieved. No thread, no metal, no residue of any flower. It was as if time alone had healed her, yet it could not have been more than a few hours since the attack.
She looked back down at the wound, half expecting it to continue bleeding beneath her coaxing gaze, but it was, predictably, resilient in its healed nature.
“I… What..??” she muttered to herself, confusion already running rampant in her mind. But no matter how long she stared, it remained. She was healed, and she couldn’t make sense of how. Perhaps in a world of magic and violence, one would grow accustomed to such oddities, but she had no magic to speak of. She was as plain as any one of the villagers she had spoken to in past years and plainer than the palace guards that once guarded her and now hunted her.
Another groan broke free of Michael’s still figure, and her gaze returned to him as he slowly rolled over, his face drenched by the pouring rain as water pooled around him. She began to shake him, pleading for him to wake up as he stirred, and he obliged in moments as his dull blue eyes opened. He blinked twice, thrice, then stared at her, confusion writ in his gaze as she awoke him.
“Michael… We have to get out of here… The Royal Guard are probably searching for us. We need to get home, quick!”
Michael obeyed. He rose at once, scrambling free of the mud and stumbling to his feet. His hand frantically searched for his sword, and he exhaled relief as his fingers closed around the cold gundar hilt. He gripped the weapon tightly, squeezing what little water had managed to soak the water-resistant yarik hide, before his gaze lit upon their belongings. And he thunderously frowned, staring at the pack of discarded longswords and their travelling packs. Even Amelia’s pack sat alongside them both, lying in the mud nearby. And he frowned as he stared at them all, wondering if he was simply misremembering leaving them behind.
But there was no possible way he could have brought them here. Both his and Lunar’s packs had been left behind in the mud, and he had no way of reaching Amelia’s through the thick of the fighting. Yet there it was, sure as the rain and clear as day. Their packs were set beside both of their unconscious figures. Only when he picked them up did he notice an odd fact about Amelia’s.
It was empty.
Michael’s heart sank, and his cautious gaze locked on his surroundings. He stared wildly around the area, half expecting another ambush to burst from the trees before his eyes fell on Lunar. But she was quietly stumbling over toward him; hand extended for her pack. And when he saw the light in her eyes, his heart sank further, his previous worries forgotten, as he saw the dull light of defeat in her gaze. There was no sparkle, nor was there cheer. Simply defeat, as the cold of the rain and the unforgiving circumstances ate away at her.
Amelia hadn’t been the only one to die on that battlefield. But Michael knew that, if they were to indeed continue her memory, they had to take what little of what he and Lunar had left and fight their way out of this mess. And to avenge her, as she’d so desperately pleaded. So he offered Lunar the pack, wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and followed her lead as they trudged back to their little cabin in the woods. They had a destination to get to, but they would have to repack.
Revolution needed more than two weeks’ supply.
Lunar’s eyes were fixed upon the ceiling, her heart still arrogantly thudding in her chest as it reminded her of its presence and its pain. As if it were suffering alone, the unempathetic bastard.
It was correct to sob and cry. Any voice of reason would agree. But that same voice of reason would tell her, and her furious heart, that there was no time to simply grieve. Grieving was a waste. Grieving was pointless. Grief, as a concept and emotion, served no purpose. Even as her gaze crossed over the intersecting logs that kept the rain from pouring in, and the timbers holding as the downpour came to a halt, she knew there was work to be done. And while a part of her wished it could wait, wished that Regmend could simply win the war and take the throne, the other knew that it would only lead to more bloodshed. If Regmend won, his position would immediately be challenged. She was alive, but she was no threat to the throne yet, and more assassins would come. They’d already found the cabin once, and they could do so again. The longer she waited here, the more likely it was that she would be hunted.
And now she had more to worry about than crown assassins. Neighbouring districts, various rivals, and even threats beyond the Kingdom who wanted a shot at the throne would seek to remove her from the picture. Her father wanted her dead, though for reasons she did not understand, for no other could command the Royal Guard. And though incompetent, she knew, of the many things King Ragarak may have been, an incapable soldier was not one of them. He could not be browbeaten nor cowed by soldiers, for he was one of the finest Gratsinmorn could offer. And between her father, the man who had tarnished the EveningStar dynasty and trounced their age-old reputation, and Earl Regmend, a man who stood as the figurative beacon of Gratsinmorn’s military prowess and virtues, it was the latter she would support in this civil war. And if he had her support, it would almost guarantee him a place as King if he could unseat Ragarak.
And maybe then, she could take the time to mourn.
She tried to ignore the shifting of the timbers as her gaze flicked to the window, and her inquisitive stare rested on a little scene beyond the cabin. Animals were frolicking through the grasses, putting her mind at ease as they gleefully and carelessly went about their days. But a particular group of raxten drew her interest as two of the males, marked by their titanic, bony antlers, were battling, likely for the attention of the third nearby: a female. And if a raxten could look amused, she would have guessed the female’s expression would have been the example by which others followed.
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As she watched, the larger of the two smashed its antlers into the face of the other, sending it stumbling, yet the graceful, smaller animal leapt to his feet and gracefully danced from the second murderous charge. With its momentum carrying it forward, the larger beast could not turn in time to avoid nor prepare for its opponent’s attack. The smaller beast reared back lowered its head, and buried its murderous bones through the other beast, sending it crashing into the ground as the victorious beast dug its antlers into the flesh of its foe. And the larger beast gave an agonised cry before falling silent, the victor of the fight rising from its corpse as the body fell still.
The winner rose upon its hind legs as if daring the forest to send another challenger as the female sauntered to its side. He fell back on all fours only to allow the female to rest her head against his side, and Lunar couldn’t help but smile as the male raxten’s amber eyes displayed its delight. Even the animals of Gratsinmorn could feel, or at least she assumed, and her smile widened as she saw the two disappear into the trees, heads leant upon one another as she felt a pang of jealousy chase the grief away. She wanted that. A relationship, that was.
But she could not allow herself to dwell for long. For the moment of clarity, a heartbeat of freedom from the clutches of grief allowed her to see beyond her mourning. The path of the former royal was clear, and it would blaze in her heart until it was complete. As if a fire had been set beneath her, goading her into action, she rose and finished packing for the trip. She packed whatever she could, everything she needed, for the time to come. The uncertain journey ahead would take cycles. Potentially years. Civil wars were messy, bloody, and ugly, but there was no avoiding this one. Ragarak’s rule could not continue, and if there was anyone who needed to stop it, it was her. And if there was anyone who could stop it, it was Regmend.
When she finally emerged, making for the living room, she saw Michael blankly staring at a map spread across the table. She made her way to his side, shaking away the last vestiges of grief to make room for the planning that would have to take place. No one could function with a sorry mind. The mind of the helpless victim was not the mind of a victor, let alone a soldier. The mind of the hapless, grief-stricken failure was not the one that would find virtue or value. She could still recall the wise teachings of the Khavellian Sapum, Akira Oui, upon his occasional venture to the Gratsinmornian capital.
She could still remember the Khavellian well. Sapum, the Khavellian term meaning “The Wisest Tutor,” was a title awarded to only one man at any given point, and from what she recalled of the Sapum’s company, she had been told that Akira was the youngest Khavellian to have ever been awarded the title. The reason had been told, but even without the advisors, she could guess why. He had acted more like a father than even her own and, even as relations soured between the nations, had shown his support until his visits had abruptly stopped. And even now, years later, she recalled his teachings and remembered one of the many pieces of advice he had offered.
“There is no shame in grief or fear,” he had said. And she could still remember how his gentle and caring gaze had always made her feel safe and warm. He may not have been the most imposing man, but he was always a person of safety. “But there is shame in inaction. In strife, stand and fight, and use your emotions to fuel your march. Stand and force the world to yield if your shoulders buckle beneath it.”
She would have to fight. She had died, alongside Amelia, in that field. So had Michael. And now it was up to them to decide what would crawl, burnt, bleeding and broken, from the deepest pits of Konda’s wrath. And now, as she sat and stared at the map, she realised that if anything other than the best version of herself rose from the ashes of Gratsinmorn’s civil war, she should have taken her brother’s place.
Amelia and Ashton. They had both died for her. And she had to honour their sacrifice until the end. If she wanted to stop the grief and give purpose to their deaths, then she would have to be something more than she ever thought she could. The finest warrior the EveningStars could create. The finest assisting monarch she could be. The best version of herself she could ever achieve. And that would start with leading, despite her hatred for such. She would lead until she found Regmend and could vocalise her support for him.
But even as she considered her options and set a fire in her heart, she knew there was a wrench in her plan.
She was running off of assumption and optimism. She was hoping that Regmend was as true as people believed. But if she went running to Kairon District or the District Capital, Ravenstead, nothing stopped him from simply lopping off her head and continuing the war. While she hoped he would not do this, hoping did very little, and she had learned this very quickly in the past day or two. She needed backup, more than just Michael. She needed a core group of advisors or at least supporters. And when it came to a civil war, a rebellion of sorts, she had a feeling she knew where she could find some.
“We need support,” she murmured, and Michael’s eyes flicked up to meet hers. “We need more than just… The empty promise of Regmend starting a rebellion isn’t enough. And for him, the empty promise of me supporting him isn’t enough. We need to protect ourselves while showing him that we mean business. If I go to him alone, he might think I’m a spy.”
“Great! Let me just conjure an army,” Michael grumbled sarcastically, flexing his hands and fingers with a grimace. “We don’t exactly have a bunch of people we can call on to help us, Lunar. It’s just us.”
“But we can find some,” she reminded him, and she could see his baleful stare of disbelief moments before it manifested.
“Again, let me just conjure these kinds of people! Lunar, we’re going to die if we just go around districts looking for an army!”
“Not an army. A core group,” she murmured. “Call me naive, but if we can find people with ideas like ours, we can probably convince them to help us convince Regmend.”
“Like who? Who do you think would be stupid enough to help an ex-palace guard and an ex-princess who’s probably been disowned?” he demanded, and she shrugged.
“The Rebels. You remember the old warnings they gave us back at the palace!” she exclaimed, and by his blank stare, he did not. So she decided to jog his memory while glaring daggers at the forgetful knight. “The Mad Mage? The Draconic of Mount Vreskie? Maybe even Sapum Akira…”
“Sapum Akira?” he demanded, his gaze immediately snapping back to hers. “Do you really think he’d help us? He’s from Khavel!”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But he’s the direct advisor to Khavel’s leader, their Khanil. Maybe he could help us out. And I know that Sapum Akira will, at the least, offer us advice.”
She expected a curt response, but Michael’s gaze was softening by the moment as he considered the option. His eyes were thoughtful, and he stared at the ceiling for several moments of contemplation. After all, the Khavellian soldiers, known as folten in the foreign tongue, were excellent. They were lethal, efficient, cooperative, and bound to honour. Introducing the Khanil and his army to Gratsinmorn’s civil war would greatly assist the rebellion, and it was no secret amongst most that neither Sapum Akira nor Khanil Miku Juharu were friendly with the King.
It took several moments for him to respond.
“I’d pit the Khanil’s Folten against the Gratsinmornian Royal Guard any day,” he murmured. “Sapum Akira likes you. He always treated you like a daughter he’d never had. He’s where you got the name Lunarvian from Lunar, right?”
“Yes,” she assured him with a sheepish grin, slightly regretting her earlier hostilities. “Meant something like intelligence and wit or something. I don’t think it’s accurate, but he said it was a way of integrating Shadic and Khavellian culture and blessings into my name. So I won’t complain.”
“The only thing I’m not sure about is how Khavel might be able to help,” Michael noted. “I don’t think diplomacy will work, which only leaves direct military intervention. And, if Khavel marches to our side, that wouldn’t just be a declaration of war between Gratsinmorn and Khavel, but it would leave Khavel open to invasion. It might have a large military presence, but I don’t think it can fight on two fronts with two big nations like Shadinara and Gratsinmorn.”
“I’m not sure if anyone in Khavel would care about war with Gratsinmorn at this point,” Lunar murmured sadly, shaking her head. “We’re not the nation we were. But if it’s all gone to Konda, we can at least take advantage of some of the perks that come with it. Besides, Gratsinmorn helped Khavel when the first Khavellian warlords rebelled against Shadinara. Maybe they’ll be willing to return the favour.”
Michael’s thoughtful gaze returned for a brief moment.
“That… Is a good point,” he conceded. “But there’s one situation I think you and I are glossing over with all these people. The Draconic, the Mage, Khavel. Who’s to say they won’t just cut our throats right then and there? Maybe Khavel wouldn’t, but they’re probably our last stop before we reach the earl.”
Lunar paused, realising Michael was right. The rebels were even less reliable than Regmend, and, with her being the monarch’s daughter, there wasn’t so much as a shadow of a doubt that they would attempt her life for their own benefit. They had so much to gain from her capture and so little to lose from her death. They could simply continue as they wished. And they could simply dump her body and call it a day.
But then again, that death would be swift. And there were no battles won without risk. War was about risk, and while she may not have paid attention in her classes, she knew that much.
“It’s a risk we’ll have to take,” she decided firmly, and to her surprise, he smiled.
“I was hoping you would say that,” he murmured. “I was thinking the same thing, but I sometimes miss small details.”
“So do I, so we’re not exactly in the clear,” she grumbled dryly, but she could afford a sheepish grin. “But it’s the best chance we’ve got. Especially if we can get them working together.”
“Then we agree,” he said with a smile. “Where are we going first, then?”
Lunar’s gaze crossed over the map, scrutinising the locations writ in a hasty scrawl. The map could have been designed by a child, by how poorly it was stitched together, but there were a few landmarks scattered across the nation, and she jabbed one firmly with her hand.
“There. We’re going there,” she said, and Michael arched a hesitant brow.
“Why are we going to Covenhaven?”
“Horses. We’re getting nowhere on foot. And even the crappiest little villages have decent horses,” she reminded him before pressing her palm against a large portion of flatlands. A collection of caves, forests and canyons marking an area of uninhabitable space, which she noted was nearer the Forgotten Forest than most would like. “And I think… I think this is where the Mad Mage lives.”
“I knew there was a catch,” Michael grumbled, and his voice trailed off as he noted the location. Noted the familiar scrawl across the page, which forced his breath to catch in his throat. “I guess Amelia thought so too… But we might as well sell the swords while we’re at it…”
Lunar wisely chose not to comment on his breaking voice, though she doubted she would be successful in attempting to do so. She, too, had seen Amelia’s little note and released a pent-up breath. It was one the deceased brunette had made long ago, for the map was made from Amelia’s adventures across the Kingdom, along with a few local maps purchased by various villagers. And now, she and Michael would have to trust her judgements, for this map would guide them through the Kingdom to the war to come.
“I guess she did,” she concurred, her voice muted as she sighed. But as soon as she did, she straightened her back and patted Michael on the shoulder. “Let’s make her proud.”
Michael nodded solemnly before drawing breath to rise with a grimace. He turned to his back, slinging it across his shoulder as Lunar knelt beside Amelia’s pack, set upon the counter, and patted it several times. A sad smile crossed her face as she looked down at the intricate weaving her late friend had weaved through it, her fingers delicately tracing the embroidered name on the gundar. She lowered her head, murmuring a quiet blessing, before she broke away from her grieving and set her mouth in a hard line, squaring her shoulders as she hauled her bag across it and hurried after the retreating Michael.
“No use moping. We’ve got a job to do,” she mumbled to herself.